Sam Swarek staggered to the kitchen and smacked the button on his coffee maker. He listened to it gurgle and drip while he tried to quell his roiling hangover. Coffee, coffee, coffee, his mind chanted. Caffeine first, then repercussions, because he was pretty sure there was someone in his bed that didn’t belong there. He just hadn’t gotten a good look at who it was in his mad dash for the porcelain god.
He poured a cup when the coffee was ready, took a scalding sip. It burned his mouth, but some things couldn’t be helped. If he was going to figure out who that was in his bedroom, he’d need the ability to crank his eyelids open in order to see them.
As the coffee washed down his throat, he gagged on something. Reached in to fish the offending something out, came back with a long, crinkly pubic hair clinging to his fingertip. So it had been that kind of thing. Lovely.
He sighed, pouring a second cup before heading to the bedroom. Surely the offer of a cup of coffee would make things go more smoothly. He may have accidentally taken a complete stranger to bed for all he knew, but he wasn’t going to be a dick about it, and maybe they wouldn’t be either.
Making his way down the hall, trying not to spill the coffee or stumble as his hung-over body seemed to want to do – baby steps, Sammy, baby steps – he began to wonder why he kept playing the pronoun game in his head. Them instead of her. All he could conclude was that the brief glimpse he’d gotten when he ran to heave hadn’t left the impression his bedmate was likely to be female. Hmm. Well, these things happened sometimes, when he had the drink in him.
The view from the bedroom doorway was of a sensuously curved asscheek bathed in the warm glow of a late morning sunbeam. An asscheek that was connected to a hairy leg and a hairier asscrack and, well. At least, Sam noted, his own ass wasn’t sore in any way that suggested he’d done anything other than a great deal of thrusting. The natural order of things was preserved.
It was upon moving around the bed to set the second cup of coffee on the nightstand that he finally determined the identity of his overnight guest. Scrubby stubble, tousled dark mop of hair, normally crabass expression relaxed in sleep: Donovan Boyd. Sam’s eyes bugged a little. Of all the people to fuck, he’d managed to fuck that dirty fucker?
Sam shrugged, set the coffee on the nightstand, and nudged Boyd’s shoulder lightly.
Sometimes these things just… happened. No need to freak out about it.