by J. R. Ward
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 that 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.
TWENTY-NINE
The following day, late in the afternoon, Assail’s visitor came back.
As the sun set and the last of the dusky pink rays pierced through the forest, he watched on his monitor as a lone figure on cross-country skis stood among the trees, poles balanced against hips, binoculars up at the face.
Or her hips, and her face, as it were.
The good news was that his security cameras not only had fantastic zoom, but their focus and sight line were easily manipulated by the computer’s joystick.
So he went in even tighter.
As the woman dropped the binoculars, he measured the individual lashes around her dark, calculating eyes, and the red tinge to her fine-pored cheeks, and the steady rhythm that beat in the artery running up to her jawline.
The warning he’d given to Benloise had been received. And yet here she was again.
It was clear she was connected in some way with that drug wholesaler—and the night before she had apparently been angered by Benloise, given the way she had marched out of the back of that gallery looking like someone had insulted her.
And yet Assail had not seen her before, and that was odd. In the past year or so, he had familiarized himself with the each-and-everys of Benloise’s operation, from the incalculable number of bodyguards, to the irrelevant gallery staff, to the canny importers, to the man’s flesh-and-blood brother who oversaw the finances.
So he could only assume she was an independent contractor, hired for a specific purpose.
Except why was she still on his own property?
He checked the digital readout on the lower right-hand corner of the screen. Four thirty-seven. Ordinarily, hardly a time to rejoice, as it was still too early to go out. But daylight saving time had kicked in, and that human invention to manipulate the sun actually worked in his favor six months out of the year.
It was going to be a little hot out there, but he would deal with it.
Assail dressed quickly, pulling on a Gucci suit along with a white silk shirt, and grabbing his double-breasted camel-hair overcoat. His pair of Smith & Wesson forties were the perfect accessories, of course.
Gunmetal was forever the new black.
Grabbing his iPhone, he frowned as he touched the screen. A call had come in from Rehvenge, along with a message.
Striding out of his room, he summoned the leahdyre of the Council’s voice mail and listened to it on the way downstairs.
The male’s voice was all about the no-bullshit, and one had to respect that: “Assail, you know who this is. I’m calling a Council meeting, and I want not just a quorum, but perfect attendance—the king’s going to be there, and so will the Brotherhood. As the eldest surviving male of your bloodline, you’ve been on the Council roster, but recorded as inactive because you stayed in the Old Country. Now that you’re back, it’s time to start going to these happy little get-togethers. Call me with your schedule, so I can work out a time and location for everyone.”
Coming to a halt before the steel door that blocked off the bottom of the stairs, he put the phone in one of his inside pockets, unlatched the lock, and slid the way open.
The first floor was dark because of the filtering shades that blocked out all light, and the huge open space of the living room appeared like a cavern in the earth rather than a glass cage perched on the shores of a river.
From the direction of the kitchen, he heard sizzling and smelled bacon.
Walking in the opposite direction, he went into the burled walnut–paneled office he’d given his cousins to use and entered his twenty-square-foot walk-in humidor. Inside, the temperate air, which was kept at a precise seventy degrees, and a humidity of exactly sixty-nine percent, was perfumed with the tobacco from dozens and dozens of boxes of cigars. After due consideration of his lineup, he took three Cubans.
The Cubans were the best, after all.
And were another thing Benloise provided him with—for a price.
Sealing up his precious collection, he reemerged into the living room. The sizzling had stopped, the subtle sounds of silver on china replacing the hiss.
As he came around into the kitchen, his two cousins were sitting on bar stools at the granite counter, the pair of them eating in precisely the same rhythm, as if there was some drumbeat, unheard by others, that regulated their movements.
They both looked up at him with the same angle to their heads.
“I’m leaving for the evening. You know how to reach me,” he said.
Ehric wiped his mouth. “I’ve tracked
down three of those missing dealers—they’re back in action, ready to move. I’m making a delivery at midnight.”
“Good, good.” Assail quickly ran a check of his guns. “Try to find out where they were, will you?”
“As you wish.”
The pair of them bowed their heads in a joint bob, and then went back to their breakfasts.
No food for him. Over by the coffeepot, he picked up an amber-colored vial and unscrewed the top. The lid had a little silver spoon attached to it, and the thing made a tinkling noise as he filled its belly with coke. One hit per nostril.
Wakey-wakey.
He took the rest with him, putting it into the same pocket as his cigars. It had been a while since he’d fed and he was beginning to feel the effects, his body lagging, his mind prone to a fuzziness that was unfamiliar.
The downside to the New World? Harder to find females.
Fortunately, uncut cocaine was a good substitute, at least for the time being.
Slipping a pair of nearly opaque-lensed sunglasses on, he went through the mudroom and braced himself at the back door.
Throwing the thing open—
Assail recoiled and groaned at the onslaught, his weight weaving in his loafers: In spite of the fact that ninety-nine percent of his skin was covered by multiple layers of clothing, and even with the dark glasses, the fading light in the sky was enough to make him falter.
But there was no time to give in to biology.
Forcing himself to dematerialize into the woods behind his house, he set about tracking the woman in the near darkness. It was easy enough to locate her. She was on the retreat, moving with speed on those cross-country skis, winding her way through the fluffy pine boughs and the skeletal oaks and maples. Extrapolating from her trajectory, and applying the same internal logic she had demonstrated on the security tapes from the previous morning, he was soon out ahead of her, anticipating right where her…
Ah, yes. The black Audi from the gallery. Parked at the side of the plowed road about two miles from his property.
Assail was leaning against the driver’s-side door and puffing on a Cuban as she came out of the line of trees.
