Stone Cold

by Rory Ni Coileain

  “Yes.” Maelduin nibbled along the line of Terry’s jaw until Terry thought he just might go crazy. “But I have none.”

  “Oh, for the love of…” Terry fumbled for the pump bottle he had dropped, nudged it into Maelduin’s hand. “There’s plenty. Waste not, want not.”

  Maelduin blinked solemnly—as if neither one of them was half crazed with need at the moment. “That makes no sense.”

  This is weird as fuck. He’d met Maelduin 45 minutes ago at most. The majority of those 45 minutes had been spent watching the blond have a prolonged panic attack, and most of the rest had been spent getting naked. Yet the way the two of them slipped back and forth between lust and laughter, the comfortableness of their embrace… something in the ease of it felt like he’d known this utter stranger his entire life.

  Yeah, right. Fairy tales can come true. It can happen to you—

  Terry gasped and arched, as lube-coated fingers slid into him, found his sweet spot after a few seconds’ delicious searching, and started playing him like Heifetz played violin. Over and over, stretching him, each repetition sending him deeper and deeper into a blissful place he’d never touched before even in the throes of orgasm, boneless and yet quivering like a bowstring. “Holy shit…”

  “This is good?” Maelduin leaned over him again, the ends of his hair falling free of his shoulders and stroking Terry’s face, shoulders, pecs; the blond was watching him with an intensity that suggested he would like nothing better than to find his way inside Terry’s skin.

  All that came out when Terry tried to answer was a long, low groan. This can’t be happening. Wave after wave, slow, his whole body caught up, transformed, lost.

  Maelduin raised one of Terry’s legs and draped it over his shoulder. Blue eyes blazed down at Terry over a smile that should have set the bedding on fire. “Are you ready?”

  Terry managed a nod, mesmerized by the music of Maelduin’s voice—then cried out as Maelduin’s whole lubed-up length sank slowly and smoothly into him, finding that spot, barely pausing before sinking deeper.

  The waves were more intense. Terry couldn’t breathe, but that was all right, because he was pretty sure he no longer needed to. He was pleasure, nothing more. Every time Maelduin hit his spot, his body jerked. Maelduin was laughing, too, a fey sound laced with groans.

  Maelduin reached for Terry’s stiff and aching cock, closed his hand around it. And the whole world went brilliant blue-white as Terry shot, thick white jets that did nothing to ease the sweet painful pressure in his cock and balls.

  Maelduin slammed into him, circled, pressed deeper. Impossibly deep. Terry tried to work the length buried in him, had no clue if he was succeeding. And then Maelduin cried out—his cry sounded as if it started right there, where he was balls-deep inside Terry. The blond was frozen, like the most fucking erotic statue ever carved, head thrown back, eyes closed, barely breathing. Totally focused.

  Focused on the pleasure—his own, and Terry’s, sweet Jesus that hand never stopped. And neither did Terry’s orgasm. Not for a hella long time.

  When it finally ended, it was like someone cut the strings on a marionette. Two marionettes, actually, though Terry didn’t have anywhere to fall. Never having to move again would be great.

  Maelduin made a soft, indistinct sound into the pillow next to Terry’s head. For some reason, the sound made Terry giggle. And the sound made Maelduin raise his head, and the blond’s bemused expression turned Terry’s giggles into delighted laughter.

  “I am funny?”

  “No, I am happy.” The truth of his own statement startled Terry a little. It had been a long time since he’d laughed out of pure happiness.

  “Then I am happy.”

  Amazing how good four words could make him feel.

  “Should I be doing something with this… condom?” Thick blond lashes fluttered innocently. Well, not innocently.

  “You don’t know… here, let me. Though you’re going to have to move if you want me to help.”

  “Life is full of hard choices.”

  Comfortable. There was that word, that thought, again. Terry carefully didn’t grimace—he didn’t want Maelduin to think there was anything actually wrong. He knew better than to wreck something this perfect by getting his hopes up.

  Though would another night be asking so much? Or even just breakfast in the morning?

  With elevenses to follow, no doubt. And second breakfast. Listen to me. I never learn.

