by J. R. Ward
Perfect. Fucking. Idea.
Thanks to the fact that he went commando, his cock was all about the airtime, thick and straining as it popped out and lay, aching and swollen, upon his belly. Reaching down, he gave it a couple of strokes as Blay ripped off the shitkickers that blocked the way and tossed them aside. Pants were the next good-bye, and as God was his witness, Qhuinn had never been so glad to see a pair of leathers flying over a shoulder in his life.
And then Blay got to work.
Qhuinn had to shut his eyes as he felt his thighs get parted and a pair of fighter’s hands drag up the inside of his legs. He immediately let go of his erection—after all, why have his palm in the way when Blay’s could—
It wasn’t the guy’s hands that gripped him.
It was the warm, wet mouth Qhuinn had just kissed the hell out of.
For a split second, as the suction grabbed onto his head and shaft, he had a ball-shrinking thought that Saxton had taught Blay how to do this—his fucking cousin had done this to the guy, and had this done to him—
Stop it, he told himself. Whatever the history or the lessons learned, his erection was the one getting the attention at the moment. So fuck that shit.
To make sure that was clear, he forced his lids open. Fucking…hell…
Blay’s head was going up and down over his hips, his fist holding the base of Qhuinn’s cock, his other hand working his balls. But then, like he’d been waiting for eye contact, the guy pulled up to the top, popped the head free, and licked his lips.
“Wouldn’t want you making a mess in this nice room,” Blay drawled.
And then he extended the tip of his tongue to flick Qhuinn’s PA, the pink flesh teasing at the gunmetal gray hoop and ball—
“Fuck, I’m coming right now,” Qhuinn barked, a tremendous release boiling up. “I’m—”
He was powerless to stop things, any more than someone who’d jumped off a cliff could decide, like ten yards into the free fall, to pull back.
Except he didn’t want to put the brakes on.
And he didn’t.
With a mighty roar—that most certainly was heard elsewhere—Qhuinn’s spine jacked off the floor, his ass going tight, his balls exploding, his arousal kicking hard in Blay’s mouth. And it wasn’t just his sex that was affected. The release coursed throughout his whole body, shimmering energy surging through him as he dug his fingers into the rug he was on, and gritted his teeth…and came like a wild animal.
Fortunately, Blay was more than capable at cleanup—and didn’t that just make him orgasm even more. Also gave him plenty to watch: For the rest of his days, Qhuinn was never going to forget the sight of the male’s mouth wrapped around him, cheeks sucking in as he drew out the release and took it all. Over and over and over again.
Usually Qhuinn was ready to go immediately afterward, but when the rolling waves finally stopped crashing into him, he went utterly limp, arms falling flat to the floor, knees going lax, head lolling.
All things considered, that had probably been the best orgasm of his life. Second only to the ones he’d had earlier in the day with the guy.
“I can’t move,” he mumbled.
Blay’s laugh was deep and sexy. “You look a little wrung-out.”
“Can I return the favor?”
“Can you lift your head?”
“Is it still attached to my body?”
“From what I can see, yes.”
As Blay chuckled again, Qhuinn knew what he wanted to do—and was kind of surprised at himself. In all his sexual exploits, he’d never allowed himself to get fucked. That just wasn’t part of the way things went. He was the conqueror, the taker, the one who established control and retained that superiority.
Bottoming just wasn’t anything he’d been interested in.
Now he wanted it.
The only problem was, he literally couldn’t move. And, well, there was something else—how could he tell Blay that he was a virgin?
Because he wanted to. If they ever went there, he wanted Blay to know. For some reason that was important.
Abruptly, Blay’s face came into his line of vision, and God, the fighter was beautiful, his cheeks flushed, his eyes gleaming, those big shoulders blocking out everything.
And, oh, yeah, that smile was sexy as hell, so self-satisfied and self-confident—as if the fact that Blay had given such pleasure to someone else was enough to make him not even need a release of his own.
But that wasn’t fair, was it.
