by Rhys Ford
And it was Sionn’s voice who whispered in the darkness of his nightmares, “As you wish.”
His fingers crumpled the old-fashioned quilt on Sionn’s bed when he grabbed fists of faded calico rings and ivory cotton. The room was much like Sionn himself, warm and comfortable, dressed with old polished wood, and smelling of lemon oil. He’d been unwilling to lie on the bed. It was too… welcoming, as if it could be a place he would finally be able to lay his head down and rest.
Then, in the circle of Sionn’s arms, Damien feared he would never want to leave, even when Sionn turned him out and moved on.
“Just think about now, D,” he muttered, arching his back to take the man into him. Now was all that mattered. He could hold onto his memories of Sionn, using them to warm him on those nights when he was dead inside. “Take what you can. Just like always.”
The burn was immense, a sticky almost-pain stretching him apart until Damien felt torn open. He knew better. He’d done this dance countless times before, but the slow, steady rubbing along his spine and the sweet, fluid sounds of a language he didn’t understand were a different rhythm than he remembered.
He couldn’t find any place in his mind when sex wasn’t a plunge into hot, quick pleasure. There were no faces in his fragmented thoughts. No one person emerging from the ocean of masks and pain. Damien strained to recall anyone, pushing at his recollections until his head hurt more than the push of Sionn into the depths of his heart.
He’d meant to think body, even as his mind whispered, No, Damie. He’s pushing into your heart.
Damien knew he’d meant to believe Sionn’s cock spearing through him hurt… even slightly… but there was nothing there but the pressure and then a sliding pleasure he couldn’t contain. Sex was never pretty. He’d never known it to be. Then Sionn gently lowered him to the bed, sliding a pillow beneath the hollow of his belly, and Damien saw a flicker of something intangible at the edge of his pleasure, a wrapping of sensations around him he couldn’t grab as it slid by.
“Are you ready for me, a rún?” The whisper was lush with promise, and Damien nodded, biting into the meat of his hand as Sionn angled himself in. His hands covered Damien’s, wrapping his square-nailed fingers over Damie’s knuckles. “I’m going to take you now, Damie boy. You let me know if I hurt you. I can’t stand the thought of hurting you, love. I just want to make you feel… good.”
The burn returned, a searing almost too much to bear when Sionn pushed the rest of his cockhead into Damien’s body. Hissing, he took it, breathing in large mouthfuls of air and pushing out, knowing the rest of it would soon follow.
It did, and his breath left him, replaced by a surge of warmth and fullness.
The kisses along his shoulders were timed with each of Sionn’s slow, rocking thrusts. A slide of hard flesh out, and soft, warm lips would skim along his muscles, brief hummingbird dips of affection that were gone in the moment before Sionn would fill him again.
When Sionn said he was going to take his time, Damien had no idea of the lengths the man would take to prolong the torture. Each tingling brush of cock on his nerves was brief, canted to tease rather than hold Damien in a grip of pleasure.
He couldn’t tell how long they stayed together, Sionn curled up over him, his thighs bracketing Damie’s folded legs. Damie lost track of where he ended and Sionn began; the soft rustle of their bodies sliding apart then joining again became his entire world. The press of Sionn’s chest on his shoulder blades anchored him in place, and the heat of his legs on Damie’s hips kept him from losing control. Even the rub of his cock against the soft pillowcase was a sublime torment of bliss scented tart with raspberries and sweat.
At some point, they shifted, a keening of need suddenly building up between them. Sionn’s callused fingers found his dick, and Damien gasped at the roughness on his head, Sionn’s thumb finding the too-delicate slit with the edge of his nail.
“Come on, Irish.” He dropped his forehead to the bed, sweat dripping from his scalp and down his cheeks. “God, please. Fuck me.”
Sionn’s hips took up a brutal pace, each thrust matching Damien’s growling mewls for more. The sensations lurking inside him unfurled, expanding out to invade him nearly as much as Sionn’s cock filled his ass. If anything, the man was going deeper, grabbing at Damie’s core and shaking him down to his spine, leaving behind a lightning strike of crackling pleasure that barely had time to simmer before another followed.
