The moment narrowed down to the points where their bodies connected: wet mouths sliding together, hands roving over chests and stomachs.
Alec gripped Ian’s cock and stroked it, firm and steady, with a boldness he’d never shown before now.
“Getting the hang of this, are we?” Ian asked, voice ragged.
“I’m falling in love with you.”
Another wet, messy kiss.
“Oh, don’t say that, darling,” Ian said. “You don’t want to do that.”
“You’re beautiful,” Alec said. Another kiss. “And you make me feel…amazing.” Kiss. “Don’t treat me like this.” Kiss. “Please.” Kiss. “I can be–”
Ian captured his head in his hands and pushed back into the kiss, surging against Alec’s lips, as his hips bucked in helpless reaction to the tight grip on his cock.
“Don’t plead,” he said. “I can’t take pleading.”
He felt Alec smile against his lips. “Good to know.”
If he kept stroking, Ian wasn’t going to have the strength to push him away and make it last, carry out what he’d intended for them to do. There were sparks in his veins and the most pleasant fog rolling through his head. There were no worries, only the bed, and Alec, and the way he felt.
“What can you be?” Ian prompted, and he didn’t recognize the breathless sound of his own voice. “What were you going to say?”
Alec nibbled at his chin, and then soothed the sting with a pass of his tongue. “I can be a good boy,” he murmured. “I can be whatever you want.”
“Oh, fuck,” Ian breathed, hands tightening on Alec’s waist, his cock kicking in Alec’s hand.
Whatever he wanted.
And what did he want?
“Fuck me,” he said, and his blood sang at the idea. “I want you to fuck me.”
Alec’s hand stilled, and when he pulled back, his expression was rapturous.
Ian slipped his arms around him, drew him in even closer, so he was straddling his lap. “Come on, darling.” He nipped at his throat. “I showed you how before, remember?”
Alec shivered, voice raw and deep when he said, “Yeah. God, yeah.”
~*~
“Okay, so I’m glad we came home for that,” Whitney said as she smoothed her shirt down her front.
Tango – cock tucked away and zipped up, sitting up on the side of the bed with a smoke hanging off his lip – pushed his hands through his hair and said, “Yeah.”
She made a face, but she was grinning underneath it, he could tell. He kept waiting for the bad feelings to hit; for what they’d done to become this awful poisonous thing that would claw its way between them. But it hadn’t and it didn’t, as Whitney tidied her hair with her fingers.
“Then again, since we came out of the back and then left right away, I figure everyone knows what was going on anyway.” Her grin widened.
Something warm and content settled in his chest. “Shit, you’re gonna have a reputation now,” he said, grinning back.
She chuckled. “First time for everything, huh?”
Tango licked the ends of his fingers and pinched out his cig, tucking it behind his ear. “Baby, come here,” he said quietly.
When she started to sit beside him, he caught her hand and steered her down so she was sideways on his lap. He loved the weight and feel of her there. All he wanted at the moment was to gather her close, tuck them under the covers, and go to sleep together. But he didn’t want to pass out on her right away, not after what she’d shared with him. Him, of all people, for the first time.
“You’re calling me baby,” she said, eyes warm as she stared down into his face.
“Is that okay?”
“I like it.”
He circled an arm around her waist, keeping her close. “What happened…” he started, awkwardly. “That wasn’t just because I was horny. I need you to know that.”
She smiled and reached to trace his eyebrow with her thumb. “I think I know that.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He gave her a squeeze. “Let’s get cleaned up.”
~*~
Ian couldn’t remember the last time someone had meticulously taken him apart. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d allowed it. When he escaped The Nest, he’d been too determined to carve all traces of weakness from his life. No more getting fucked – he was going to be the one to do the fucking. And Kev had always taken it so sweetly; he’d never stopped being the victim, poor sweet boy. He hadn’t taken his life in-hand the way Ian had.
But now…
Now.
It was the wine, and it was the heartache, and it was the strangely electrifying way Alec had defied him with sweetness and passion.