  Terry looked down as he slid the condom off Maelduin’s half-erect cock and knotted it, and then busied himself looking around for the wastebasket.

  He gasped, softly, and nearly missed the basket as a gentle hand stroked his ass. “Lube is messy.” Lips caressed the back of his neck. “I would like to clean you.”

  Would you quit being so damned perfect? “I’d like that. Thanks.” He twisted around and kissed Maelduin’s cheek, then nodded toward the open bathroom door, just the other side of the bedroom door. “Washcloths are in the cabinet right over the sink.”

  The bed gave behind Terry as Maelduin rolled out of it, and he was treated to the lovely sight of the most perfect ass he could ever remember seeing, even in a lifetime of dancing and dressing rooms. And when Maelduin paused in the bathroom doorway and looked back at him, and the light caught those incredible blue eyes… Guess he’s not going to quit being perfect. Shit.

  There was a soft click as the cabinet door opened. Then silence.

  “Oh—I almost forgot—the bathroom taps are backwards. Hot water on the right, cold on the left. I keep asking the landlord to fix them, he keeps telling me it’ll be a cold day in hell.”

  Another silence, then water running, then silence again. And then a loud thunk. “Fola’magairl!”

  Terry took one look at Maelduin, emerging from the bathroom clutching a wet washcloth in one hand and rubbing his head with the other, and immediately rolled over, presenting his ass for Maelduin’s ministrations and conveniently burying his face in the pillow to smother another gale of giggles. He felt weight on the backs of his knees and his thighs—Maelduin straddling him—and then the warm caress of a washcloth.

  Wouldn’t mind getting used to this.

  As if.

  The washcloth thwacked wetly on the floor. And then Terry caught himself holding his breath, as Maelduin turned him onto his side and made him the inside spoon of a pair.

  “You, uh, want to go to sleep?” The bedside light gleamed on the dusting of golden hairs on Maelduin’s forearm, where it was wrapped around Terry. Terry watched the play of light, fascinated; he still didn’t want to move, but he managed to raise a hand enough to trace the tip of a finger through the gold.

  He thought he felt lips curving into a smile against the back of his neck. “Yes. Please.”

  For a second, he debated getting out of bed to turn off the light at the wall switch, or asking Maelduin to do it. But in the end, he just stretched as far as he could, and switched off the lamp, then settled back in against Maelduin.

  I’ll have the morning, at least. That’s something.

  Maelduin’s palm opened against Terry’s chest, over his heart. And he could feel Maelduin’s heart, too, beating against his back. Or he thought he could.

  Love had felt like this, once, or so he’d thought. Wonderful. Warm. Magical.

  It was kind of a shame he didn’t believe in love any more.

  Or in magic, for that matter.

  Chapter Six

  Do you have even the faintest notion what time it is?

  “It can’t quite have been three hours since we got in, since the sun’s not yet up.” Rian’s smile wasn’t quite angelic—at least, Cuinn couldn’t imagine an angel with his bondmate’s quarter-to-orgasm gleam in his eyes. Which was just too fucking bad for all the poor angels, and all the better for Cuinn an Dearmad.

  At least I’m not hung over yet, there hasn’t been time. It was very hard for Cuinn to sound as if he were actually grumbling, given the way the Pri
nce Royal was mouthing his way down his abs, leaving a faint trail of fire in his wake. But he felt honor bound to try. Didn’t you get enough in the alley behind Maelstrom, for pity’s sake?

  “What is this ‘enough’ of which you speak?” Rian’s Belfast accent only caught for the barest instant on the word ‘speak,’ which Cuinn counted as an improvement over the last few months. Since Coinneach’s darag had stolen Cuinn’s voice, his Fire elemental lover had been in something of a state. But at least he hadn’t followed through on his original threats to burn the only other known magickal races in the human world down to their shared roots. Yet. “Is that but another word for the brick rash on my knees?”

  That healed as fast as I could give it to you, and you know it—Cuinn’s mental speech dissolved into an incoherent cry as the first few inches of his cock disappeared into Rian’s mouth and Rian cranked up the heat a few degrees.