It was too much for Damien to take, and he bucked, slamming his cock into Sionn’s grip. Wet from lube, the man’s palm covered his shaft, working into a steady beat Damien couldn’t match. Overwhelmed, he bent his shoulders and drank in the pounding, reveling in the slap of Sionn’s balls against his and the stretch of his taint by the man’s thick cock.
The storm in him exploded, its fury hitting him in a torrential downpour. His entire body released, pouring out his climax through his cock and then his nerves, shaking him apart into little pieces. Still, Sionn continued to thrust into him, pounding through Damien’s pleasure, riding its crest to find his own relief.
Damien cried out, his cock trapped in the clench of Sionn’s hand as he was milked dry. His ass tightened, enough of a pull on Sionn’s dick to send him over the edge, and a rush of intense heat filled Damien’s cleft, the rush of Sionn’s seed trapped in a fold of oiled latex.
The tired hit him hard. Replete and worn out, his thighs suddenly ached, and the tightness in his ass became a press of fatigue along the hips. Sionn pulled free, leaving Damie as slowly as he’d entered. Damien remained in place, hunched over a come-splattered pillow, too weary to do anything more than wish he could move. Every inch of him throbbed, and his release still resonated through him, tiny shockwaves of pleasure singing beneath his skin.
He barely heard Sionn dispose of the condom, then shivered at the touch of a cloth reaching to wipe away the mess of their sex. Strong hands lifted him up, rolling him over until he could stretch out his aching legs. Those same hands worked out the kinks in his thighs, the tongue that had skimmed the sweat from his spine now touching the part of his lips, sinking him into a long, passionate kiss.
“I think you broke me,” Damien finally gasped.
“Couldn’t have, Damie love,” Sionn rumbled. “I’ve got plans for you later that need you being whole.”
He was trembling, an odd feeling as his muscles stretched back into shape. His ass grumbled at him, throbbing to remind him of the man who’d been in him, as if the sheer heft of Sionn’s hot body spooning up behind him could be missed. Sionn worked the quilt and a sheet over them, the linens warmed by their sex, then yawned, nearly splitting his jaw apart. Sleep tugged at Damien, promising sweeter dreams than the horrors that had stalked him since he’d woken up in Skywood, but his mind refused to fall into its seductive coil.
Damien didn’t want to miss a moment of Sionn’s arms being around him or the weight of the man’s leg casually flung over his shins that held him against the soft mattress. There was never enough time to capture the moments in his life when everything was good. His headache still lingered, but so did the echoes of time spent under the stars with Miki, their dreams spun out of cotton candy and moonlight. He wanted to hammer the brightness of Sionn’s pleasure into his mind, engraving each touch with a sweeping flourish.
No one’d ever made his body and heart sing as sweetly as Sionn Murphy. His brain stung, pierced through with the shattered return of his life, a mosaic of sharp, effervescent pieces he needed to fit together. Amid the chaos, Damien stood, sheltered in Sionn’s embrace.
“Do you need something for your head?” Sionn’s breath ruffled his hair. “Are you doing all right there, Damie?”
“I’m fine,” Damie slurred, laughing softly when the man rubbed at his scarred chest. “Seriously, I think you… damn. Just damn. How much time do we have before we head over to your uncle’s place? Can I crash for a bit?”
“We’ve got all the time in the world, a rún.” He kissed Damien
’s teeth-scored ear. “Sleep for now. I’ve got the alarm set so we’ll have time to shower. Your clothes are already in the dryer. I’m worried they’ll be falling apart from being washed so much.”
“What’s that mean? Aaron? A roon?” It wasn’t the first time Sionn’s Gaelic slithered past him, but he’d finally caught on that one phrase.
“A rún. Uh-ROON.” He enunciated until Damien caught the phrasing. “It means… well, it’s sort of like secret, like a treasure. Something found and known only to a few. That’s how I think of you. Something beautiful and dark, hiding in plain sight. But, Damie boy, you’re a secret I’ll have to be sharing soon enough.”
“Not just yet.” His eyelids were heavy, weighted down with fatigue, and Damien fought to keep them open. He was going to have to give in. It was too warm… too comfortable in Sionn’s arms to do much more than fall in and drift on the thing they were creating between them. Damien pulled Sionn’s hand up and kissed the man’s knuckles, taking care to touch each one to his lips before snuggling back against Sionn’s tall frame. “For right now, let me be your secret. I’m totally good with that, Irish. Totally.”
