by Roe Horvat
Cabin Fever
Roe Horvat
Contents
Blurb
Warning
Acknowledgments
1. Someone’s trying to kill me, but my new bodyguard is hot
2. Him
3. Vincent doesn’t like me doing yoga
4. His mouth
5. Please, Daddy, I need your cock
6. His eyes
7. When I thought I had Vincent, but then he had me
8. His hole
9. I’m a good boy
10. His fear
11. Daddy protects me in my sleep
12. His taste
13. I love it when it hurts
14. His pleasure
15. Daddy likes me
16. His need
17. Daddy loves me
18. Of course, I end up in the panic room
19. His voice
20. It can’t be the end
21. His pain
22. Yes, it’s perfect
23. My boy, my love, my everything
Insatiable?
About the Author
Also by Roe Horvat
Cabin Fever
First edition
Published 2020 by Roe Horvat
Copyright © 2020 Roe Horvat
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, without express written permission.
The licensed art material is being used for illustrative purposes only.
This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or business establishments is coincidental.
Cover image via Unsplash, by Pablo Merchan Montes.
Cover art by Roe Horvat, 2020.
Edited by Tanja Ongkiehong, 2020.
Proofreading by Tanja Ongkiehong and Ann Attwood, 2020.
Michael Bourgeon is a talented artist, young and gorgeous, a stinking rich heir from a well-connected family. He’s the infamous libertine behind the most extravagant parties in Manhattan, and his exploits often lead to juicy tabloid stories. Enjoying his wealth and freedom to the fullest, Michael has the world at his feet.
Until someone tries to kill him. Repeatedly. After a security breach among his own staff, he has run out of options where to hide while the FBI hunts the killer.
A high-profile private security expert Vincent Nowak is supposed to provide the miracle solution. And while Michael struggles with nightmares and anxiety due to the looming threat, Vincent becomes not only the ultimately reliable protector, but a wonderful distraction, too…
A small cabin in the woods, a cocky brat with a soft heart, his gruff, controlling bodyguard, and weeks of tension in a confined space.
This book is a standalone erotic romance, based on the original short story Yes, Daddy. Light Daddy kink, no cliffhangers, HEA.
Warning
The novella contains explicit language and descriptions of a loving, sexual relationship between two consenting adult men.
The author’s intention is not to realistically depict various security measures under threat, but to explore a connection between two completely fictional characters, within the forced proximity trope.
Acknowledgments
Tanja, you did most amazing work with this story while staying incredibly supportive of me. Thank you from my heart. Ann, I am grateful for your help and dedication, and for protecting my dignity. Alex, thank you for reading and yelling. You keep me motivated.
Thank you, my self-publishing friends, for your never-ending kindness and support. I would never be able to make it without you!
I owe my deepest gratitude to every kind, generous person who invest their energy into reading the drafts and advanced review copies, and who listen to my whines with endless patience. Each and every one of you who reads, writes, publishes, promotes, and supports LGBTQ+ stories, thank you!
1
Someone’s trying to kill me, but my new bodyguard is hot
Michael
The first time I saw Vincent Nowak, I was half-hard in my jeans for the entire meeting.
My uncle said Vincent had Colombian and Eastern European heritage. Well, damn, those were some excellent genes.
He was a mountain. He towered over my uncle, shoulders as wide as I was tall, and the muscles of a bull. The tight long-sleeved black shirt he wore clung to his torso. He wasn’t sculpted like a bodybuilder. Nope. Those were real muscles, grown for purpose, not for show. Vincent was a fucking gladiator.
His skin was tanned, his face weather-beaten, his short black hair had gray streaks in it, and his stubble looked like a luxury carpet. His hands were gorgeous, big, broad, and coarse, with thick fingers that would work magic shoved up my ass.
I quickly examined the bulge in his trousers. Hello, delicious! Yep. Like a bull.
So, when my uncle told me that this was the wild card he had pulled to save my life, after the last attempt to take me out, I went from annoyed to delighted in a second. I could spend a few days at an “undisclosed location” with Vincent Nowak, no problem. The jerk-off sessions would be epic.
Watching Vincent shake hands with my uncle, I grinned, scanning my new bodyguard with a dirty sense of ownership. Oh yeah, save me, Daddy. Tie me to your bed and protect me.
I was thrilled and turned the fuck on. Up until the moment Vincent looked at me as if I was something that got stuck to his shoe.
“Vincent, this is Michael.”
Well trained in my manners, at least in Uncle Bart’s presence, I stood from the leather couch and offered my hand. Vincent shook it, squeezing hard, but quickly, as if he couldn’t wait to drop it. He looked away immediately.
“Hello, Michael.” He didn’t meet my eyes, but stared out the window.
“Nice to meet you, Vincent.” My voice dripped with sarcasm. It seemed like Vincent wasn’t a fan. Obviously, he’d formed his opinion of me already. I couldn’t really blame him. I’d been all over the country’s tabloids for years—trashed hotel rooms, totaled cars, naked dancing in public spaces, and of course, men. My uncle had surely briefed him, so Vincent might even have some more detailed info about my indecent behavior. My public image was a cliché, spoiled rich kid, and sometimes, I played it up, just because it was easy.
