by Lanyon, Josh
Finn’s fingers clenched in Con’s wet jacket, and Con was stroking his hair, kissing his face, kissing his hair. “I’m so sorry,” he said, and he found Finn’s mouth again, his own hungry and insistent. Finn opened to that delving kiss, that firm, deep, hungry kiss that seemed to call forth everything that had been wounded and sleeping deep inside him. He was waking up, all right, the reds and yellows of the color spectrum were alive and well, dancing beneath his eyelids, and his cock was getting hard for the first time in what felt like a very long time.
It was Con who broke the kiss. Finn swayed a little as contact ended, hanging on for support, and Con yielded, softly mouthed the edge of his jaw, his cheekbone, before pulling back again. His voice sounded uneven as he said, “I saw the suitcase.”
And it all came crashing back—Fitch was dead, murdered—and Finn was standing here making out. It was…a jolt. He turned, looking blindly for his cane.
Seeing his fumble, Con moved, finding the stick where it had fallen behind the staircase. He grabbed it, then pressed it into Finn’s hand, wrapping Finn’s fingers around it.
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to check the tower out. After yesterday…” Con didn’t finish it, instead taking Finn’s arm and guiding him through the darkness of the cottage. There was something unusually protective in the way Con was hanging on to him. Sort of sweet, but sort of quaint too. Not that Finn minded. It was nice to have Con’s arm around him, nice to have a little help getting across the obstacle course of the broken floor. But Con had never been overly watchful.
“The other suitcase is in that corner.” He nodded to where he had been digging.
Con stopped. “So it’s true.” His tone was flat but unsurprised. “You should never have come here on your own, Finn. This is… You know what it means.”
“I know what it means. I wasn’t on my own. Paul came with me. He went back to The Birches to get shovels.”
“What the hell was he doing leaving you on your own?”
Con sounded really angry, and Finn looked at him in surprise. “I sent him to get the shovels.”
“I don’t care. He had no business leaving you on your own.” Con was moving forward, still holding Finn’s arm as though Finn couldn’t be trusted out of his sight. Which was getting a little odd.
Finn freed himself as they reached the door and stepped out into the murky daylight. Con loosed him reluctantly. “I wish you could trust me.”
“I do.” He realized it was true. He did trust Con. He knew he hadn’t killed Fitch, although maybe that was instinct more than logic. He knew that Con regretted the way things had ended between them.
“Do you?” Con’s expression was weary. Almost sad. “I know it’s my fault. I wasn’t there for you the last time, but I will be there for you this time. If you’ll let me.”
“If I’ll let you what?”
Con was giving him the strangest look. “I was hoping you would tell me, but it’s not hard to put the pieces together.”
“It’s…not?”
“I was afraid when no one at The Birches would talk about it—about your accident. I know how hard this is, but you’ve got to learn to rely on others a little with…this hanging over you.”
Finn stopped, staring. His heart was pounding hard as Con’s words sunk in. “What do you mean?”
He was afraid he knew only too well what Con meant, so it was a shock when Con said calmly, “I know you’re…losing your sight.”
Finn blinked. “I’m…”
Con said, “Do you think it makes a difference to me? It doesn’t. I still love you. Still want to be with you. Nothing could change that.”
Finn felt a crazy desire to burst out laughing—at the same time tears stung his eyes, closed his throat. “Con. Jesus. I thought you were going to accuse me of murder—like I did you.”
“I know you didn’t murder Fitch.” Con dismissed the idea as not worth considering. “I didn’t kill Fitch. I give you my word. I know you don’t have any reason to accept it—”
“Yes, I do. You never lied to me,” Finn said. “You weren’t always kind, but you never lied.”
“I lied to myself,” Con said grimly. “I told myself all the time we were seeing each other that it was just sex, a fling. Nothing more. I told myself I didn’t want to get involved. That you were too young for me. I couldn’t picture myself in a long-term relationship—an open relationship. But the only person I was fooling was me. There isn’t any getting over the way I feel about you, Finn. The way I’ve always felt about you. I’ve had three years of trying, and when I saw you again, I knew that, for me, nothing had changed.” He put a hand up and lightly traced the scar on Finn’s temple. “The car accident—”
“I’m not going blind,” Finn said.
Con held very still. “You’re…not?”
Finn shook his head. Wiped at the tears welling at the corner of his eyes. “No.” He gave a watery chuckle. “I can’t believe that’s what you thought. Were you really prepared to take care of me?”
“Hell yes.” Con was staring at him. “I had a speech all ready about how you needed—” He stopped. “Why the hell was everyone so mysterious about your accident?”
“Were they?”
“Yes. No one would tell me anything.” Con began to sound incensed. “I could see you were having trouble with your eyes—and all those headaches—”
“Well, yeah, but that was—”
“And what about that comment in the car yesterday about not wearing dark glasses until you had to?”
Finn tried to remember what comment Con meant. He really didn’t remember saying anything that should have created such a dramatic impression.
Con said bluntly, “You’re terrified of the dark.”
