by Clare London
“Scot? I’ve been waiting for you.”
Fuck. At the same time as Scot wanted to shrink away from this, this… apparition, he also wanted to step forward into Connor’s arms. To feel that smooth, damp skin; to run his lips along the clean shaven jaw; to tighten his fingers in the dark curls and tug Connor’s head back, baring his throat…
There was something very vibrant about Connor Maxwell, something sharp and poignant and stunning. Not just the delight of a sensually attractive body, but something more—something Scot imagined would draw any person to his side, that would make a day start with him, and a night beg for him. A charisma that seduced people close, that caressed and cared for them. That told them they were the best of all.
That was something Scot had never known.
=so come to me=
“Fuck off!” Scot took two steps backward instead.
=stop fighting me!=
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Yet the silence that fell again was pained. Scot couldn’t shake Connor’s grip on his mind. He felt sadness, the fear of abandonment. Was he feeling his own history, or Connor’s? And when he looked at Connor, he saw the need on the young man’s face. It was as strong as any spoken plea.
Scot paused in his flight—reined in his anger. “Just tell me,” he said brokenly. “What’s going on? What am I seeing? What’s real?”
“I am,” Connor said. “When you want me to be.”
“That’s no answer—”
“Look.” Connor brushed his tattooed hand across the top of the pool wall.
“There’s nothing—” But there was. Something moved. Someone laughed. Water lapped at the steps.
Water?
“Look properly,” Connor said quietly. “Open your mind. Move into my world.” He turned from Scot, walked to the break in the pool wall where the steps began, and dropped his towel to the ground. Then he lowered himself in. He sank into what Scot knew instinctively was cool, soothing water, and sat on the ledge. His arms braced on the walls, holding his head and shoulders above the surface, and he sighed as small eddies licked at his muscles, presumably soothing the aches and strains of the day. “Scot? Join me. Please.”
Scot was still rooted to the spot. He should be getting used to this lunacy, shouldn’t he? He moved back to the pool and looked over the wall. Yes, there was water now. And yes, it looked so tempting he could smell its freshness on the air. They were all there, then—Oliver bobbing under the surface, splashing and laughing like a kid at a water park. Vincent and Jerry sat on the other side, Vincent’s arm around Jerry, his hand wiping the water out of Jerry’s eyes, smiling, lingering on the touches. Jerry still looked a little stunned, but he made no resistance. And Connor, relaxing beside them, gazing at Scot.
“Come, sweet one,” he murmured.
=I want you. We all do=
There was no answer in Scot’s mind, only a slow, deep ache in his body, in the depths of his heart. Connor’s need and desire was genuine, and yet… what did all this mean?
“I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t waiting, Scot.”
“Not for me?”
For a moment, Connor’s face twisted. “I didn’t know until now. I didn’t know who. And yet… maybe I did.”
=I want you=
Oliver paused in the pool, his eyes dark on Scot. “Connor gets his own way,” he whispered. “Always.”
“Hush, Oliver.” Connor let his head hang back against the stone rim and closed his eyes. “I’m waiting for Scot,” he murmured, though maybe his lips never actually moved.
=I always have been=
Scot stood there, aghast and exhausted. It was just too hot to argue.
That was how he justified the fact he dropped his shorts to the ground and climbed naked down the steps to join them.
Chapter 9
The water was incredible. Not just that it was there in the first place—suddenly sprung from a previously arid pit—but that it soothed him better than he could ever have imagined. It was warm, even now at night, and had a slightly effervescent quality. Scot had never been in a spa bath in his life, but he’d read enough magazines to think this must be what it was like. Yet this water seemed natural, without any motors running or filters operating.
Listen to me. Like I’m a fucking expert on luxury baths.
Beside him, Connor slid a hand onto his thigh. Under the water, Connor’s palm felt as smooth as silk. Scot’s cock began to fill.
“What’s happening? I mean, how do you do this?”
“This?”
Scot waved his hands angrily. “One minute the place is deserted, the pool dried out. Now there’s water, and you’re all… just here. With food and drink. As if everything’s been here all along.” His voice shook. “Am I hallucinating? Have I gone mad?”
