EWB (Enemies With Benefits)

Honestly, fuck Valentine Tye.

Fuck him for ruining rugby. Fuck him for ruining my Saturday night.

Fuck him for ruining my life.

I wasn’t letting him ruin my job as well.

I was good at my job. I worked hard and did everything within my power to be the best. I was the youngest site manager at one of Sydney’s best construction firms for a good fucking reason.

Well, Sydney’s best construction firms until Tye Corp bought them out.

Fuck Tye Corp especially.

It wasn’t bad enough that they’d monopolised the entire hardware industry in Australia, but now they’d begun branching out into construction companies, trying to sew up the entire fucking industry.

And if Valentine thought I was answering to him on any fucking thing, he was in for a rude shock. I’d fill in my reports, I’d tick all the boxes, like I always did. But I was on-site manager. Not an in-office manager.

I would keep my arse on the construction site and only set foot in their new fancy head office if I was dragged kicking and screaming.

Which was working just fine until Wednesday morning when a car pulled in. A very expensive car that I assumed belonged to my client. The Mercer bosses had the kind of money for Lamborghinis, so I dusted off my hands and began walking out to greet them.

Until Valentine got out of the car, in his expensive suit with his perfect hair.

I stopped walking, snarled at him, turned on my heel, and walked back inside.

“Mr Wise,” he called out.

I stopped walking.

He’d called me Mr Wise. No doubt a reminder of the professionalism that was expected of me.

And this was my job. And possibly my way out. Because at the end of this contract, when the Mercer bosses were impressed with me, I’d be asking them for a job.

So I had to do the best job I could. Which meant not getting fired before then.

I turned around to find him closer than I’d expected him to be. “Mr Tye,” I said with as much contempt as I dared.

He smirked.

I hated that smirk more than anything else.

Don’t punch him in his stupid mouth. Don’t punch him in his stupid mouth.

“I’m busy,” I said, turning around and walking away.

I didn’t stop until I got back to my work bench, which was a sheet of plywood across two sawhorses with blueprints and spreadsheets sprawled out. My tape measure was my paperweight.

I wanted nothing more than to flip it and fucking scream, but I took a deep breath and put my head down, grasping for composure.

“You’re so angry.” His soft voice was far too close behind me, and when I turned around, he was standing right fucking there. In his expensive suit, smelling of expensive cologne. His jaw bulged. His eyes flashed with . . . something.

Then his gaze dropped to my lips.

What the fuck?

“You’re damn right I’m angry,” I said. The way he was looking at me put me in a tailspin. Then I remembered him on his knees with my cock in his mouth, and my gaze cut to his.

I would bet money his thoughts had gone to the same place.

He licked his lips.

Like it was his ploy all along to throw me off my guard.

“You were expected to report into the office on Monday,” he said, his tone annoyingly neutral.

“We were laying concrete,” I said. “If you knew anything about construction, you’d know I had to be here.”

“I know,” he said, like he knew very well, and he couldn’t care less.

“They finished yesterday,” I added.

“I know.” He studied my face. The tip of his tongue wet the corner of his lips. “Yet you didn’t show this morning either.”

“I’m busy. I forwarded the reports. Check your inbox.”

“I did.”

I turned back to my paperwork. “Were they wrong?”

“No. Everything was perfect.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“I thought you might have felt bad after your outburst on Saturday night.”

I spun to face him, anger bubbling right under the surface.

He chewed on the inside of his lip, his eyes darting to my mouth and back to my eyes. There was something in his gaze, something in those dark eyes that looked a lot like excitement. Daring. Desire.

Like my anger aimed at him was turning him on.

He was getting off on this?

Then I understood.

He wanted me to hit him so he could fire me. Press charges, probably. Ruin me like his father ruined mine.

“If you want to fire me,” I murmured, “just do it. You think you can hold this over me like some kinda power game, you’re dead wrong. Because I don’t give one fuck. And as much as I’d love to punch your fucking head in, I won’t give you the satisfaction of taking me to court.”

He seemed pleased by this. “I don’t want to take you to court, Marshall. That’s not how I play.”

“Then what do you want?”

He looked at my mouth again, then that fucker looked down at my dick before his eyes raked back up to mine. “I think I want to play this game a little bit longer. It’s fun, don’t you think?”

What the fuck?

“Is my life a game to you?” I asked, my voice deathly quiet. I stepped in close, my eyes lasering into his. “You think this is funny? Do you want me to lose my shit with you?”

He grunted quietly. Not a scoff or a grunt of disgust.

Oh no, this was a grunt of desire.

Holy shit.