Chapter 10
Miles of black
Whiskey and rye
Keeps the band warm
And our damned souls dry
—Whiskey and Wry
DAMIEN was nervous.
It was a silly thing. Nerves. Especially since it wasn’t like he was going to meet Sionn’s parents or ask them for his hand in marriage. It was a dinner. With relatives. An aunt and uncle. Probably a sweet older couple with a few cats or a shivering little Chihuahua that would hump his leg every time he stood still long enough for it to get a good hold. Simple enough. Sure, he sucked at getting along with anyone remotely resembling a parent, but it shouldn’t matter. They were going there solely so Sionn’s uncle could be talked into helping him get his shit… and life… back together.
“Then why the hell is there an alien trying to chew its way out of my stomach?” he’d grumbled to himself as he buttoned up his borrowed shirt before they left.
It was too big for him. When Sionn’d tossed him a burgundy shirt out of his closet and said it was one that no longer fit his shoulders, Damien knew it would still be too large. The man was built like a white pony meant to carry Valkyries. Still, he had to admit the shirt looked good on him, even with the shoulder seams drooping halfway down his upper arms and the tails dragging down to his midthigh. Rolling up the sleeves helped.
So did the kiss Sionn placed on the back of his neck.
No, his nerves were just going to have to step to the back of the bus and sit there quietly. If things got bad, he’d go into the bathroom, and they could chuck themselves into the bottom of a toilet.
“Parents fucking hate me, you know,” he said for the tenth time since they’d gotten into Sionn’s Jeep and headed up toward the Presidio.
“You keep saying that.” The traffic was fairly thick despite the steady drench of rain tangling up the roadways. Two lanes over, an orange cab slithered around, its balding tires unable to get a good purchase on the slick hill. Sionn slowed the Jeep down, keeping out of the taxi’s way. “Aunt B loves everyone.”
“Dude, I’m always the one person parents hate. Shit, they even love Miki, and he’s a fucked-up mess.” He worried at his tongue, suddenly missing the stud he’d had through it but never knew he’d had. There were parts of him missing, and it pissed him off. His chest zipper throbbed, and he grimaced, belatedly mourning when an unknown someone cut off his piercings so they could save his damned life. Slouching down in the seat, he readjusted his cowboy hat until it angled over his forehead. “They could have at least put my earrings back in.”
“I should have burned that thing instead of tossing it into the backseat.” Sionn glanced at the leather hat. “It covers too much of your face.”
“I like it,” he defended it with a growl. “It was the second thing I got after I ran out of Skywood. A trucker named Jim gave it to me.”
“A trucker, huh?” Sionn grinned. “Okay, so I bite. What was the first thing?”
“Clothes. And a few bruises, but so fucking worth it. Grizzly Walter and his mutt, Fred, hit me with Walter’s Chevy. He felt like shit about it, so he took me into town.”
The guy who’d hit him in the middle of the Montana wilderness had spare clothes at his cabin and a fierce distrust of the retreat he lived in the shadow of. They’d stopped there long enough for Damien to get a shower and change clothes, stepping over Walter’s dog, who seemed to only move quickly when it was time to get in or out of the truck. Fred’s owner was even slower. Walter drove about as fast as he talked, a molasses-slow process that took them nearly two hours to go thirty miles.
Listening to the gray-bearded mountain man grumble about conspiracies and electroshock therapy was a small price to pay for a few pairs of jeans, worn boots, an old flannel shirt, and a ride into Billings. By the time they reached the city, Damien was ready to walk back to California just so he could move a bit faster, but every inch Walter drove, he was that much farther away from the burning mess of his prison.
His nerves kicked back into overdrive, and Damien tapped at the Cherokee’s dashboard, beating out a rhythm he’d been working on in his head. The tempo was a bit complicated, and he knew he’d have to slow it down for Dave until the drummer—Damien stopped the thought before he could finish it, fumbling the upbeat. Dave would never play the song he’d woken up with. Johnny would never help him lay down its bass line or grumble when Sinjun rearranged something right as they’d almost gotten it down.