“Of course not. And you know the answer—you said it yourself. We’ve been here all along. Just not in sight. Not always, anyway.”
“Not for everyone to see,” Vincent murmured, his lips still on Jerry’s neck.
“Only the favored few!” The sulky cry came from Oliver, bobbing up in front of them, shaking the water from his hair so that it spattered on their faces.
Scot scowled at him. Oliver was an attention-seeking little slut, didn’t they see that?
=hush=
Oliver’s eyes opened wide. He couldn’t have heard Scot, could he? They were only thoughts, not spoken words.
=he deserves better than that=
Scot was torn between shame and resentment. Yet what was he meant to think? He watched as Oliver pulled himself out of the pool, smooth and silky from the water, limber like an eel. Still wet, he tugged his shorts back on. Damn things were hardly decent to start with, Scot thought, but he guessed it was some kind of statement rather than Oliver’s need to cover himself.
Connor’s hand tightened again on his thigh.
Oliver’s gaze was on Connor, but he flushed as if the touch had been on him. He drew himself up. “Connor?”
“You are in my favor,” Connor said softly. “Nothing else matters.”
“I want to please you,” Oliver said, so softly that Scot barely heard.
“You know what I like.”
What the fuck?
Suddenly there was music in the air, but from no apparent source. And not like someone had turned on a sound system, or was playing a real instrument. Just a thread of melody in the breeze, turning and twisting with each rare breath of wind. Tumbling across the silent stones, then bubbling in the water, with vibrant, delicate harmonies beneath. It seemed to come from Oliver himself—from the hand he held up gently, from the hip he dropped deliberately down on one side. From the wide, pale-blue eyes that sparkled with delight at being the center of attention.
He began to dance to it.
It was a lap dance, Scot realized—a pole dance, sexy and provocative. Oliver’s body flexed and dipped like he was boneless, fluid rather than corporeal—made of something sweet and liquid like honey. It was just as sweet to watch. Connor’s eyes were on Oliver, and Vincent sat up and smiled in encouragement at his friend. Oliver reached an arm high up above his head, running the fingers of his other hand down from its wrist to the soft underside of his upper arm, and into the sensitive hairs of his armpit. He lifted and bent both arms back behind his head, stretching his narrow, boyish chest so that that his muscles flexed and tightened. Beads of water glinted on his nipples. The shade played on his skin so that his tattoo actually appeared to move, skittering across his flesh like a fractious baby snake.
Then he started to sway, taking small, measured steps, as if to a routine that only he knew, moving steadily around the circular pool. His bare feet brushed the dust on the ground, tapping rhythmically on its uneven surface. He twisted his hips from side to side, the thonged pendant bobbing on his chest. His tight, young ass swung seductively as he turned his body, and the cheeks clenched teasingly from under the flimsy fabric of the shorts.
It wasn’t a feminine dance, and i
t wasn’t elaborate. It didn’t hold its roots in any formal style. It was just Oliver, showing off his body: showing his enjoyment of his good looks, and his bubbling energy. Inviting admiration for his sense of rhythm, for the display of fine bones and tight flesh, and the strength of a sensual young man.
Connor stood up in the pool.
Scot stayed sitting, but his body echoed the movement. It was as if he’d stood up, as if he was watching Oliver, swaying gently in the same rhythm as if they danced together. He felt the vibration from Oliver’s feet on the ground, and every suggestive thrust of his pelvis.
=you feel the warmth that my bright one always brings=
Oliver bit at his lower lip, teasing it between his teeth, humming softly under his breath to accompany the mystical, musical notes in the air. He caressed his chest, tugging at the feather, teasing tenderly at his nipples. He dipped fingertips in his navel, and thrummed the beat against his lightly muscled stomach. His touch paused at his hips, then his fingers nudged the waist of his shorts and pushed them down his legs. Bringing both heels together in a sharp, smart movement, he let the clothing drop to his ankles, where he stepped free of it. He was naked now.
Vincent gave a low purr of approval, the sound heard clearly in the still night air. There was nothing else to hear, except for the sultry notes and Oliver’s shortening breath.