“I don’t think you’re moving anytime soon,” Blay said.
“Maybe. But I can open my mouth,” Qhuinn replied darkly. “Almost as wide as you can.”
* * *
Right, okay, the idea that he’d given Qhuinn an orgasm like that was so goddamned affirming, Blay had forgotten all about his own body.
The thing was, after so many years of getting shut down, it was a total rush to feel powerful against the guy, to be the one who set the pace…to be the person who took Qhuinn to an erotic, vulnerable place that was so much more intense than any other he’d been to. And that was what had happened. He knew exactly what Qhuinn looked and sounded like when he came, and Blay could say, without any equivocation, that he’d never seen his buddy undone like that, sprawled out on a rug, neck muscles straining, abs seized up, hips pumping hard.
Qhuinn had literally come for about twenty minutes straight.
And now, in the aftermath, a strange revelation: Until just this moment, Blay had never recognized the cynicism that Qhuinn carried in his face at all times…the furrowed brow, the perpetual snarking turn on one side of that mouth, the jaw that never, ever loosened up.
It was as if all the nastiness his family had done to him had permanently warped the features.
But that wasn’t true, was it. During that orgasm, and now, as things calmed down, none of the tension was anywhere to be found. Qhuinn’s face was…wiped clean of all reserve, appearing so much younger, Blay had to wonder why he’d never noticed the age before.
“So will you give me something to suck on as I recover?” Qhuinn asked.
“Wha…?”
“I said I’m thirsty. And I need something to suck on.” At this, Qhuinn bit his lower lip, his bright white fangs sinking into the flesh. “Will you help me?”
Blay’s eyes rolled back into his head. “Yeah…I can do that.”
“Then let me see you take your pants off.”
Blay’s legs popped him up from the floor so fast, he had fresh insights into the laws of physics, and while he kicked off his loafers, his hands shook to get his trousers unbuttoned. Things went quickly from there. And the whole time he was stripping, he was preternaturally aware of everything in the room—especially Qhuinn. The male was getting hard again, his sex thickening in spite of everything it had just been through…those heavy thighs clenching and that pelvis rolling…the lower belly so lean that every minute shift of the torso was reflected under taut, tan skin.
“Oh, yeah…” Qhuinn hissed, his fangs extending from his upper jaw, his hand seeking out his sex and stroking long and slow. “There it is.”
Blay’s breath started to pump, his heart rate going through the roof as Qhuinn’s mismatched eyes latched onto his sex.
“That’s what I want,” the male growled, letting go of himself and reaching up with both hands.
For a split second, Blay wasn’t sure how the body parts were going to work. Qhuinn was in front of the sofa, running parallel to the thing, so there wasn’t a lot of room—
A subtle pumping growl percolated through the air as Qhuinn flexed his fingers—like he couldn’t wait to get hold of what he wanted.
Fuck the advance planning.
Blay’s knees obeyed the call, hinging forward, bringing his weight down to the floor by Qhuinn’s head.
Qhuinn took over from there. His palms snaked out and grabbed on, drawing Blay in so that before he knew it, he had one knee behind the guy’s head and the other leg thrown out to the
side, all the way down by Qhuinn’s hip.
“Oh…fuck…” Blay groaned as he felt his sex go in between Qhuinn’s lips.
His body listed forward until his torso ended up sprawled on the couch cushions—and that was when he unexpectedly found himself with a boatload of leverage. Bracing his arms on the sofa, he distributed his weight among his knees, his feet, and palms…and then proceded to fuck the ever-loving shit out of Qhuinn’s mouth.
The guy took it all, even as Blay unhinged his hips and thrust with everything he had.
With Qhuinn’s fingers biting into his ass, and that incredible suction, and…Christ, that tongue piercing, the ball of which dug into his shaft with every stroke…Blay started to gear up for exactly the kind of orgasm Qhuinn had just had.