  He felt the other Fae—his Irish almost-human Fae changeling, his Prince, his beloved—chuckle. Still think we’ve had enough of one another? Rian could communicate mind-to-mind as well as Cuinn himself could, courtesy of their ceangail bond, but usually didn’t do so unless his mouth was otherwise occupied.

  Did I say that? I never said that. I would never say that.

  “And you call me a horndog. Don’t you two know what time it is?”

  Cuinn had been both a voyeur and an exhibitionist since before either word existed in any form currently used by humans. But he preferred to choose the time and the place for both. You’re incredibly fucking lucky I’m feeling mellow, Twinklebritches.

  Conall was shaking his head before Rian had half finished translating Cuinn’s thoughts into speech. “I’m trembling, had you noticed?”

  The red-haired Fae mage was leaning against the doorjamb, and while he wasn’t exactly staring, he wasn’t averting his eyes, either. And something about the way his lips were twitching in an almost-smile told Cuinn he didn’t mind the ‘Twinklebritches.’ Much. Conall had spent months, after Coinneach’s darag—on behalf of all the daragin, and all the Gille Dubh—had stolen his, Cuinn’s, voice, insisting that he didn’t fucking want to hear Cuinn’s irritating-as-all-fuck nickname for him coming out of any mouth other than Cuinn’s own. But Cuinn had suspected the mage didn’t mean it, and sure enough, he’d finally caved.

  Rian cleared his throat. “Not that you’re ever unwelcome here, draoi ríoga—”

  Cuinn sent his Prince the mental equivalent of a sprained-eyeball eyeroll. Since when did you become a diplomat? Of course, the word as’Faein for ‘diplomat’ derived from the ancient word for the individual in any room least likely to leave a trail of bodies in his wake.

  Rian carefully ignored him. “But it would do my heart good to think you had some reason for interrupting me and my consort in the middle of sweet playtime.”

  The responsive smirk Cuinn was expecting from the mage never materialized, which fact alone was enough to make Cuinn sit up and take notice. Or at least prop himself up on his elbows and take notice. A Fae had his limits.

  “I do, actually.” Conall raked a hand through his hair, and the streetlights from below—which would have left the little third-floor apartment in near-darkness to human eyes, but were enough and to spare for a Fae—showed Cuinn a decidedly unhappy draoi ríoga, court mage. “Josh and I were having some sweet playtime of our own when I felt a shift in the nexus energy. I think conditions are going to be right for getting a message through to the Realm, for maybe the next half hour. So I need help.”

  “There’s a message wants getting through?” To Cuinn’s great disappointment, Rian swung a leg over and sat himself down cross-legged on the California king that took up most of the royal apartment, all business. Or as close to all business as his bondmate ever got.

  Conall sighed. “I really think it’s time to let the Loremasters know about the situation with the wellsprings. I don’t know if there’s anything they can do about it from their end, but we could sure as hell use some help.”

  No shit. New wellsprings were popping up on an almost daily basis, whether in proximity to channelings or under pressure from the generation of new living magick in the Realm or just out of living magick’s desire to fuck with the Tirr Brai, and they all had to be warded, just in case the motherhumping Marfach was really loose and somehow figured out how to get looser. Which meant trusting the network of daragin to handle transport duties, because the Fae who were capable of putting up the warding couldn’t do it without their human SoulShares, who couldn’t Fade or be Faded.

  Still… You couldn’t have called first?

  The ginger Fae’s eyes narrowed as Rian spoke for Cuinn. “Did it ever occur to you that I have good reason to hate phones?”

  Frankly, no. I’ve always assumed you were just the king of the absent-minded wizards.

  Well, shit, now even Rian was giving Cuinn a warning look.

  “What do you see when you look at your phone?”

  My home screen. Which, at the moment, was a close-up of his bondmate’s Prince Albert. But Conall didn’t need to know that.

  “And your reflection.”

  I ignore that.

  “I can’t. Not after being Faded and trapped in a mirror while the Marfach and its decaying minion stomped on it. And me. And oh, yeah, being pretty damned sure my scair-anam didn’t know I was gone and wasn’t coming after me.”

  For once, Cuinn couldn’t think of anything to say, and at the same time managed not to say anything.