Oliver lifted a foot up onto the low wall of the pool. His ass lifted, jutting out, pert and provocative. He ran his hands down his thigh, over a kneecap, and down the calf to his ankle. Then he slid them back up, caressing the flesh, pressing down into the valley between his thighs. Dropping his head, the blond, damp hair fell over his forehead, and he looked up through the curtain it made, searching for Connor. His lips pouted; his eyes asked for attention. His whole pose demanded it. He was mischievous, he was sardonic, and he presented himself perfectly.
=he knows himself very well=
With no warning to Scot except for the suddenly empty seat and cool air beside him, Connor left the pool. Well, Scot never actually saw the move, just saw Connor appear behind Oliver, sliding a hand onto Oliver’s hip, his fingers sliding teasingly down between Oliver’s naked, sweaty cheeks. He hadn’t bothered to pull a towel on again.
“Do you remember?” he whispered into Oliver’s ear.
Oliver sucked in his breath, and the smile on his face broadened. “I remember,” he said on a moan. White-blond strands of hair whipped gently against his face as he tossed his head from side to side. “Their hands… their pleasure… their praise, as they touched me.” His eyes half closed as he smiled at the memory of some private joy. The music was slower now, and softer. He crossed his arms over his chest, and ran his hands smoothly and seductively down his sides as he swayed.
Connor dropped a hand to his own lap, stroking lazily at his half-erect cock. Scot’s gaze slid easily away from Oliver, fascinated instead by Connor. From his position in the pool, if he tipped his head a little, Scot could see Connor’s back as well as his profile. The broad shoulders merged into the shallow knobs of his spine, and from there, down his back to a tender dip at the base of his spine. The swell of his ass was seductive enough to beg for a hand’s soft touch; the little shadows between his buttocks and his thighs whispered a promise of juicy tastiness. His hips were narrow, spawning strong, slim legs. When he swayed in rhythm with Oliver, Scot caught sight of his front as well. The smooth biceps, the glint of the piercing, a thin trail of hair from below his pecs and down over his belly. The slightest swell of flesh around his stomach: a gently protruding navel. A nest of chestnut hair at his groin. A long, slim cock comfortably half-filled, at rest against his thigh.
He was marvelous. His body was gorgeous. His smile was devastating. There weren’t any other superlatives Scot could find, but he would have used them if he had.
Connor turned slowly, dreamily, and smiled at Scot. He wandered back to the pool, stepped over the low wall, and lowered himself back into the water. Drops of moisture flecked the dry bricks as his body dropped onto the seat beside Scot.
=I won’t leave you=
And Oliver danced on.
***
The heat in the courtyard lulled Scot, and the water washed away his aches. But not his confusion. “Tell me how it works,” he urged Connor. “How you work. How you appear from nowhere.”
“We’re always here, Scot.”
“No you’re not.”
Connor chuckled. “We are, when you look. We just don’t want to be seen by everyone and anyone.”
“But how can you control that?”
Connor shrugged. “It just happens. At least, it happens here, at the motel. This is our place, Scot, our time. It works. And it’s all we need.”
Scot glanced over at Jerry then back to Connor. “You sure about that?”
Connor frowned. “What do you mean?”
“If you’re so happy here together in your weird world, why’re you dragging Jerry into it?”
“No one’s dragging anyone, Scot. Watch.”
“Watch what? Jerry?”
Jerry was still in the pool with Vincent’s arm around him. As Oliver skirted behind them, his hand brushed Jerry’s neck as if it were just an accident of his dancing. But the touches lasted just a little too long for that: they were a caress, not a mistake. Jerry glanced over at Connor.
Jerry couldn’t have missed Scot—he was sitting beside Connor, for God’s sake—but Jerry’s eyes were only half focused. What was he thinking about all this? He looked very young and very excited, like he was arriving at a new friend’s house for a sleepover for the first time.
“But you are.” Connor smiled back at him.
Jerry hadn’t spoken aloud. Why had Connor answered? And why the hell was Scot surprised, after all that was going on? He watched Connor, trying not to be obvious. Somehow, this man reached into his thoughts and turned the pages without him feeling a thing. Scot shivered. He tried to relax and feel comfortable. What was Jerry offering himself up to? Did he have any control over it?
