by J. R. Ward
Chapter Twenty-eight
As Blay jacked back against the pillows on Qhuinn's bed, his head nearly snapped off his spine. Everything was out of control, but he wouldn't have slowed things down in the slightest: With his hips pumping up and down, his cock was pushing in and sucking out of Qhuinn's mouth -
Thank God the lights were off.
The sensations alone were too much to handle - adding a visual? He wouldn't be able to -
The orgasm rocketed out of him, his breath catching, his body going tight all over, his sex kicking hard. And as he came in great spasms, he was milked by that mouth - and man, that suction kept the release barreling through him, great waves of tingling pleasure sweeping from his brain to his balls, his body hitting a different plane of existence altogether -
Without warning, he was flipped over with a rough hand, his body handled like it didn't weigh a damned thing. Then an arm shot under his pelvis and popped him up onto his knees. There was a brief lull, during which all he heard was heavy breathing behind him, the panting getting faster, and harder -
He heard Qhuinn orgasm and knew exactly what that was for.
Even though his whole body went weak with anticipation, he knew he had to get good and braced as a heavy hand landed on his shoulder and -
The penetration was a branding iron, brutal and hot, going right to the core of him. And he cursed on an explosive exhale - not because it hurt, although it did in the best possible sense. Not even because this was something he had wanted forever, although he had.
No, it was because he had the strangest sense he was being marked - and for some reason, that made him -
A hiss sounded at his ear, and then a pair of fangs sank into his shoulder, Qhuinn's grip shifting to his hips, his torso locked in so many places now. And then the relentless hammering started, Blay's molars clapping together, his arms having to hold both their bodies up, his legs and torso straining under the onslaught.
He had a feeling the headboard was slamming against the wall - and for a split second, he remembered that chandelier in the library going back and forth as Layla had been subjected to this.
Blay cursed the image. He couldn't allow himself to go there; he just couldn't. God knew there was plenty of time to dwell on that stuff later.
Right now? This was too damn good to waste. . . .
As the pounding continued, his palms slid on the fine cotton sheets, and he had to reposition them, pushing down into the soft mattress to try to keep himself in place. God, the sounds that Qhuinn was making, the grunting that reverberated from between the fangs buried in his shoulder, the thumping - yeah, that was the headboard. Definitely.
With pressure building up again in his balls, he was tempted to palm himself - but no hope of that. He needed both arms on the job -
Like Qhuinn read his mind, the male reached around and gripped him.
No pumping needed. Blay came so hard his vision went twinkle-twinkle-little-star, and at that very instant, Qhuinn started orgasming, too, those hips spearing inside and freezing for a split second before withdrawing an inch and going deep for another kicking explosion. And yeah, wow, the combination of them both doing their thing was so erotic, it just primed everything all over again: There was no break for recovery, no pause at all. Qhuinn just resumed driving - if anything, it was like the release had made his need stronger.
As the sex raged on - and in spite of all the strength he had in his upper body - Blay ended up getting fucked clean off the bed, one hand locking on the side table to keep him from hitting the wall -
Crash.
"Shit," he said roughly. "The lamp - "
Qhuinn wasn't interested in home furnishings, apparently. The male just yanked Blay's head around and started kissing him, that pierced tongue penetrating his mouth, licking and sucking. . . like he couldn't get enough.
Dizzy. He got downright dizzy from it all. In every fantasy he'd ever had, he'd always pictured Qhuinn as a ferocious lover, but this was. . . on another level.
So it was from a distance that he heard himself say in a guttural voice, "Bite me. . . again. . . . "
A great growl from above threaded into his ears, and then another hiss ripped through the darkness as Qhuinn shifted positions, his massive weight torquing so that those sharp fangs could sink in deep on the side of the throat.
Blay cursed and wiped clean the rest of whatever was on the table, his chest taking the place of the objects, his sweat-streaked skin squeaking on the varnish as he lay half on his side. Throwing a hand out, he caught the flat plane of the floor and shoved back, keeping them both stable as Qhuinn fed and fucked him so good. . . .
Too many times to count, until the pillows were on the floor, the sheets were torn, another lamp got knocked over - and he wasn't sure, but he thought they banged the picture over the bed off the wall.
When stillness finally replaced all the straining and effort, Blay breathed heavily, and still felt like he was underwater.
Qhuinn was doing the same.
The growing wet patch at Blay's throat suggested things had gotten so out of hand that there had been no sealing up the vein that had been taken. Whatever. He didn't care, couldn't think, wasn't going to worry. The blissed-out, floating aftermath was too glorious to spoil, his body at once hypersensitive and numb, hot and temperate, sore and satiated.
Man, the sheets were going to need to be cleaned. And Fritz was undoubtedly going to have to find some Super Glue for those lamps.
Where exactly was he?
Putting his hand out, he patted around and ran into carpet and a dust ruffle. . . and a blanket chest. Oh, right - hanging off the far end of the bed. Which would explain the head rush he was rocking.