And yet, in the back of his mind, he wondered whether he was hurting the guy. At this point, he was going to come into his friend’s stomach, for godsakes—
Too late to worry about that.
His body took over, going rigid in a series of racking spasms that ran from the top of his spine down into his legs.
And just as the out of control sensations were beginning to ebb, the world went wonky on him, like his sense of balance had been blown along with his—
No, the world was fine. Qhuinn had just popped him up off the floor, gotten out from underneath, and was positioning himself behind….
As Qhuinn pushed inside with a lightning-fast strike, Blay let out a moan that he was quite sure could have been heard in Canada—
The squeal that pierced through the room made him frown, even through the pressure and the pleasure.
Oh. They were moving the couch over the floor.
Whatever. He’d buy the house another one if they broke the damn thing; he was not stopping this.
The rhythm was every bit as punishing as his had been—and in this case, payback was not just what he deserved; it was exactly what he wanted. With every thrust, his face got pushed into the soft cushions; with every retreat he could take a breath; then it was back in tight, the cycle starting all over again.
Readjusting his legs so that Qhuinn could go even deeper, Blay had some vague thought that they had definitely banged the sofa into a different position, but who the hell cared as long as it wasn’t out into the hall?
At the last moment, just before he came again, he had the presence of mind to grab for his pants. Shaking his boxers free, he—
Qhuinn’s hand reached over, took the Calvins and did the deed, making sure there was something to catch his release. Then a moment later, his chest was hauled off the couch so he was upright on his knees. Qhuinn handled everything, gripping Blay’s cock while covering the head—all the while pounding, pounding, pounding…
They came at the same time, a pair of shouts echoing around the room.
In the midst of the orgasm, Blay happened to glance up. In the big old-fashioned mirror that hung between the two windows across the way, he saw them both, knew they were joined…and it made him come all over again.
Eventually, the thrusting slowed. Heart rates went down. Breathing grew easier.
In the leaded glass of the mirror, he watched as Qhuinn shut his eyes and tucked his head downward. Against the side of his throat, Blay felt the softest of brushes.
Qhuinn’s lips.
And then the male’s free hand drifted upward, pausing to stroke across Blay’s pecs—
Qhuinn froze. Jerked back. Removed his lips, his touch. “Sorry. Sorry, I…know you’re not into that with me.”
The change in the guy’s face, that return to the cynical normal, was like being robbed.
And yet Blay couldn’t tell him to come back in close. Qhuinn was right; the instant that tenderness appeared, he started to get panicky.
The withdrawal was quick, too quick, and Blay missed the feeling of fullness and possession. But it was time to end this.
Qhuinn cleared his throat. “Ah…do you want to…”
“I’ll take care of it,” Blay mumbled, replacing Qhuinn’s hand over the crumpled boxers at his hips.
During the sex, the silence in the room had been about privacy. Now, it just amplified the sounds of Qhuinn pulling his leathers back on.
Shit.
They had gone down the rabbit hole again. And while it was happening, the sensations were so intense and overpowering, there was no thinking of anything other than the sex. In the aftermath, though, Blay’s body felt too cold in the seventy-degree air, different places throbbing from use, his legs loose and wobbly, his brain fuzzy…
Nothing seemed secure or sure. In the slightest.
Forcing himself to get dressed, he piled the clothes on as fast as he could, right down to his loafers. Meanwhile, Qhuinn was the one who returned the sofa where it belonged, carefully putting the feet of the legs back in the divots they’d made in the carpet. He also rearranged the throw pillows. Straightened the Oriental.
It was like it had never happened. Except for the boxers that Blay crushed in his fist.
“Thank you,” Qhuinn said quietly. “I, ah…”
“Yeah.”
“So…I guess I’ll go now.”
“Yeah.”
That was it.
Well, other than the door closing.
Left alone, Blay decided he needed a shower. More food. Sleep.