Does that matter?
Scot watched as Jerry’s eyes flickered between Vincent and Oliver, returning every time to Vincent, like a moth captivated by a flame of seductive flesh.
Vincent’s breathing sped up as he gazed back at Jerry, and his chest lifted. Oliver stepped back from the pair of them, his gaze finding Connor’s. They smiled knowingly at each other.
“You like Vincent, Jerry.” Connor’s soft, hypnotic voice was in Scot’s head as well as his ears, though Connor’s gaze was back on Jerry. “Don’t you? He’s always been the one for you. He will show you what you need—what you really want.”
=Do you want that?=
Scot gasped painfully, his breath like needles in his throat. Was Connor talking to Jerry, or to him?
Vincent gave a soft, sibilant moan.
“Dance, Vincent,” Connor said aloud. He shifted on the seat, his hip pressing against Scot’s. The water ran freely over his lap and legs until it settled again. “It’s your turn, strong one. Show us how you dance to forget.”
Scot stared at Vincent. “Forget? I don’t understand. What do you have to forget?”
Vincent’s expression darkened and his body tensed. For a second, his eyes rolled up into his head. Then he squared his shoulders and straightened his back. He turned to look back at Connor, his eyes burning. A slight smile teased at the corners of his mouth.
Connor nodded. Vincent lifted himself out of the pool with a stretch of his magnificent muscles, his strong arms holding him balanced on the wall then vaulting him smoothly onto the courtyard. He stood there, wet and gorgeous, his nakedness a statement of his masculinity.
And the music began again.
It was very different this time. It was a deep, slow, beat that throbbed through the stone of the courtyard floor. Scot felt it shuddering up through his body, but he looked around in vain for the source.
“Forget now, Vincent,” came Connor’s low, caressing voice. “It was a past tha
t has now been shed. You are new. You are free of it. It cannot touch you here.”
Vincent’s feet came to attention, and he stretched his arms forward, a gesture both fierce and demanding. He swayed once, leaning into the beat. Then his palms came together and the air in the courtyard was broken with the sound of his clapping, a rhythm marked out by his feet and hands, and with the impression of laughing, cheering compatriots. He turned, looking back over a proud shoulder. His hands waved in a smooth, graceful motion, as if he swung a silken cloth in front of him. His back arched, and he twisted his head sharply, as if to face an invisible foe.
Like a matador! Though Scot had never seen one perform. He was petrified where he sat, thrilled beyond anything. He’d never seen such movement, such fluid perfection as the way the tall, strong man danced. Such an air of arrogance, such pride! Vincent turned again and strode with the beat, marking a wide circle around the pool. His arms struck out to provoke the imaginary beast; his body spun and leaned, to escape its equally imaginary charge. Dust flew up under his sweeping footsteps. The tail of his hair whipped against his neck, and his eyes were half closed. Scot caught his gaze a few times, but he saw no recognition there. The man’s mind was elsewhere, his actions intended for another time and place.
Scot’s glance toward Jerry found him totally entranced by Vincent.
The music in the background gained in speed and intensity. There was sweat on Vincent’s forehead, and the shine of more across his chest. His ribcage was heaving and his movements became more frenzied. His eyes were almost entirely closed, and Scot wondered how he could see where he was going. The night was dark, even with the moonlight, but Vincent’s steps were sure and never faltered. His hands stabbed at the air; his hips thrust with the beating noise.
Oliver sighed in the background. Scot felt as if he’d caught his breath and didn’t know when he’d be able to release it again.
When Vincent spoke, the sound was a shock. His voice was low and had a very different timbre from usual. “I am free. It cannot touch me. Forget the man I was. I am Vincent.”
“You are free,” Oliver echoed, his higher voice a strange contrast. It was like a mantra and it seemed to satisfy Vincent. The music spun up to a single, hammering beat, and he came to an abrupt halt, his body stretched up to its maximum height, his arms wide, his back locked in its proud position. In that moment, his head turned and he looked directly at Jerry.