Fuck, that hurt.
So damned bad.
But—he bit the inside of his lip—Miki was still here to help put the words to the notes. He had that. If he was thankful for anything, it was that someone somewhere decided the world still needed Sinjun in it. Meeting Sionn’s relatives was a small price to pay to see Miki again. Shit, he’d offer to blow them all one by one if it got him a step closer to home.
Although he’d prefer to keep it to just Sionn. Maybe he could just buy them each a car.
Sitting back up, he grinned over at Sionn. “So, your family… they got Rock Band, maybe?”
HELL took the form of a large, rambling Victorian-style home on the hills beneath the Presidio. It was an impressive place, painted a cheery color, a bright spot against the backdrop of rain and storm clouds. Bits of rainbows were gathered about the house, flower beds ripe with brilliant petals, dotted with silvery water drops and surrounded by a lushly green lawn. To Damie, it was a hidden demonic conclave, packed with people connected through laughter, bloodlines, and shared stories.
And it scared the living shit out of him.
From the looks of the cars parked around the house, the family appeared to own stock in SUV production. Everything was huge, with large tires, and screamed of tight-bodied men who used redwoods for toothpicks. Sionn’s chunky red Jeep fit right in. If the house wasn’t looming enough, running through a gauntlet of vehicles with police stickers on them was psychological intimidation.
Tapping a rear window emblazoned with a fire shield, Damie crooked an eyebrow at Sionn and smirked. “Black sheep of the family?”
“Brae?” Shaking his head, Sionn pushed Damie up the long walk. “More like the off-gray sheep. Quinn’s got the market down on being the odd one out. He teaches history over at the uni. Think he’s a doctor or summat.”
“Family must be so fucking ashamed.” He was muttering to himself. Sionn’d overtaken him and headed to the front door, taking the steps to their doom with an almost cheerful glee.
Damie was expecting Sionn to knock on the door or ring the bell, but no, the man grabbed the knob, turned it, and swung the way wide open for Damie to follow. Standing on the threshold, he jerked his head toward the inside of the house, urging Damien to hurry up. “Don’t dawdle. I’m letting all the heat out of the house, and while none of us are hurting for money, it doesn’t do to waste. Come on.”
There were ghosts of happy childhoods running about the place. They lurked everywhere, in pictures of smiling young men with their arms flung over the shoulders of two redheaded, freckled-faced girls with equally wide grins, and a handmade, lopsided vase painted a lurid red. The foyer’s wood floor gleamed, and a faint lemon-oil scent lingered, doing its best to fight off the smell of roasting meat coming from somewhere deeper in the house. Laughter hung in the air, deep, booming voices with a dash of Irish in them arguing about a rugby match they’d all seen.
It was painful to be in the house. It held too much… promise of things Damien never had, of Christmases and birthdays spent with a family who argued over small things but stood together to weather the storms. His chest filled with a familiar ache, one burrowed down deeper than the zipper scar he wore on his skin. He’d found that snippet of laughter with Miki once, and he’d clung to it, digging himself deep into that friendship until they’d grown together.
He reached for Sionn’s hand. Blind and needy.
Sionn’s fingers were there, wrapping around his and holding Damie tight.
“It’ll be okay, Cowboy.” Sionn snagged Damien’s hat and tossed it onto an oak sideboard against the foyer’s long wall. “We’ll talk to my uncle and then get some food in you. Maybe a beer or two.”
“Beer? Just hand me a fifth of Jack and I’ll go find a corner to crawl into,” he grumbled back, but he kept his hand firmly in Sionn’s.
“If it gets to be too much for you, then I’ll show you the widow’s walk on the roof and bring one,” Sionn whispered in his ear. “We can hide out there. I’ll find an umbrella or something.”
The foyer opened up to a large, open space the family used as a common area. The furniture was comfortable, enormous couches purchased for coziness. The room had a mixture of art and personal photos, a progression of children aging to adults dotting the walls and tables. French doors took up most of the far wall, looking out onto lawn and a covered pool. Several archways offered peeks into other rooms, a more formal living room and, to the right, a large, homey kitchen filled with very tall men with broad shoulders and teasing eyes.