He licked his lips again, then his lips parted, and he inhaled like he was just about to say something—

“Everything okay in here?” Millsy said from the end of the room. Taka was right behind him. Both of them looked at us with wide eyes.

Valentine took a small step back. “Everything’s fine. Mr Wise was just explaining concreting to me.”

What the actual fuck?

“Yeah, I was getting to the part where he should know better than entering a construction site without the proper occupational health and safety gear.” I collected a helmet off my table and threw it to him.

He caught it easily and smiled. “So true.” Then he gave me a nod, then nodded to Millsy and Taka on his way out. “Keep up the good work.”

I watched that fucker walk away until I couldn’t see him anymore. Even then, my blood was still just under the boiling point, my chest heaving.

“What was that about?” Taka asked.

I looked up at him, then back out to where Valentine had gone. “I wish I knew.”

Rugby training went well and, considering I never saw Valentine for the rest of the week, work went well too.

Everything was on schedule and on budget.

By the time Friday night came around, I was looking forward to a quiet night in with a few beers and a pizza and whatever Netflix had to offer.

I didn’t want a big night. I needed to be on my game tomorrow. We were playing Randwick and they were always tough. They’d made the quarter finals last year, so I was excited to see their form this season.

I needed to be on my game.

And I needed to not think about Valentine goddamn Tye and how he looked at me with those dark eyes, at my mouth like he wanted to devour me, how he made that noise.

And how he looked on his knees in that bathroom cubicle with those perfect lips around my cock.

No. Stop it.

I needed to think about my rugby game. Not whatever game he was playing and how he was messing with my head.

God, how I hated him.

Randwick was tough. I got hit hard, copped a swinging arm to the chin, and saw stars for a second, but thankfully, I didn’t hit the deck. I also got flattened in a ruck and would have some nice sprig marks across my ribs.

But I gave as good as I got.

Crawford, the guy who’d tried to break my jaw, would have a nice shiner tomorrow, and I wasn’t one bit fucking sorry.

And we won. Nothing like adding insult to injury.

But oddly enough, the Randwick guys were good value. We all went back to their local pub for a few beers after the game and I laughed with Crawford, even bought him a beer.

After that, a few of the guys wanted to head to Bondi. I knew there was a good chance of seeing Valentine there—they’d played at Bondi—and I’d had enough alcohol and a decent knock to the head to make me think that was a great idea.

It was late and there was a different vibe than there had been at Randwick: a lot of side-eyes and a glaring lack of sense of humour. The boys didn’t stay long but I wanted to kick on. The band was great, and there were a few guys who gave me a second look, and with the potential for a hook-up, I stayed.

It had nothing to do with the fact that Valentine was there with his preppy mates, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact I’d caught him looking in my direction.

So I might have wanted to antagonise him a bit. Sue me.

After I’d had enough beer and was two vodkas deep, I decided that maybe hooking up with some stranger in front of Valentine was in order.

I wanted to see how he’d react. See if he cared.

And when a pretty little twink gave me a shy smile, I nodded his way. He blushed and I happened to like how it looked, so I lifted his chin for a closer inspection.

Except, apparently pretty twink’s boyfriend didn’t like that. He got in my face, and there was pushing and shoving, and security gave me a private escort out onto the street.

It certainly wasn’t my first time.

I tried to get an Uber, but at two in the morning on the weekend in Bondi, that was like winning the freaking lottery.

And then, to make my night a whole lot more fun, a group of guys decided I was easy pickings. They shoved me into the alley behind the pub. “He’s the fag from the bar,” one of them said.

Oh, so that’s what this was? A hate crime.

There were four of them, and I liked my chances of taking two of them, at least. Bolstered by the shots of courage and lime, and with my back to the wall, I sized them up, raised my fists, and grinned at them. “Yeah. So tomorrow you can tell all your friends you got your shit clapped by a fag.”

I fucking smashed the first guy and one of them got a hit on me from the side, so I swung at him, and another guy came at me, but then suddenly there was a whole fucking crowd in the middle of us. I thought for a second that I was probably gonna die in a wild brawl . . . until I realised they were on my side.

Well, not really.

But they stopped the fight.

And some familiar guys were dragging me up the street. It was the Lane Cove Tiger boys. “Just put him in my car,” a voice said.

“You sure?”

There was mumbling, but then I found myself being thrown into a very familiar black Lamborghini. “The fuck?”

“Shut up and put your seatbelt on,” one of them said. I think his name was Lleyton. Then the door was slammed shut and my blood was still pumping from the fight. And then Valentine Tye got in behind the wheel.

Valentine fucking Tye.

“What the fuck?” I said.

“Put your seatbelt on,” he snapped, then whipped the car out onto the street.

“Fuck you.”