Finn’s smile faded. “Yes. After the accident…yeah. I couldn’t see, and they did think for a time…there was a chance I’d lost my sight.” He couldn’t meet Con’s gaze. There was too much there. He said gruffly, “It…shook me. Not least because of my painting. It’s my livelihood, and it’s…my passion. My life. I think that was the worst part. Realizing that all I had was my painting. And if that was gone—”
“But it’s not?”
Finn shook his head. “I’m going to be fine. Even the headaches have gotten better since I’ve been home. I’m not sure I believed it at first. I think I was afraid to. But…I’m going to be okay.” He grimaced. “Now I just have to get the nerve to pick up a paintbrush again.”
“Thank God,” Con said and pulled him into his arms.
At which point, with cosmic bad timing, the skies opened up. It wasn’t quite the effect of being doused with a bucket of cold water, but it wasn’t far from it. Con grabbed Finn’s arm, and they haltingly ran for the Rover, then slammed inside. Rain ticked noisily down on the metal roof.
Laughing unsteadily with a combination of stress and nerves, they were back in each other’s arms and kissing again with a near-frantic hunger, as though they had drawn back in time from some terrifying precipice. Con’s mouth was hard and soft, sweet and harsh all at the same time.
The windows began to steam.
“Ow. Ouch. This isn’t going to work.” It wasn’t easy, but Finn pulled away, trying to ease his cramping leg despite protests from other frustrated parts of his anatomy.
Con let him go, but his hands lingered. “Let’s go to my cottage.”
“Paul is going to be here any minute.” His body was already aching with thwarted desire. Well, it never rained, but it poured—literally, it seemed.
“Call him and tell him to meet us at the cottage.” Con’s smile was mostly grimace. “Better yet. Tell him to forget about it.” His breath was warm as he leaned forward to nip the side of Finn’s throat.
“Con.”
“I don’t mean that.” Con sighed. “It’s too late even if I wanted that. But this storm is going to get worse before it gets better.”
He was right. The storm was moving in, black clouds slid
ing across the sky, flashes of lightning flickering over the water.
“Anyway, your part in this is done. We both know what that suitcase means. It’s time to call the state police.”
“Yes.”
It was the lightning that decided Finn. That, and the fact that if he didn’t get some kind of sexual release soon, his guts would be in knots.
He pulled Paul’s cell phone out and called The Birches.
Martha answered with the news that she had not seen Paul. Finn thanked her and told her to have Paul call his cell if he did turn up. Clicking off, he said to Con, “I told him to make sure no one saw him, so I guess that’s not surprising. He’s probably on his way back now.”
They were silent while the rain beat down on the roof, and the interior of the Rover filled with the peculiarly erotic scent of damp wool and frustrated desire.
“We can’t leave the suitcase out there anyway,” Con said suddenly. “I’ll grab it and leave a note for Paul inside the cottage.”
He was out of the vehicle before Finn could object—not that he had a real objection. He was eager to get away from the lighthouse, to get away from the memories—and from what the future must bring.
* * * * *
Con was smiling, tracing Finn’s collarbone, fingers brushing sensitized skin. He kissed the hollow at the base of Finn’s throat.
Finn shivered.
“Cold?”
He shook his head. They were lying on the cushions and rugs before the roaring fireplace in the cottage. The firelight cast heated shadows over their naked bodies as they moved together, exploring with hands and lips.
Con nuzzled his way up Finn’s throat, and Finn opened his mouth, panting a little beneath that delicate, shuddery pleasure of grazing lips and tongue. When Con’s mouth covered his, he moaned softly. Their tongues touched tentatively, withdrew.
Con raised his head, and they smiled at each other.
“Am I rushing you?”
Finn chuckled. “I don’t think anyone could accuse you of rushing me.”
“You don’t know.” Con shook his head—apparently at himself. “I’ve been desperate from the minute I saw you come walking down the path the other day.”
“You hid it pretty well.”
“No. You didn’t want to see it, that’s all. I’ve been wondering if I could keep sane if I had to watch you walk away again.”
Finn smiled uncertainly. Con had to be joking, exaggerating, because he had never seemed anything but in control of his feelings.
“I’d given up on you ever coming back.” Con’s return smile was twisted. “You don’t know how much I wanted to go after you, to find you.”
Finn shook his head. “It wouldn’t have worked then.”
“I know. That’s what Thomas said.”
“You talked to Uncle Tom about…us?” That must have been some conversation.
Con nodded. “He said… Hell, it doesn’t matter now. He was right, though, and I’d pretty much accepted that I wasn’t going to get a second chance. Then Martha told me that you’d been in an accident…that it was bad.”
“Bad enough.”
“When I heard you were coming home to recover, I canceled my book tour.”
Finn examined the proud, patrician features—the dark, hungry eyes that held his own gaze.
“I love you, Finn.”
“Con—”
“Let me say this,” Con said, suddenly harsh. “Let me…get it off my chest. I didn’t intend for it to happen. The thing with Fitch and me had been over long before you and I met. I mean met as—”
“I know what you mean.”