Ian kicked his head back against the pillow, awash with sensation. “More,” he said, and now he was the one pleading. He should have felt panicked, the way his legs were drawn up, the way they were spread open, leaving him vulnerable. But all he felt was want. That dangerous, violent want, vibrating in every inch of his skin, melting him from the inside out.
Alec had two slicked-up fingers in him, stretching him open slow and gentle, the way Ian had taught him. He withdrew almost all the way, and added a third finger when he thrust in again.
Ian’s nerve endings fired, a crackling energy he hadn’t felt in so long. He’d loved this once upon a time. He loved it still, Alec palm-deep, twisting his fingers.
A high, keening sound slipped through Ian’s lips. “There. Right there,” he panted. “Fuck me. Come on. Now.”
There was an acute emptiness as Alec’s fingers withdrew. And then Alec’s hand was on Ian’s hip, and he was aligning them.
“Yes,” Ian whispered, voice raw and trapped in the back of his throat. “Now, now, yes, I want it.”
The head of Alec’s cock pushed in slowly, steadily, and though he’d been prepped, it was still an invasion. Ian closed his eyes and surrendered himself to it. The stretch, and the burn. The marvel of having someone inside him.
That was the secret, after all. He’d died inside a long time ago; he was only alive when he borrowed someone else’s soul for a little while.
He forced his eyes open, just slits, so he could see Alec between his legs above him. See the lock of hair clinging to the sweat on his forehead; see the dazed way his eyes were trained where they were joined, his mouth open in awe.
Ian hooked his legs around Alec’s waist and urged him closer.
“It’s different, isn’t it?” he managed to say. “What does it feel like, darling?”
Alec started to work in deeper, little rocking motions of his hips, in farther and farther on every forward nudge. “It…it feels…oh God. Tight. And…and Jesus.”
“You won’t hurt me,” Ian choked out. “I won’t break.”
Alec dropped his head and started to really move, withdrawing and plunging back in again, hissing through his gritted teeth. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered, hands leaving bruises on Ian’s hips.
He was beautiful, slender and almost-delicate, lost to the sensation. Lost in Ian.
Yes, Jesus Christ. Ian closed his eyes again and let everything go, let a beautiful boy fuck him until he forgot how to feel anything besides the drag and press of skin.
~*~
Tango didn’t want to keep his hands to himself. He’d always felt that emptiness inside him after sex, the need for physical human comfort in the afterglow. It was more acute, now, with Whitney. So he didn’t try to deny himself. Not at this point.
Not in the shower, wrapped in the steam of hot water, and gentle soaped-up hands. There was nothing sexual in it, and Tango didn’t want there to be. An unhurried and genuine care between them. He could almost shut his eyes and convince himself that she was washing him clean; the suds lifting the sins from his skin and rinsing them down the drain.
They dressed in pajamas and climbed into bed, warm, loose-limbed and content.
“You okay?” he asked, and heard the thickness in his voice.
His heart gave a little bump, and his belly twisted with a sudden excitement, something between naughtiness and childlike joy. Could they do this? Maybe they could do this. Maybe it was okay to want it, and reach for it, and take hold of it.
He fell asleep with his face in her hair.
~*~
Ian lit a cigarette on his lip, took a single drag, and then passed it over to Alec. Alec’s movements were languid and drowsy; his hand lifted as if too heavy to take the cigarette, finger sure and content around the filter, and against Ian’s finger.
“I had no idea,” he said, voice dreamy, and drew on the cigarette.
“Hmm.”
They lay on their backs, staring up at the ceiling, the smell of cooling sweat and sex coiled around them. Ian had expected an immediate rush of regret, but so far, it hadn’t come. He tingled pleasantly with aftershocks, and wasn’t even bothered by the tacky mess cooling on his stomach. He’d wash up later: a nice long, hot shower. Maybe he’d invite Alec to join him. Maybe he’d drop to his knees on the slick tile floor. Maybe he’d chain Alec to the foot of the bed.
So many possibilities.
