by Josh Lanyon
John took my hand as we walked back up the flagstone path.
“Were you praying?” he asked curiously.
“Yes.”
He made a faint sound. Not humor exactly. Maybe a little puzzled? He said slowly, “You’re such an odd mix, Cos. So blasé, even flippant about some things, and yet so…traditional in others.”
I shrugged. He was right, but wasn’t that true of most people? “Don’t you pray?”
“No.” John’s voice was flat.
“But…” I tried to read his profile. “You were an altar boy for three years. You wanted a priest to marry us.”
John said with unexpected harshness, “The priest was for my mother’s sake. I don’t believe in God, and I sure as hell don’t believe in the power of prayer.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’m not missing anything I can’t do without, I promise you.”
I had no answer, but I was troubled.
“How did I get so lucky?” John asked huskily. His big warm hand stroked me, chest to belly like he’d stroke a cat, like he’d pet his own Familiar. It felt extraordinarily nice, and if I’d known how to purr, I would have.
I laughed softly. “Do you believe in magic?”
He said, “I believe in love.”
Ah, and those were indeed magic words. My cock filled, twitching like a wand at the first syllables of enchantment. I dug my heels in the mattress, arching up in invitation. Instead, his hand slid upward, stroking my chest, scratching my nipples with his thumbnail. I groaned.
“Patience is a virtue,” he teased.
“I’m not feeling very virtuous.”
“You don’t look very virtuous, that’s for sure.” I could hear the smile, but also the warmth and appreciation. “You’re beautiful, though. Very beautiful.”
“So are you.”
He made a dismissive sound, his mouth touching mine, stopping my words. He did not care for compliments. Did not trust them? I let his lips coax me into silence, opening to him in another way.
John’s mouth pressing mine always made me feel that kisses were something new, something special, a secret suddenly revealed, like learning to read a map or speak a foreign language, like seeing your first blue moon rise in a night full of stars.
His was a mouth that could say some hard, even cruel things, but his kisses were so sweet, almost adoring.
His hands gathered me close, hard and competent but cherishing too. I could feel every beat of our hearts echoing in my veins and nerves, beat and answering beat. I felt safe and complete in John’s arms.
His mouth lifted from mine. “What would you like?” His soft words gusted moist and warm against my ear.
I said slowly, afraid he might object to this change of dynamic, “I want to be inside you.”
And he nodded, surprising me with a smile that was almost rueful. “Would you?”
“Would you?”
“Of course. Why not?”
He was so accepting, I was a little embarrassed to admit what I had been thinking. That a personality as dominant as John’s would not consent to, let alone enjoy, taking a more…complaisant role.
“Not everyone does.”
“You do.”
Oh yes. I did. I loved it.
He said, “Sex is sex. What matters is giving each other pleasure.” He stroked my hair back from my face. “Don’t ever be afraid to tell me what you want.”
“I won’t.” In that moment, it felt true.
We angled around, relaxed and easy, already used to each other, comfortable with each other. John stretched out before me, long and strong. Everything in beautiful proportion, the ripple of muscles beneath supple skin, the red-gold dusting of hair over limbs and genitals. His hands and feet were carefully groomed, the nails trimmed and buffed. His hair was neatly cut, the rebel wave controlled. The expensive suits, love of fine wine, appreciation for antiques—he presented a cultured image to the world, but beneath the veneer was something not so civilized, not so careful. Now and then it flickered through his hawk-colored eyes. A familiarity with violence, with cruelty.
But familiarity was not pleasure. I wrapped my arms around his broad shoulders, wanting, illogically, to shelter him from all the painful things he had faced. I kissed the back of his strong neck, and he shivered.
“I love you,” I whispered. “I never knew it was possible to love anyone like this.”
He made a soft sound, not laughing at me, maybe not quite believing me.
The small bottle of Happy Endings sat on the nightstand next to the bed, and I drizzled the slick and pleasantly scented oil over my fingers. I separated the taut globes of John’s buttocks with one hand and probed that puckered little opening with the other.
I delicately pushed one finger in, and John uttered a long, low groan, his body clenching.
“Is it all right?” I leaned forward, pressed a damp kiss between his shoulder blades. The ring of muscle pulled at my finger as I slid in and out. “Do you like it?”
I did. I liked everything we did.
“Is…that…a…serious…question?” he gulped.
I took my time, not so much because John needed it, but because I did. I felt weak and trembly at the idea of what was ahead, afraid he wouldn’t like it, that I might do it wrong, might disappoint him, or worst of all, accidentally harm him…shaken that he trusted me, loved me enough to let me do this. Although I could tell he didn’t really need it, I pressed a second finger in, stretching him, seeking that nub of nerves and gland. John pushed back at my hand, drawing me in deeper.
“You’re very skilled…” He turned his head, smiling.
“Are you surprised?”
“Not at all. The surprise was…” He didn’t finish it, but I knew what had surprised him. “I knew the first time you wrapped that pretty mouth around my dick…oh fuuuck…” His whole body arched as I found his prostate.
