Page 24 of The Naked Cleaner

Oh, fucking hell, Pontus.“Pontus, Pontus!”I say my own name out loud like I am scolding myself for my own stupidity. Because there is no hiding from the goddamn plain truth.

I pretty much jumped him. He kissed me and I humped him into oblivion, as I sucked on his lips and made all those slutty sounds and he pretty much humped me back and then his hand closed around my cock and I kind of grabbed him and then our hands tangled, and at one point I was kind of fucking into his grip and then his cock was there too and he was kissing me and I was kissing him back and sucking on his tongue, and he has the most amazing body and his chest is all hard and his lips are soft and I screamed. Yeah. I screamed when I came. When I orgasmed and coated his hand and stomach and then we both rolled around in all this spunk... and the bed is now disgusting and if I look carefully at my skin it is full of little white crusty…

I throw myself in the shower and clean myself up. Which is not a strange thing to do, but I almost obsessively scrub myself clean. Then I regret it because, I don’t know. It’s like I have washed him off me. I’m not sure I wanted to do that.

Fuck I am a mess. Well, what’s new?

I find the box in the fridge marked with the right day and breakfast. Then I pour myself a cup of coffee and sit down like a normal person and eat breakfast. On my own. Wishing Louis was there. Thanking whoever is in charge of fate that he isn’t because what the hell do I say?Sorry I got horny? I didn’t mean to, it kind of just happened and you were there and you were naked and I thought?

Lies, lies, lies.I have a thing for him. I think he has a thing for me.

Cringe, cringe.

I check my phone.

Check my emails

Sigh.

By midday I have all my tasks prioritised, I have emailed the most desperate clients and given them a timescale, and eaten more fucking humble pie over missed deadlines and delays. I write lovely little passages apologising for ill health and promising all kinds of shit to make up for it. I will as well. I always do.

I load up task one. Then I sit there.

And do nothing.

Instead I think of the way I fell asleep last night. I was on my stomach. Louis had his head on my back. I can still feel the dull ache in my spine from sleeping like that, but his arms were around my waist and his breath was on my back and he kept pressing little kisses into my skin and I kept purring like a kitten. Yes. I was that desperate. That embarrassing. That stupid.

And now I want him to come back to me so I can relax and breathe again, yet I know I will be having a mini panic attack the minute he walks through the door.

Maybe he won’t come back. Maybe that’s it. He got laid, had a laugh, and now he’s done with me.

I still have his bloody plastic boxes. I can keep them hostage here until he comes and gets them. Am I worth it? Are his plastic boxes worth it?

The ping from my phone makes me jump and my mouth curves into the most stupid grin as I read it.

LOUIS: It’s lunch time. Just thought I would remind you to eat. And please drink a glass of water and take your iron tablets. Jonas’ orders.

I contemplate making a booking through his pathetic website to ensure he comes back. He won’t. That won’t even make him smile, and will be pathetic. It’s pathetic how I think that I know what he will find funny. I don’t. I don’t know shit.

I text Jonas on automatic, then cringe at myself again. The last thing I need is for Jonas and Clara to turn up and sit on my sofa feeding me fucking muffins, and looking at me like I am a loser. I already know I am a loser thank you very much.

But, I got laid. Well. Heavy make-out session. Snogging. Teeth. We both came. Sex? It smelt like it in my room when I woke up this morning. I’m pretty sure my bed smells of Louis.

I need to work.

I don’t. I go and get my little wanking lunch box out of the fridge and pour myself a large glass of water like I have no control over my own actions. Then I eat the seriously disgusting stuff in the box, as I sit at the table reading the Financial Times app. Then I sigh at myself and throw the unwashed plastic box in the damn cardboard monstrosity that festers on the floor in the kitchen. I drink my water.

He still doesn’t come back.

Instead, I sit down, and I make him a goddamn-amazing website. A fancy one too, with automatic invoicing, and pricing and links to a little handy Excel pop-up boxes to calculate fees with potential payments from the council and discounts for multiple bookings. I make a little graphic with a broom that swishes little dust particles around the screen when a new page loads. It makes me smile.

I’m pathetic.

Then it’s seven o’clock and the world is still turning. I eat my bloody dinner without turning on the lights. I finish off the last of the contact forms. Change a few graphics around and adjust the photo box where a few nice stock photos of sparkling clean homes complete the aesthetics. Not a naked cleaner in sight, and I have changed the company name to Ramsdahl-Soto Complete Solutions. Much more grown up and professional and doesn’t hint at any cocks and butt cheeks. Although I have put the Naturist Society logo in there for reference, and the appropriate links. I also need to research Louis’s qualifications to ensure it all adds up, but I’m sure he will help me with that. If I ever see him again.

Jonas texts something about getting myself checked out for stomach ulcers. I half-heartedly text back.

I get dressed. Then get too hot and throw my joggers off until I am back on the sofa watching some hockey match in just a T-shirt and socks, wondering if I should jerk off on the sofa, because I just got a whiff of Louis from the blanket, and to be honest, I want to cry.

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