Taking advantage of the fact that Vincent was looking away from me, I checked out his ass and hummed.
Uncle Bart flashed me a warning look and cleared his throat.
“I am relieved you accepted my offer,” my uncle said. “Like I told you, we’re running out of options. And with the apparent security breach among staff, taking Michael out of the equation for a few weeks is the best solution. Agent Madsen offered official protection, which Michael refused.” My uncle shot me another look, and I rolled my eyes. No way was I hibernating in a shabby two-bedroom in Nowhereville for weeks, with two pot-bellied, burned-out ex-cops on my ass. I’d rather let the killer shoot me.
“Private protection of the kind I can offer is probably safer than what the FBI provides,” Vincent said. And holy hell, his voice. “Considering the nature of the security breach you seem to be facing, it’s best to protect the client in a less robust, flexible way. I’ve set up a solution that minimizes the risk of another breach to almost zero. That way, we give law enforcement the time they need.”
I smirked triumphantly. I’d been right in refusing the FBI babysitting.
“Even though it could be more strenuous for the client,” Vincent added coldly, still facing my uncle.
My grin fell.
“I’d appreciate it if you spoke to me directly when I am in the room.” It was infuriating to be talked about as if I wasn’t there. “What are your qualificati
ons, Vincent?” Annoying him was my only goal with that question. He must’ve been a big shot to even stand in the room with us. My uncle wouldn’t let me waste my money on anyone other than the best. Vincent came highly recommended.
Except, instead of answering, Vincent only looked at me like I was an idiot.
Uncle Bart coughed. “Vincent had been with the Marine Corps for seven years, then almost a decade with the Bureau before he started his own business five years ago. He’s one of the best private security experts in the country, Michael.”
That meant he was what, forty-something? Rough and ripe. Yum.
“Marines? That’s very action hero of you, Vincent.” I smirked.
Vincent turned to me with his whole body until he basically loomed over me and pinned his eyes on mine. His were cold and light gray, eyes of a wolf. I licked my lips, and my heartbeat spiked. He was delectable.
He frowned at me, his eyes darting to my lips and back up. Did I imagine the flash of interest? Hell yeah, Daddy! You can have my ass if you want it. Anytime. Both my schedule and my legs are wiiide open. His face hardened, and when he spoke, low and commanding, his voice made my balls tingle.
“Give me your phone.” He held out his hand.
He looks at me like this and tells me what to do? I’m in. Whatever. Without thinking about it, I handed him my phone. To my confusion, he turned it off and put it on Uncle Bart’s antique writing table.
“We need to go as soon as possible. You will leave all your electronic devices here. I’ll provide you with a new phone with limited functionality, which you will only use to communicate with me. No Internet connection. I’ll give you an emergency contact you can call in case I get incapacitated or killed.
“Your uncle says you’ve already packed. I saw the pile of luggage in the hall. You have thirty minutes to repack. Do it yourself. Take one bag. Sturdy clothes for outdoors, good hiking boots, running shoes, sweats for indoors, warm fleece, a waterproof jacket. You don’t need any cosmetics or hygiene products. The essentials are provided. Your uncle will send the rest of your stuff to the other location.”
The feds wanted to send the killer on a wild goose chase. Lure them out. It had sounded all very Hollywood when the FBI agent explained. I’d wanted to hear as little about it as possible. If someone got killed pretending to be me, I really didn’t want to know. That was a big fucking nope.
Vincent was still talking, and I just stared at his lips. He was going to be the most delicious distraction from my imminent death. I was so damned lucky. I decided to make it my life goal—those lips on my ass. “I don’t want anybody to know what you’re taking with you, not even the cleaning staff, especially not the cleaning staff. Prepare to be bored, so take a few books. As soon as you’re done, we’re leaving. Questions?”
I asked the one question I knew he wouldn’t answer. “Where am I going?”
Vincent examined my face with intensity, as if looking for more reasons to condemn me. I clenched my jaw. How come his apparent dislike of me was so sexy?
“He can’t tell you that, Michael.” My uncle squeezed my shoulder. I hated the soothing tone in his voice. “I won’t know where you’ll be either.”
“Go pack, Michael. I’ll explain the rest in the car,” Vincent said.
His eyes met mine briefly, and I might have noticed a tiny sliver of compassion in them, which really sucked all the fun out of the situation. I turned around and left the room, closing the door behind me.
In the hall, I hesitated. Was I really going with a complete stranger god knows where for god knows how long? Taking a fucking waterproof jacket and hiking boots? It was not like I had a choice. I wanted to live.
