Every Bookshop Needs a Cat (Fleckney Fields Series, Book 2)

Dress Up

Author's Note:

It's a double update today with an extra long part 1, my darlings... but it's not going to help :P 

Read at your own risk. (Oh c'mon, it's still fun, innit? :D)

Love,

K. xx

***

His plan worked. He'd been half-sitting, half-lying with his eyes closed in the back seat of the Rover. His grip on her hand hadn't loosened for a second, even when he would fall into restless sleep. A couple of times he'd pulled her into him, and she'd readily embraced him. It seemed to help, and he'd relax, and his breathing would slow down. By the time they'd reached Fleckney, he'd started to wince every time the car shook. The painkillers must have started wearing off.

At the Hall, Olofsson and the chauffeur helped Klaus inside, supporting his slumping body under both arms. Anya followed them into his bedroom; and after the men left, she helped Mrs. Little to divest him of his jacket, shoes, and jumper. He groaned quietly in his throat every time they had to move him.

"Is there anything else you require, madam?"

"No, thank you, Mrs. Little, I'll take it from here," Anya answered, solely preoccupied with the man sitting on the bed in front of her.

The housekeeper nodded and left, softly closing the door behind her. Anya stepped to Klaus, and he immediately rocked forward and dropped his head on her shoulder.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, tenderly stroking the curls on his nape.

"Sleepy," he said. "I didn't think I'd be happy to be back in the Hall. But it actually feels like... coming home. It's because– you're here..." He was starting to garble. "I should just sleep. Sleep the tablets off– Can you move–"

"Where?" she asked.

"Per– permanently," he said at the same time, stuttering in the middle of the word. "Move in per– To my bed. Ugh, I feel drunk. But not good– Not in a good way."

"How about you lie down and rest?" Anya said soothingly. "I'll sit with you."

"You don't have to. Go, enjoy the May Dance." He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to focus. "Didn't you promise Varya to go to the fete? There's all that food, and sweets, and rides; and you should try–" He trailed away and moaned.

It was strange to see him so muddled, and Anya felt a pang of worry.

"Should I call Viola?" she asked. "You didn't exceed the dose, but maybe she should still have a look at you."

"No, I don't want Viola," he slurred. "I want Anna."

"Good to know," she muttered under her breath, helping him to roll over and stretch on his bed. "Should we take off your trousers and socks? You might be more comfortable without them."

"Only if you promise to ogle me inappropriately." He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, and arched his back, ever so slightly, with a raspy grunt. "Bloody drugs..."

Anya's hands lay on the buckle of his belt. It took a bit of fidgeting to open it, it had been years since she had to undress anyone but herself.

"Tell me you're enjoying it– at least a bit," he joked, his voice thick from pain, as she was unbuttoning his chinos.

"Lift your hips, and I might even moan for you," Anya quipped back - and then paused, shocked by her own ballsiness.

They were both silent for at least three seconds, and then she slowly looked up.