Instead, he stayed in the second-story sitting room, looking at that mirror, remembering what he had seen in it. In his mind, he had some vague thought that they couldn’t keep doing that. It wasn’t safe for him emotionally; in fact, it was the equivalent of holding your palm above a lit burner over and over again—except every time you put your hand back above the flame, you lowered the distance between your flesh and the heat. Sooner or later? Third-degree burns were the least of your problems, because your whole goddamn arm was on fire.
After a while, however, that self-preservation thing wasn’t what he dwelled on.
It was what had started the whole thing.
Make it stop.
Blay drew a hand through his hair. Then he looked at the closed door and frowned, his mind churning, churning, churning…
A moment later, he left in a rush, walking quickly.
Before breaking into a jog.
And then falling into a flat-out run.
FORTY-ONE
It was around ten in the morning when Trez headed over to Sal’s Restuarant. The trip from the apartment at the Commodore to his brother’s fine-dining establishment wasn’t long, only ten minutes, and there were plenty of free parking spots in the lot when he got there.
Then again, the place didn’t open, even to the kitchen staff for prep, until one in the afternoon.
As he walked over to the entrance, his boots crunching in the snow, he half expected the code that unlocked things from the outside not to work: iAm hadn’t come home at the end of the night, and assuming those cocksuckers at the s’Hisbe hadn’t taken the guy for collateral, there was only one place his brother could be: After two pots of coffee and a lot of checking his watch, Trez knew that if he wanted to make peace, he had to head across town.
Cool. The combination hadn’t been changed.
Yet.
Inside, the place was old-school Rat Pack done right, a modern interpretation of the era that had spawned the likes of Peter Lawford and the Chairman of the Board: An entryway with black-and-red flocked wallpaper took you to the receiving area, where the coat check, retro hostess stand and cashier’s desk were. To the left, and to the right, there were two main dining rooms, both done in black and red velvet and leather, but they weren’t where the local made guys, politicians, and wealthy types hung out. The sweet spot was the bar up ahead, a wood-paneled room that had red leather banquettes set against the walls and, during regular hours, a tuxedoed bartender behind a thirty-foot oak stretch serving nothing but the best.
Striding into the bar’s dim expanse, Trez headed around the far end of the five-tiered display of bottles and hit the flap door. As he pushed his way into the
kitchen, the scent of basil and onion, oregano and red wine, told him just how stressed iAm was.
Sure enough, the guy was facing off at the sixteen-burner stove on the far wall, five huge pots simmering in front of him—and what do you want to bet there were things in the stoves, too. Meanwhile, wooden cutting boards were lined up on the stainless-steel counters, the dead heads of various kinds of peppers lolling around next to the very sharp knives that had been used.
Ten bucks to guess who the guy had been thinking of when he’d been chopping stuff.
“You going to talk to me at all?” Trez said to his brother’s back.
iAm moved to the next pot, lifting its lid with a white dishcloth, a big slotted spoon going in and stirring slowly.
Trez leaned to the side and pulled over a stainless-steel stool. Taking a seat, he rubbed his thighs up and down.
“Hello?”
iAm went to the next pot. And then the next. Each had a separate spoon for flavor flagellation, and his brother was careful not to cross-contaminate.
“Look, I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you came by the club tonight.” Every evening, iAm headed over to the Iron Mask for a check-in after Sal’s closed. “I had some business to take care of.”
Shit, yeah, he did. Baby girl with the bouncer BF had taken forever to get out of his car when he’d gotten her to her house—eventually he’d walked her to the door, opened the way in, and all but toastered her through the jambs. Back at his Beamer, he’d hit the gas like he’d planted a bomb in the walk-up, and as he’d steamed over to the Iron Mask, all he’d heard in his head was iAm’s voice.
You can’t keep doing this.
iAm turned around at that point, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the stove. His biceps were big to begin with, but cranked like that, they strained the bounds of the black T-shirt he was wearing.
His almond-shaped eyes were half-lidded. “You actually think I’m pissed off that you weren’t around when I got to the club? Really. It’s not because you left me to deal with AnsLai or some shit.”