When Qhuinn finally eased off of him, Blay wanted to follow, but his body was far too interested in being an inanimate object. Or more like a bolt of cloth, maybe. . .
Gentle hands lifted him up and carefully, gingerly, rolled him over onto his back. There was some other movement at that point, and then he felt himself get repositioned against pillows that had been returned to their rightful place. Finally, a lightweight blanket was settled halfway up his body, as if Qhuinn knew that he was just about too hot to have any more coverage, and yet already feeling the chill as the sweat that covered him started to dry.
His hair was brushed back from his forehead, and then his head was eased to the side. Lips like silk kissed down the column of his neck, and then long, slow lapping sealed the puncture wounds that he had asked for and been given.
When it was done, he allowed his head to be turned toward Qhuinn. Even though it was pitch dark, he knew exactly what the face staring into his own looked like - flush on the cheeks, half-mast lids, lips red -
The kiss that was pressed against his own mouth was reverent, the contact no heavier than the warm, still air in the room. It was the consummate lover's kiss, the kind of thing he had wanted even more than the hot sex they'd just had -
Panic struck in the center of his chest and resonated outward through him in the blink of an eye.
His hands shot out of their own volition, shoving Qhuinn away. "Don't touch me. Don't you touch me like that - ever. "
He sprang up off the bed and landed God only knew where in the room. Fumbling around, he hit various pieces of furniture, but then was able to orientate himself by the thin line of light that shone under the way out.
Grabbing his robe from the floor, he did not look back as he left.
Couldn't bear to see the aftermath in any kind of light.
That made it all too real.
Eventually, Qhuinn had to will the lights in his bedroom on. He couldn't stand the darkness any longer.
As illumination flooded the space, he blinked hard and had to put his arms up to shield his eyes. After things recalibrated in retina-land, he looked around.
Chaos. Total chaos.
So all of that had actually happened, huh. And how ironic tha
t the inside of his head made this goddamn mess look military-order in comparison.
Don't you touch me like that.
Ah, hell, he thought as he scrubbed his face. He couldn't blame the guy.
For one thing, he'd shown about as much finesse as a bulldozer. Wrecking ball. Armed tank. The problem was, it had all been too much to show any patience: Instinct, as pure as octane and just as flammable, had lit him up - the session had been a case of letting the shit out.
Oh, God, he'd marked the guy.
Fuck. Not exactly good form, considering Blay was already in love and in a relationship. . . and going back to his lover's bed.
Then again, when a male was with the one he wanted, especially if it was the first time, that was what happened. Hell broke loose. . . .
It went without saying that it had been the best sex of his life, the first right fit after a long history of not-even-closes. The thing was, at the end, he'd wanted Blay to know that, had been searching for words and relying on touch to pave the way to the confession.
But it was clear the male didn't want to get close like that.
Which brought up a second, even more profound regret.
Revenge sex was not about attraction; it was about utility. And Blay had used him, just like he'd asked to be used.
That hollow feeling came back tenfold. A hundredfold.
Unable to stand the emotion, he burst up to his feet, and had to curse: The notable tightness in his lower back had fuck-all to do with the airplane accident, and everything to do with the pneumatics he'd just spent the last hour. . . or longer. . . throwing around.
Shit.
Going into the bath, he left the lights off, but there was more than enough to go by from the bedroom as he turned on the shower. This time, he waited for the water to get warm - his body was not up for another shocker.
It was so pathetic, but the last thing he wanted was to wash Blay's scent off his skin, but he was being driven mad from it. God, this must be what the hellrens in the house felt like when they got all possessive: He was of half a mind to stalk down the hall, burst into Blay's room, and shove Saxton out of the way. Matter of fact, he would have loved for his cousin to watch, just so the guy knew that. . .
To cut off that really frickin' healthy train of thought, he stepped into the glass enclosure and went for the soap.
Blay was in a relationship, he pointed out to himself - again.
The sex they'd just had had not been about emotionally connecting.
So he was, in this moment of emptiness, getting shanked by his own history.
Looked like this was another case of fate giving him what he deserved.
As he washed himself, the soap wasn't half as soft as Blay's skin, and didn't smell a quarter as good. The water wasn't as hot as the fighter's blood had been, and the shampoo wasn't as soothing. Nothing came close.
Nothing ever would.
As Qhuinn turned his face to the spray and opened his mouth, he found himself praying Saxton wandered off the range again - even though that was a shitty thing to hope for.
Problem was, he had a horrible feeling that another case of the infidelities was the only way Blay would come to him again.
Closing his eyes, he went back to that moment when he'd kissed Blay at the end. . . really, truly kissed him, their mouths meeting gently in the quiet after the storm. As his mind rewrote the script, he wasn't pushed away to the far side of a boundary he himself had created. No, in his imagination, things ended as they should have, with him stroking Blay's face and willing the lights on so they could look at each other.
In his fantasy, he kissed his best friend again, pulled back, and. . .
"I love you," he said into the spray of the shower. "I. . . love you. "
As he closed his eyes against the pain, it was hard to know how much of what ran down his cheeks was water, and how much was something else.
