Table Of ContentPRECIOUS ACHE
…Micah began to knead Dave’s shoulders, his thumbs
digging into the sore spot in the middle of Dave’s nape.
“God, that feels good.” Dave groaned, then snapped his
lips shut, horrified that he’d failed to censor his thoughts and
had actually verbalized them. He tensed, waiting for Micah to
say something.
“It’s supposed to feel good. Sit and relax. I’ll have those
tight muscles loosened up in no time.”
Dave swallowed the moan building in his throat and tried
to stay as still as possible—not an easy feat when his cock was
hardening by the second and pressing against his zipper for
liberation. He would have been humiliated had Micah realized
what effect his massage was having on Dave’s libido, but the
other man seemed oblivious. As it stood, a firestorm of need
was building in Dave’s groin, aided by the magic of Micah’s
nimble fingers working his neck and shoulders, rubbing away
the soreness and replacing it with a precious ache Dave had
never felt before. He’d experienced lust, knew it well, but the
sensation building in his groin was deeper, more intense than
what he was used to.
It scared the piss out of him.
Dave leaned back his head, staring up at Micah, and felt
the breath hitch in his chest. Micah loomed over him, his full
lower lip caught between his teeth, his brows furrowed in a
look of utter concentration. Dave’s lungs burned with the need
to exhale, but all he could concentrate on was Micah’s face so
very close to his own. Micah’s eyes were even more stunning,
the limpid blue pools almost mesmerizing in their intensity.
Micah’s head tilted to one side as his teeth released the death
grip they had on his lip and he soothed it with his tongue.
Dave’s rapt gaze followed the progress of Micah’s tongue
across his mouth and gulped…
PRECIOUS ACHE
BY
AMANDA YOUNG
AMBER QUILL PRESS, LLC
http://www.AmberQuill.com
PRECIOUS ACHE
AN AMBER QUILL PRESS BOOK
This book is a work of fiction.
All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of
the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales,
or events is entirely coincidental.
Amber Quill Press, LLC
http://www.AmberQuill.com
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or
reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission
in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief
excerpts used for the purposes of review.
Copyright © 2008 by Amanda Young
ISBN 978-1-60272-359-7
Cover Art © 2008 Trace Edward Zaber
Layout and Formatting provided by: Elemental Alchemy
PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
For my rock, John.
Thank you for your unending belief in me,
even when I don’t deserve it.
PRECIOUS ACHE
CHAPTER 1
Dave Blanchard winced as he heard a shrill, feminine
squeal. He turned to see a pink blur running in the opposite
direction from where he stood on the corner of 6th and Vine as
he tried to hail a taxi. A little girl with bright blonde pigtails
rushed into her mother’s waiting arms and pointed to him,
crying. The mother scowled at Dave and shook her head, as if
he’d gone out of his way to scare the child.
Now it’s my fault children think I’m a giant from the
fairytales their parents read them.
Scowling, he held out his arm toward the next yellow cab
that approached. With gas prices at an all-time high, it was
cheaper to take a taxi to and from the city than drive his old
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clunker of a truck. But he hated having to rely on someone
else to get him where he needed to be. It gnawed at his finely
tuned sense of independence. Luckily, this cab’s light was on,
and it pulled up to the curb in front of him and stopped. The
engine rumbled noisily, exhaust fumes billowing behind the
bumper as he climbed in the backseat and grumbled his
address to the turbaned man in the front. Dark eyes glared at
him from the rearview mirror for an instant before the car
jetted out into busy midday traffic.
Leaning back against the squeaky vinyl upholstery, Dave
closed his eyes and tried to calm his racing heart. It had been a
trying afternoon and he was ready to be home, safely
ensconced in his townhouse, away from the stares and
whispers that inevitably followed him everywhere he went.
After a lifetime of being treated like a freak of nature, he
should have been able to let the snide comments and ogling
roll off his back. But he’d never mastered the art of ignoring
the way people reacted to his appearance.
It wasn’t as if he were grossly disfigured or had a hump on
his back, but being seven- feet, six-inches tall was different
enough to attract attention. The time he spent working out his
frustrations in his home gym didn’t help make him look less
threatening, just muscular and well-toned. It didn’t matter that
he didn’t have a violent bone in his body. People saw him and
jumped to conclusions. He’d grown used to it, learned to adapt
to always being on the outside looking in. But that didn’t
prevent him from feeling the sting of rejection again and
again.
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The only reason he’d come out of his hidey-hole today was
for one of the infrequent business meetings he had that
couldn’t be conducted online or over the phone. Although he
primarily worked from home, designing and maintaining
websites, there was the occasional client who wanted to meet
him in person to discuss their projects. He was grateful those
were few and far between, or he’d probably starve. While
online, he could charm potential clients with little to no effort.
It was face-to-face meetings that turned him into a raging
incompetent who couldn’t string together two words.
He’d bumbled today’s meeting, tripping over his words
like he had a stuttering problem. The last straw had been when
he’d knocked over a large potted plant on his way out and
spilled dirt all over the office floor. He wouldn’t bet on
hearing from Wagon Trails Construction any time soon.
The hour-long drive from Roanoke to Blacksburg passed
quickly as Dave replayed the torturous afternoon in his mind.
Before he realized where he was, the taxi pulled into Dave’s
driveway and stopped. He paid the cabbie and got out, the sun
warm on his face and neck.
He entered his townhouse and dropped his house keys into
a bowl on the table by the door. A cool breeze wafted over his
feverish skin, making him shiver as goose bumps exploded up
and down his arms beneath the white, long-sleeved dress shirt
he wore.
Petey, a shaggy-haired, black-and-white cocker spaniel,
barreled down the stairs just inside the door and danced
around Dave’s feet for attention. Dave bent, scooped Petey off
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the floor and cuddled the wiggling bundle of energy against
his chest. “I missed you, too, boy. I bet you’re hungry, aren’t
you?”
Petey yipped and squirmed, trying to lick at Dave’s mouth.
“Ah, ah, ah,” Dave said, setting down Petey. “No kissing
me on the lips. Haven’t we already had a talk about that?”
He bypassed the living room on his right and entered the
small, sterile white kitchen. After feeding and watering Petey,
he grabbed a tall bottle of water from the fridge and turned it
up, allowing the icy liquid to splash over his tongue and down
his parched throat. With an “ah” of satisfaction, he kicked off
his shoes and ran the back of the chilled bottle against his
forehead, trying to cool down. For a spring day, it was
exceedingly hot outside, close to eighty degrees. He was
burning up.
Dave set down the bottle on the counter by the sink and
stripped out of his shirt and dress pants, laying them over one
of the four straight-backed kitchen chairs so he would
remember to drop them by the dry cleaner the next time he
went out. Most of his laundry was done at home, but operating
an iron was beyond his ability. His efforts had produced a
large brown scorch on the front of the last shirt he’d attempted
to de-wrinkle.
Clad in blue boxers, with the half-empty water bottle
clasped in one hand and his dress shoes dangling from the
fingertips of the other, he padded into the living room. He
dropped his shoes by the couch and flopped down on the tan
sectional, glad to be home. Petey catapulted himself onto the
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