The sheets rustled as Alec turned onto his side, facing Ian, propped up on an elbow. He was careful to hold the cigarette clear of skin and bedding. He was beautiful, hair mussed, lips pink and swollen, face slack with exhaustion, eyes still full of glad sparks.
“Who are you thinking of right now?” he asked, voice low and secretive.
“You,” Ian said, and it wasn’t a lie. “Only you, love.”
Alec tucked his face down onto Ian’s shoulder and exhaled deeply, contentedly, sated and sleepy.
Ian took the cigarette back. “You’ll set us on fire,” he chided, but not unkindly.
“Already did that,” Alec said into his shoulder.
Against all belief that it was possible at the moment, Ian smiled.
~*~
The nightmare rolled into his dreamscape as fog, low and dense around his ankles. Tango was dreaming of formless expanses, fields and creeks, and flowers bobbing in the breeze. And then suddenly he was back in the dorm room, on the bed. Whitney was under him, and he had a hand around her throat, tightening, tightening, tightening…
He came awake with a low shout, jackknifing upright in bed. He closed his eyes to stop the room from spinning, and became aware that he’d sweated through his shirt and boxers, and was slick all over with fresh sweat.
Whitney. Shit, had he…?
He glanced over and saw that she was safe, whole, stirring awake thanks to his yell, but unharmed. She pushed her hair back and eased up onto an elbow, blinking in the dim light. “Kev?”
He let out a deep breath and pressed his shaking hands to his knees. “I shouldn’t have skipped my session.”
Nineteen
Session 5
Kev learned to suppress his gag reflex. He learned how to use his hands. He learned how to wring gasps and sighs of pleasure from the men Miss Carla put in front of him.
When he was twelve, it was time for The Nest.
Miss Carla went with him the first night. He was marched up from the basement by Max, his hands cuffed together behind him; a normal occurrence at this point. He knew that it was nighttime when he saw the black sky through the barred windows. And he knew something was badly wrong when he saw Miss Carla leave her bedroom, dressed in a short, black dress dotted with sequins, her hair piled on top of her head, her makeup dark and almost unrecognizable.
“There he is,” she said, clapping her hands together, smiling. “You’re in for a treat tonight, my little Loverboy.”
It was the first time he’d been outdoors in four years. He was assaulted by the crispness of the air, the sound of cicadas and night birds, the scent of car exhaust and rotting garbage, and a dozen other beautiful outside smells, all things from road kill to an early leaf fire. It was early autumn, he decided, judging the temperature and the state of the dry leaves rattling overhead.
If his hands had been free, he would have slit Max’s throat just to have a few seconds more in this paradise of bad neighborhood hell.
But his hands were bound, and he was shoved into the backseat of a black van, and buckled in, wrists caught behind him in a way that made his shoulders ache.
Miss Carla slid into the passenger seat and turned to regard him over her shoulder. “This is a real honor, you know,” she said. “The other boys aren’t ready yet. You’re special, though. I hope you appreciate that.”
He wanted to spend the trip hating her, but instead spent it marveling at the city sliding past his window. Buildings with lights glowing behind the windows, yards with mown grass, businesses with parking lots full of cars: gas stations, Dollar Generals, and dry cleaners. The alleys they passed grew darker, the streets littered with half-dead cars and questionable pedestrians on the corners. A dark part of town.
Then Max turned into a parking lot behind a large, low, inscrutable building with pink neon flaring out from its sides into the night. Kev had one fleeting glimpse of a sign: The Cuckoo’s Nest.
~*~
His cuffs were removed once they were inside a long, dark hallway. Max was behind him, and Miss Carla in front.
He didn’t even consider trying to escape.
“This is where you change,” Miss Carla said, stopping outside a door that read Dressing. “With the others. Go on in, and Ian will get you set up. He knows what you’re wearing.” She opened the door, shoved him through, and then shut it behind him; he heard a lock click into place.
He froze.
He stood just inside a long, narrow, dark room, illuminated by the round light bulbs affixed around mirror after mirror, set above tables flanking one wall. Dressing tables, loaded with vials, and pots, and compacts, makeup, like Mama had worn, like Miss Carla inexpertly smeared across her papery face.