  “He apologizes.”

  Cuinn turned a startled gaze on his bondmate, who returned it with a neatly arched brow, the one with the stainless steel pin through it. I what?

  You apologize. You call me your conscience, so every once in a while I decide to act like one. The pure innocence of Rian’s half-grin somehow made it unspeakably wicked. Mayhap with a bit of practice, you’ll start getting the hang of it your ownself.

  The expression on Conall’s face was one Cuinn imagined he’d see if he ever happened to witness someone whacking the mage upside the head with a rubber chicken. “Apology incredulously accepted. Now, would you mind coming back to the nexus chamber with me, before the nexus decides to stop being cooperative?”

  * * *

  Josh lounged against the Stone-and-earthen wall, thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his jeans. While he glanced every now and then at the doorway to the nexus chamber, most of his attention was reserved for the twin whorls of energy on and in the floor in front of him.

  The artist in him wanted to make something of the two figures, something he might someday ink onto flesh. Galaxies, maybe, orbiting their own centers and each other, each sending out tendrils toward the other, but not quite touching.

  He shook his head. Trying to define magickal shapes, the way he’d once tried to sketch Conall’s Pattern-mark, was a good way for a human to get a headache. The image of galaxies got the shapes right, or almost right, but not what filled them. The great nexus looked kind of like a galaxy, he supposed, a swirl of restless foam shot through with a white energy so pure it made Josh’s eyes hurt, and occasional ghosts of the colors of elemental magick. This was, so far as anyone had been able to tell, the only place on earth where four ley lines carrying all four forms of elemental energy as well as ley energy intersected. Which made it a natural point of connection with the Pattern, on the Realm side.

  But the interior of the wellspring occupying most of the other half of the chamber looked nothing like a galaxy. Like the Pattern-marks most of the Fae sported, the living magick making up the wellsprings sometimes looked like intricate Celtic knotwork, and sometimes like something closer to a tribal design. But unlike the Pattern-marks, which waited until the person looking at them looked away to start looking like something else, the wellsprings were in a state of constant flux. Though Josh had never actually been able to see the design changing—he always had the nagging feeling that he’d just missed it. And lately, he’d started to notice… well, ripples. As if something
was coming up from underneath the shining blue-silver, the way Rhoann’s back occasionally broke the surface of the water when he was in his salmon form.

  Josh was pretty sure he didn’t want to see what might break the surface of living magick from beneath.

  Of course, his ability to see any of this was a pure fluke. Or it would be, if there were any such thing as random chance where the Pattern was concerned. None of the other human SoulShares could see magick the way he could — he could only see it because he’d gotten so much of Conall’s innate magickal talent when Conall had come through the Pattern. Even the Fae with Noble or Royal blood — Tiernan, Rian, and Rhoann — had trouble seeing ley energy or living magick, unless the nexus or a wellspring was being particularly fractious.

  And speaking of fractious… Come on, d’orant. It’s getting late. Or early. Interrupted in the middle of knotting Conall into the most elaborate hishi-kikkou he’d yet attempted by his lover’s abrupt announcement that they had to hurry if they were going to take advantage of a rare opportunity to communicate with the Realm, Josh had forgotten to don his watch before coming down to the nexus chamber, but the sun had to be near to rising. And from what Conall had told him before hurriedly Fading to fetch Cuinn and Rian, they didn’t have long to do what Conall thought needed doing—

  “… Sorry to drag you out of bed, Highness.” Conall’s voice, coming from the top of the stairs, made Josh smile. As it always had.

  “No trouble,” came Rian’s thickly-accented reply. Followed almost immediately by “You have no regrets as far as I’m concerned, I see,” in the same voice but Cuinn’s unmistakable tone.

  “If I apologized to you, you’d hold me down and take my temperature the hard way.” Conall grinned in response to the sound of Josh’s laughter as he emerged from the narrow stairwell. “Not to mention that apologizing to you after you apologized to me would be setting a terrible precedent.”

  Oh, I can’t wait to hear about that one. Josh crossed the room and took his partner’s eagerly outstretched hands. “Do we still have time for what you need to do?”