I moved forward, trying to find his mouth at that awkward angle, kissing instead the point of his jaw, the damp hollow behind his ear, all the while still lightly, deliberately massaging the spongy bump. My own cock was rock hard, my balls aching. My heart slammed with desperate longing. John shuddered as I lowered myself on top of him. The hard heat of his body down the length of mine was the sweetest torture.
“Say something in French,” he gasped.
“Huh?” I gave an unsteady laugh. “Like what?”
“Anything,” he groaned. “I just like to hear you. You could order pancakes and I’d think it was sexy.”
Laughter, love, swelled in my chest. I muttered shakily, “Puis-je avoir du sirop avec mes pancakes?”
John laughed breathlessly. “Go on…”
I dropped my head to his back. I could feel the hard thump of his heart against my hot face. “Non. You make me shy.”
I think it surprised both of us. He slid free, turned, taking me in his arms. I tried to bury my face in his shoulder, but he raised my chin with his finger. “No way, ma belle. You’re not the shy type.” He was amused, but gentle too.
I made a little face at the feminine ma belle. Said only, “With you, I am. I don’t know why.”
“Don’t be. You don’t ever have to…” He didn’t finish it, but it was okay. Even that much was more than he usually gave.
I said softly, “C’est tellement bon. I didn’t think anything could feel better than the other way, mais c’est exquis.”
“Yeah?” His hand insinuated itself between the hot press of our bodies, closed around my cock.
Words failed me. I moaned softly, desperately, pushing into his grip.
“I have something nicer for you,” he said.
He did too.
We changed position again, and John’s buttocks humped back against my groin as my cock took the place of my fingers in that moist heat. So… good. I whimpered as his sphincter muscle contracted around me. Began to push and slide in that hot darkness. Instinct. I couldn’t have stopped to save my life.
> John let out a deep sound, something between a groan and a growl, and began to rock back hard against me. I thrust back at him, closing my eyes, just concentrating on that welcome velvet grab, trying to push deeper, needing to feel joined, united. Heat on burning heat. His fierce silence in contrast to my own wounded sounds as I pumped into him, reaching further and further for that desperate release—
And finally…the sweetest of surrenders rising up out of the yearning to unite, the falling away of all barriers, all doubts and fears and questions swept aside in the dizzying tide of thrust and drop, push and pull…slow, sweet climax that pulsed through me, warming me with every heartbeat.
“John… John…” I couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help the helpless noises as I began to come, opening my heart’s wings, pouring out silly, emotional things while my muscles turned to jelly and my cock spurted sticky release into the clench of his channel. We flew straight into the blazing stars.
I collapsed on top of him, gasping for breath, quivering head to foot. I’m embarrassed to confess I didn’t even know if he’d come. I hoped so. The sheets were damp, the room scented of sex and John.
A long, long time later, John stirred, rolling over, tumbling me into his arms. He drew the covers over us, cradling me against his warmth. He kissed my brow bone and my nose, and I smiled, opened sleepy eyes.
Over his shoulder, I could see Pyewacket in the window, his eyes glowing.
Chapter Six
On Saturday the honeymoon ended.
Perhaps I exaggerate.
Probably not.
John was fixing pancakes and promising that next weekend would be different. Next weekend we would sleep late—nine or so—and then he’d fix us a “real” breakfast. I believe the gory details included creamed chipped beef and buckwheat cakes. Oh, and screwdrivers.
I don’t like orange juice or breakfast, and my idea of sleeping late on a weekend is noonish. Assuming I have to be somewhere that afternoon.
I smiled bravely through this litany of horrors, which appeared to be the correct response, and he returned to whisking flour, salt, baking powder, sugar, Ajax detergent, and whatever else was going into my antique Wedgewood basalt basin. I mean, they have boxed mixes for this very sort of occasion.
“You’re going to be here today, right?”
“Hm?” I was trying to read—without looking like I was trying to read—the article about Abigail Starshine’s murder on the front page of the Chronicle. I was horrified to see the headline: Police Baffled by Second Witch Killer Slaying.
Witch Killer.
The press had given the murderer or murderers a nickname.
“Cos?”
I stared blankly at John.
“Are you here all day?”
“What? No. I’ve got to go in to the shop.”
His brows drew into a straight line. “I thought we discussed this? Someone’s got to be here today. The contractor is coming to see about the pool.”
I stared at him. The pool?
John’s brows rose. “I know we talked about this. About putting a pool in the backyard.”
“We talked yes, but I didn’t think it was decided. I don’t…”
Want a pool.
It would be hard to think of anything I wanted less.
John was looking at me in inquiry.
“It’s just, I’m not so sure a pool is a great idea.”
“What’s your objection?”
“Well, it will take up most of the top garden. The yard will be all deck and pool.”
“Correct. That’s good for entertaining.”
“Yes, I suppose so. But.”
“But what?” John asked. I could see he was growing a little impatient.
“I can’t swim.”
In fact, I was terrified of water—maybe because my cousin Waite had tried to drown me when we were kids.
John looked surprised. “You can’t swim at all?”
“At all. I sink. Like a stone.”