He smirked.

God, I hated him.

We drove past the hotel where the crowd was now being dispersed. “Those fuckers deserve a good beating,” I said.

“And you were going to give it to them? Five to your one?”

I tried to remember. I thought there was only four . . .

What the fuck ever.

“Yeah, I coulda taken them.”

He glanced over at me, then went back to looking out the windscreen. Fuck I hated that his side profile was so fucking good. All sharp lines and angles, with his perfect fucking hair.

He weaved us through traffic, probably way too fast. Or maybe it was just this car.

I hated that I liked his car.

The inside was all black, everything was sleek, and I hated that it suited him.

“Nice car.”

A brief pause. “Thank you.”

My eye was starting to hurt now. Well, more to the point, I was starting to feel it now. And it was wet.

I touched it and there was blood on my fingers. “Fuck.”

He gave me another unimpressed glance. “Hm.”

I pulled the visor down to check in the mirror, and yeah, it was split at the corner of my eye, under my eyebrow.

We were going through the Harbour Tunnel and the silence and smooth purr of the engine was enough to lull me to sleep.

Maybe it was the alcohol. Or the two decent knocks to the head I’d had today.

But the next thing I knew, I was being hauled out of the car and led to an elevator. Where the hell am I?

“I don’t live here,” I said.

“No. I do.”

I focused on the voice to find who it belonged to and groaned.

Him, again.

Or still.

Whatever.

“What the fuck are we—”

Then the elevator opened, and he took my arm down a short hall. There were only two doors. He stopped at the one on the right, unlocked it, and pushed me inside.

Or maybe I fell.

Then I was being shoved into a seat at a dining table. The room was dark, but I could see it was huge, with massive floor to ceiling windows. A light came on, partly illuminating a sleek designer kitchen, and a black cat that watched me, judged me, from the floor near the fridge.

It was jet black, with long legs and a pointy face, and it was looking at me with as much disdain as Valentine often did.

It was the most Valentine-looking cat I’d ever seen.

“What’s your cat’s name?”

“Enzo.”

I snorted. I had no clue what an Enzo was, but it suited it. “He looks just like you.”

Valentine was now sitting across from me, his knees against mine. He had a first aid kit on the table and a wet cottonwool ball in his hand, his gaze fixed on the corner of my eye.

I pulled my head back. “The fuck are you doing?”

“Hold still,” he said. His voice was so quiet, so calm.

He dabbed the cottonwool at my skin, and it stung but I didn’t flinch. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

After a few swipes, he inspected it. “You shouldn’t need stitches,” he said. Then he went to put one of those butterfly clips on it, but I grabbed his wrist.

“I don’t need that.”

His dark eyes cut to mine. “It’s either this, or I take you to hospital. Your choice.”

I snarled at him and let him put the stupid clip on me.

He packed up his first aid kit. “You can sleep here tonight,” he said.

What?

“Why would I do that?” Or more to the point . . . “What makes you think I’d do that?”

“Because you’ve been drinking, you took a hit to the head, and you kept losing consciousness in the car.”

“I did fucking not.”

He gave me another one of those unimpressed looks and stood up, then walked to the kitchen. “You can take the couch. Or the floor. Choice is yours.”

I didn’t lose consciousness. I was falling asleep.

Maybe.

“My choice is my own place,” I said, then stood up. I wasn’t that drunk. I’d certainly been a lot more intoxicated than this.

But then for some reason, Valentine had hold of my arm and the room was all funny angles.

Shit.

Maybe I was drunk.

But it still annoyed me. His hand on me. His body so close to mine. Those eyes.

That mouth.

“Fuck.”

He hummed, a real low, filthy sound. “I would say yes, please, but you’re not in any state.”

What the . . . ?

“My dick works just fine.”

He studied my face and then got real close, his nose an inch from mine, and he palmed my cock.

Holy shit.

It took a second for my brain and body to catch up to each other, and even though my brain was like hell no, not him, my dick was definitely on board.

My dick was always on board. A whiff of attention and it started to thicken.

Valentine smirked, his eyebrow flicked upward, and he began to massage me through my jeans. “Hm. Maybe . . .”

“The fuck do you mean maybe?” I said. I batted his hand off my dick. “Like I’d fuck you anyway. I fucking hate you.”

His eyes flashed with black fire and he licked his lips, still far too close. “Good. That’s what I’m banking on.”

What the actual fuck.

He pushed me against the table, his body pressed against mine. “I want you to hate me. I need you to hate me.” Then he popped the button on my jeans and wrapped his fingers around my cock, pumping me rough and hard. “And when you fuck me with your monster cock, I need you to hate me as hard as you can.”