The first attempt to kill me was two months ago, when they had found C4 under my car at a public garage. It had been scary enough. Yet it felt different now, even more personal, closer. After weeks of endless interrogations, after being shipped from one prisonlike room to another in black limos with an entourage of security staff, after countless sleepless nights waiting for the police to catch the killer, I wasn’t safe at all. It had only gotten worse. Yesterday, I’d been shot at in our family’s best-safeguarded residence. The bullet shattered the windowpane in my bedroom, and grazed my upper arm, leaving a burning scratch.
I had one of the best personal security experts in the country telling me not even the FBI could protect me. It was real. I was usually very good at not thinking about it. But now I felt the panic rise, the walls closing in around me.
Go pack, Michael. Just breathe and pack a bag. Think about the hunk you’re going to hide with. Breathe and pack a bag.
Life flickered at the end of this dark, terrifying tunnel. My uncle trusted Vincent Nowak would get me through it. No, I had no choice. I went to pack one bag.
Vincent had said I should take a few books because I’d be bored. I knew all about boredom. I’d been locked up for months in this madness. I needed my sketchbook and drawing supplies. I doubted I could take a trailer with paints and canvases, though. One sketchbook and a set of pencils would have to do. The electric pencil sharpener came with me, because I liked it. Nothing beat a surgically sharp tip for detailing.
The holdall with a jumbo-sized sealed bottle of lube and my favorite dildo went between my socks and underwear. I suspected that spending time with Vincent would require some nightly activities to keep my libido satiated.
It took nine fucking hours, with just two-minute breaks to piss on the roadside. I fell asleep a couple of times, so in the end, I had really no idea where we were. Somewhere nine hours north of New Haven. With the way Vincent drove, we could’ve been in the north of Canada. My neck ached, and my ass was sore from sitting in the car for the whole day. The plain sandwich Vincent had made me eat, felt like a stone in my belly, and gave me heartburn.
The last half hour, we drove on a narrow road through a thick, darkening forest. Cabins were scattered along the road, far apart and hidden in the woods, just a few lights glowing between the trees. For the last fifteen minutes, there was nothing but wilderness.
Finally, the forest opened, and we arrived at a small lake. The sky was dark blue, and I could discern a pier and a log cabin.
Awesome. A cabin in the woods. How quaint. Suddenly, I was a character in a B horror movie. The familiar anxiety squeezed my throat. Yep, sleep was going to be shit again tonight. Fuck.
Vincent parked in the carport, exited the car, opened the trunk, and pulled out his bag. I climbed out as well and followed him to the back, my one bag in hand. I felt marginally better that among the groceries and boxes with supplies were three six-packs of light beer. Thank heaven. Alcohol didn’t erase the nightmares, but sometimes a beer helped me to at least fall asleep before two at night.
I looked around into the darkening forest. Was this the final location, or were we only stopping for the night?
“This is it?”
“Yes.” Vincent stomped toward the cabin.
Fuck me.
2
Him
Vincent
Michael Bourgeon. Age twenty-four. Green eyes, dark-brown hair, five feet, eight and a half inches tall, 155 pounds. Shoe size nine. Black gauges in both ears, extensive black-and-white tattoos on both forearms, described in the file as “abstract and intricate mandala-like patterns.” Education: Bachelor of Liberal Arts. Occupation: artist. Reputation: abysmal.
His mother died in 2010 from an opioid overdose; his father passed in 2015 of pancreatic cancer. Michael Bourgeon was a textbook case of an affluent child syndrome—spoiled by an abundance of money, neglected by absentee parents, with a history of substance abuse and extreme behavior that suggested mental health issues during his teenage years. His file comprised shoplifting in a fucking Versace salon, a sex tape where you couldn’t see his face nor his tattoos, but everybody on social media said it must be him, jail time for DUI, fines for public indecency, and Twitter going crazy about seducing “straight” married men every other week. He’d shaved his head in support of
Britney Spears’ comeback—that one had made me chuckle. And allegedly, he was behind several sex parties with prominent gay porn stars in his luxury two-story apartment in Manhattan. Oh, to be a fly on the wall.
Why would anyone want to kill this nice boy? I’d bet there was a whole phone book of people who would like to see him dead from religious nuts, jealous lovers to dissatisfied business associates. Maybe even some scorned porn stars?
The kid was going to be a spectacular mess to babysit.
However, the attempts to kill him had been professional work—highly professional and very well paid. Otherwise, they never could’ve infiltrated the staff close to Michael. Which was what had caught my interest.
It had been Bartholomew Bourgeon who contacted me first. Age sixty-three, once a governor of Connecticut, Michael’s uncle and former legal guardian. Uncle Bart. Michael was paying the budget himself, but his uncle seemed to be his advisor on all legal and financial matters, using his many contacts to give his nephew the best possible protection.
I’d been ready to quit the personal security business. Thanks to an old buddy who was still with the Bureau, I had a cozy, safe job as a consultant with home office and flexible hours waiting for me whenever I wanted. No weapons needed. My realty agent was finding me a fixer-upper farmhouse, and I was even bringing home a puppy with me in two months—a border collie, black like the night, born last week. I’d named her Julie.