He smiled. “That’s not a problem. I’ll teach you to swim. It’ll be fun.”
Yeeeah. No. It really wouldn’t.
“Okay, thank you. I appreciate the offer. But I don’t even like water.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” John said. “But I still would like a pool. It’s good exercise—yes, I know you also hate exercise, but it would be good for you to do something physical once in a while—and it’s good for property value.”
I was a little offended by the good-for-you-to-do-something-physical-once-in-a-while comment—especially considering the night before—and I was a lot offended by the fact that we were obviously going to have a pool whether I wanted it or not.
But it wasn’t fair to be angry if I wasn’t going to be honest, so I said, “It isn’t just… I-I have a fear of water.”
That wasn’t easy to admit. John wasn’t someone with much tolerance for weakness of any kind, and I didn’t want to admit this vulnerability.
He said briskly, “Then this will be a good way for you to overcome that fear.”
He wasn’t even curious about what had caused my fear. The cause was irrelevant, the fear dismissed as of no importance.
But it was not a surprise.
He was already moving on. “So if you could manage to be here to meet with Fred?”
“Fred?”
“Our contractor.”
Now he was our contractor.
I folded my lips together against the indignant things on the tip of my tongue. After all, John had given me half the backyard for my white garden, and my being afraid of water wasn’t really a legitimate reason for denying him a swimming pool.
Maybe he was right. Maybe this would be the way to overcome my fear.
“What time is Fred coming by?”
“Three.”
“All right. I’ll make sure I’m home in time to talk to him.”
John nodded approvingly and slid a couple of fluffy, golden pancakes on my plate. “Did you want jam or syrup?”
“Nutella.”
He blinked. “I guess it’s true. You think you know someone…”
“Ha.”
He turned to the still mostly empty cupboards. “Do we actually own a jar of Nutella?”
“Somewhere.” I gave up. Sighed. “Raspberry jam is fine.”
John smiled approvingly, unscrewed the raspberry jam, and handed it over. “There you go. Take notes this afternoon. We can finalize the details over dinner.”
* * * * *
To my relief, Ambrose was behind the counter talking to Blanche when I arrived at Blue Moon Antiques.
Blanche gave me a look over the top of her glasses that I think was supposed to mean Don’t Be Too Hard on Him.
“Step into my web,” I invited, holding the office door.
Ambrose trudged into my office as though walking the plank. “I’m sorry about yesterday,” he began.
I leaned against the desk, resting my tailbone on top. “Yesterday was understandable,” I said. “I’m less happy about the week I left for my honeymoon, but even then, stuff happens. Family emergencies, transportation strikes, parole-board hearings…”
He looked alarmed.
I continued, “I don’t care about your missing a day of work here and there. What’s worrying me is I don’t think you’re telling me the truth.” I corrected, “That is, I think you’re telling me part of the truth, but there’s a lot you’re not telling me.”
He opened his mouth, but I headed him off. “The part you’re not telling me scares you. And that’s what worries me.”
He changed color, said defensively, “If you don’t want me to work for you—”
“What? That’s not what I’m saying. Not at all.”
He stared down at his worn Nikes, his expression closed.
“Ambrose.”
He raised his long lashes, flicked me a dark, unreadable look, went back to staring at his tennis shoes.
I sighed. “I wish you could trust me a little.”
“In things that what?”
He met my gaze. “Aren’t your business.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say. My confusion must have shown because Ambrose shrugged and returned to not looking at me.
He murmured, “That’s what he said.”
There were so many responses, I didn’t quite know where to begin. First off, the kid wasn’t just my employee, he was my apprentice, which meant everything he did—everything he thought—was my fucking business. Secondly, even if he had been just my employee, someone needed to take an interest in his life, and Ralph had pretty much landed Ambrose on me. Granted, Ralph had changed his mind and tried to get me to throw Ambrose back in—and what was that about? I still couldn’t make sense of it. Thirdly and finally…
“When did Mr. Grindlewood say that?” I asked mildly.
“Last night.”
That was a shock. I had assumed—and now I wondered why—that Ambrose would not continue to socialize, if that was the word for it, with Ralph after Ralph had tried to poison the well against him. But Ambrose had no idea Ralph was the one who had brought Ambrose’s juvenile criminal record to my attention.
“Ah,” I said.
Ambrose watched me warily, which led me to believe Ralph had probably said something to the effect that I might try to discourage their friendship—and that was absolutely the truth. If I hadn’t been forewarned, I’d have done exactly that.
I said, “That seems a little unfair of Mr. Grindlewood, but it’s certainly true that the relationship between apprentice and master is a close one. Or should be.” I spread my hands. “Very well. I’ll do my best not to trespass. Have you started your grimoire?”
Ambrose looked confused, whether at my abrupt change of subject or the fact that I was already asking for his homework. “Not yet, no. There hasn’t been time.”
I shook my head. Not that I was surprised, but I was a little disappointed.
He said quickly, “I’ll try to start tonight.”
“Good.” I pointed at the door. “I’m sure Blanche has a mile-long list for you.”
Ambrose rose, hesitated, then went out.