And at each table, peering into the mirrors, applying paint and eyeliner, boys. Boys just like him. Some young, some older, all thin, and lithe, and pretty to the point of pain.
They didn’t seem to notice him at first, and he had a chance to lean against the locked door and catch his breath, try and slow his galloping heart. But then the nearest boy lifted his head, his black-ringed eyes alighting on Kev, and his mouth pursed in an interested O of surprise.
“Ooh, fresh meat,” he said, and moved toward Kev, snapping his fingers to get the attention of the boy next to him.
Two of them advanced on the door, dressed in little shorts that might as well have been underwear, bare-chested, done up as artfully as women with kohl and lip gloss, their long hair slicked back behind their shoulders. They were older than him, though he couldn’t tell by how much, going by their slim figures and flawless faces. He only knew they had broad shoulders, and that their ribs stood out from lack of feeding – as his did. They moved with a quiet grace, quick, unexpected, fluid movements, nothing like the telegraphed violence of Max and his cohorts back at the house.
“Look at you, sweetheart,” the first one said, bracing a shoulder against the door and leaning over Kev. “What’s your name, baby?”
The endearments made Kev cringe, because Miss Carla always used them so freely, but they didn’t hold any malice in this young man’s mouth. They seemed…kind. Maybe. It had been so long since kindness, it was hard to tell.
“K-kev,” he stuttered, trying to shrink down into the collar of his ratty t-shirt.
“Hi, Kev,” the second one said, his tone and his smile warm. “I’m Andy.”
“And I’m Jared,” the first one said. “Did Carla just drop you off?”
“Y-yeah. She said – she said Ian knew what I–” He had to dampen his lips; they were so dry they were sticking together. “What I had to w-wear?”
“Oh sweetie.” Jared slid his arm across Kev’s narrow shoulders. “He’s down here, come on.”
Kev let himself be towed along the hall of dres
sing mirrors, down to one at the end.
“Queen Vicki,” Jared called in a sing-song voice, maneuvering Kev at his side, so he had a view.
The young man leaning over the table was as thin as the others, each bump of his bare spine prominent beneath his porcelain skin as he bent low and fitted what looked like a cut-off drink straw to one nostril. A neat line of white powder marked the wood, and as Kev watched, the young man covered his exposed nostril with a finger, inhaled deeply, and sucked all the white powder up through the straw, head moving to the side as he followed the line. He lifted his head, wiped his nose, shook his head, and sniffed loudly. Then checked his reflection in the mirror. He had long reddish hair that fell down past his shoulders, slick and shiny as oil poured from a bottle, and wide blue-green eyes ringed in careful strokes of black kohl.
He was the most beautiful person, man or woman, that Kev had ever seen.
Those blue-green eyes met Kev’s gaze via the mirror. His voice, when he spoke, sounded like something from a movie, his English accent with its crisp pronunciation. “Fresh meat, I see.”
“Carla wants you to dress him,” Jared said, gave Kev’s shoulders a squeeze, and slipped away.
Kev took a deep breath, resolved to be brave, and then couldn’t form any words. He wasn’t brave. He was terrified, and a little bit enthralled, and he had no idea what was going on.
The young man studied him a moment, head cocked, and then his expression softened, beneath his perfectly applied makeup. “What’s your name, darling?”
“K-kev.”
He smiled, flashing straight white teeth, the kind of smile that belonged between the pages of a magazine. “Hello, Kev. Let’s get you dressed.”
~*~
Kev had no idea what to make of Ian Byron. Never before had a man used endearments like “darling,” and “love,” and “baby,” with him. He’d thought – incorrectly, he supposed – that tender pet names were women’s things. He’d only ever been “champ,” or “sport,” or “buddy,” around adult men. If asked right then, he would have said he preferred the sweet names. But Ian didn’t ask, only used them, and pushed through a rack of clothes, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to give Kev a thorough scrutiny, head tilted, eyes narrowed.
Loverboy (Dartmoor Book 5) Page 21