Con’s shadowy gaze never wavered from his own. “I came to find you that morning. I was going to…break it off.” Finn closed his eyes. But he could hear the undernote of emotion more clearly. “I was going to tell you I was going to Europe for a few months. It had gotten…so intense between us. And I couldn’t handle it. I was afraid to feel that much for you, afraid it was getting out of control. So when I came upon Fitch at the lighthouse, and he made his move…I went with it. I swear to Christ I didn’t mean for you to see it. I didn’t ever intend to hurt you like that. But I was glad to…take that opportunity to distance myself from you. Do you understand?”
“No.” He did, of course, but it hurt like hell. Even now.
“But when you walked in on us, when I realized what I’d done and that there wouldn’t be any turning back from it, I knew I’d made a mistake.”
Finn opened his eyes. Con was still watching him.
“I don’t know why it took that to make me see how I really felt. But it’s the truth. I’d been so busy feeling…trapped and pressured that I hadn’t stopped to consider how much I cared for you. I’d have done anything to erase those goddamned stupid fifteen minutes with Fitch.”
Finn opened his mouth, and Con kissed him—a baby’s breath of a kiss, a dragonfly wing of a kiss. “Forgive me,” he whispered.
The kiss went from soft to seductive to searing. They seemed to kiss forever, seeming to find new ways every few seconds, the press of mouths, the taste of tongues, the slide of skin on skin, rolling and pushing against each other as they grew more fierce for union.
Finn’s healing nerves and muscles protested, but he ignored the various twinges and pains, because Con’s touch was sending chills of pleasured sensation down his spine and into his groin.
Con’s kisses were harder now, demanding and yet coaxing—making his case for him where words might have failed. His cock was like a steel pole, and Finn shuddered in a kind of sensory overload as Con’s hand went to that junction of thigh, stroking Finn’s slower reactions to stiffness.
Con was breathing hard, like he’d had to fight his way to get to this moment, and in a way he had. “What do you want? Whatever you want—”
Being asked to choose, to think, was more than Finn was prepared to do. He was running with the tide, riding that wave of feeling all the way out. He gasped, while Con did those wicked, wanton things with his hands, eyes closed, listening to the crackle of fire, the rush of rain—
Con shifted abruptly, lifting up. Finn’s eyes flew open, and then he arched, bit back a cry at the warm, wet shock of envelopment. So good, so intensely good it was frightening. Physical response pulsing through his body, flashing up and down his bloodstream like a drug, the rush of release like no other.
Con made it last and last, skilled, yes…but more than that. Loving. Loving in a way it had never been before. Or maybe he was just more experienced now. Maybe he knew enough now to recognize what neither of them had recognized three years ago—until it was too late.
Con worked him with expert hands and mouth, and orgasm ripped through Finn, a kind of convulsion of delight that left him sobbing and breathless while his cock shot spumes of white like sea foam that Con swallowed down as though it carried some magical properties.
“What about you?” Finn finally managed, when the tilting world settled back into its frame. Con was holding him, nuzzling his cheek. One hard warm arm lay across Finn’s belly, hands cupping Finn’s genitals.
Con chuckled, bumped his hips against Finn’s backside, and Finn realized from the sticky softness there that Con had come too.
They dozed for a time. It was the crack of thunder that brought Finn back to awareness. He opened his eyes, and he could see the rain sluicing down the windows across the room.
“Why hasn’t Paul called?” he asked.
Con lifted his head. “Because he’s tactful?”
“He’s not tactful. It’s been well over an hour now. It’s been two hours.”
Con considered this. “He must not have talked to Martha.”
He sounded unconcerned, and he was probably right, but Finn couldn’t help the spark of uneasiness he felt. “He should have seen your note when he got back to the lighthouse, in that case.”
“Maybe it took longer than either of you expected.”
“How long could it take to grab a couple of shove
ls?”
There was a pause while Con digested the implications of that. “You think Fitch is buried here? At the lighthouse?”
“I don’t know.”
Con raised his head, studying Finn’s profile. “He couldn’t be inside the keeper’s house, Finn. Most of the flooring is still intact. A suitcase, maybe two, yes. A man? No. And he couldn’t be buried on the grounds—someone would have noticed a mound that size and shape.”
Finn shivered. “He could be in the woods.”
Con kissed Finn’s naked shoulder. “That would be taking one hell of a risk—burying him in the woods there.”
“But someone did take a hell of a risk.”
Neither spoke for a time; then Finn said, “Paul wouldn’t give a damn about disturbing us. We argued earlier, and he was set on going to the state police with or without proof.”
Con expelled a long breath. “You think he’s up there digging on his own?” Finn’s gaze found his. “You want to take a run up to the lighthouse and see what’s keeping Paul?”
Finn nodded slowly.
“Okay. Let’s get it over with.” Con got to his feet in a quick move. He grabbed Finn’s discarded sweater and jeans, then tossed them to him.
Chapter Ten
Paul was not at the lighthouse.
Con’s note was still pinned beneath Paul’s flashlight inside the doorway to the keeper’s cottage.
“He didn’t come back.” Finn stared at Con.
“Maybe common sense prevailed. Nobody’s getting across from the mainland this afternoon. He probably decided to stay warm and dry up at The Birches.”
“That isn’t the way Paul thinks.”
Con considered this. “Of course not. Well, what do you want to do?”
