Clockwork Tangerine Read Online Free PDF Page B

Robin’s unresponsive body and flip him back into the bed he’d just fallen out of.
    In reality, Robin would have been more appreciative of the man’s massive strength and graceful maneuvering to lay him out on the feather ticking with seemingly little effort. Mortification overruled any other emotion, because Robin’s turgid cock bounced along with him, waggling about like a buoy set adrift on the high seas.
    “I have you, crowling. You’re not quite up to walking yet.”
    Robin almost corrected him, saying he’d swapped out one bird for another, but the posh, diamond-cut tones of the man’s voice dropped him speechless. Or would have if he weren’t already dying in shame at his cock’s happy little dance. To his credit, the aristocrat didn’t blink an eye. He did, however, retrieve the sheet and tuck it around Robin’s hips while ignoring the now wilting pecker creeping back down between Robin’s parted legs.
    “Let me get you some tea.” The roll of his voice deepened Robin’s interest, and when the man turned to fill one of the porcelain cups sitting on the side table, Robin drank in the length of the blond’s body. He wanted to linger, but after stopping quickly at the hard rise of his ass, he jerked his gaze back up to the man’s face at nearly the exact moment the man brought his eyes up. “Cream? Sugar? Lemon? There’s a few digestive biscuits on your saucer. We’ll want to get something in your stomach other than the beef broth the doctor will want pushed on you.”
    “Black.” He scowled briefly, annoyed at the rasp in his voice. His penis seemed to be the only working lower appendage on his body, although he could definitely move his toes. Curling them over, he flexed his feet, satisfied he’d not lost the use of his legs. “I don’t think I have any—”
    Robin was going to say the pantry was fairly bare of any amenities, but a silver, three-tier tea tray proved him to be a liar. It was bristling with goodies, from shortbread cookies to chunks of Shropshire cheese. When he thought about it, as Robin peeked around the man’s broad shoulders, he didn’t even own a tiered tea tray, much less a silver one.
    He was about to inquire about the tray when he took a good look around his room. It was different somehow. Brighter and… vivid. It took him a moment to realize the room was clean . Probably cleaner than it’d been when he first moved in to the empty brownstone.
    The street lamp outside shot a sunset of colors through sparkling clear panes, a feat Robin thought unimaginable after he’d nearly broken his neck trying to get a bat carcass off one of the casings. He’d left the thing to rot, and a few hours later, a crow helped itself to the easy meal, leaving a splatter of shit behind for payment.
    Robin left the shit too. He didn’t survive two years in New Bedlam only to end up smeared over the cobblestones beneath his bedroom window.
    Now the shit was gone, there was a strange tea tray on his lemon-oil polished side table, and a handsome, large blond aristocrat was helping himself to a selection of tiny cakes Robin knew hadn’t come from his kitchen.
    “Sip it slowly. You’ve been in and out of it for nearly three weeks now.” The man returned to his previous perch in Robin’s battered wing chair. “A fever took a good hold of you. You had the doctor and I quite worried.”
    The chair creaked under the man’s weight. It was sturdy enough, made with solid oak and stuffed within an inch of its seams, but its tapestry fabric was faded. The chair had never been fine enough for front room use and certainly wasn’t something he’d have offered gentry, but there the man sat, legs stretched out in a comfortable repose as he regarded Robin with a keen smoky-blue gaze.
    “I should apologize for letting you sleep when I first brought you home.” The man grimaced. “And in case you hadn’t noticed, your doctor’s a remarkable woman. A virago beyond belief. It’s probably why