Close Quarter

by Anna Zabo

  “Their loss.” Rhys ran his hands through Silas’s curls. “How do you say ‘cocksucker’ in Latin?”

  Silas grunted and undid Rhys’s belt and pants. “Fellator.” His lithe fingers freed Rhys’s cock and balls.

  “You mean like fellatio?”

  Silas bared his teeth in a feral grin. “Am I going to have to teach you your own language? Yes, like fellatio.” He stroked Rhys’s shaft. “Though back then, it was considered a passive act.”

  Anything Rhys had to say in reply vanished from his mind when Silas tongued the head of his cock, then dipped into the slit, licking at the precome collecting there.

  Oh fuck. Velvet lips caressed his glans as Silas lowered his hot mouth and sucked Rhys in. Molten heat shot through Rhys’s limbs, and he gripped the side of the deck chair. Silas slid his mouth up and down Rhys’s shaft.

  A passive act? Hell no. Rhys bit his lips and leaned back on his elbows to watch. Silas’s eyes were half-closed. A trace of teeth scraped Rhys’s glans as Silas pulled his mouth back, sending a shower of sparks through Rhys. Tongue and lips swirled around the head, and Silas moved his mouth down Rhys’s shaft. Lips ringed Rhys tighter than a fist while Silas’s tongue skimmed over his crown, teasing and stroking the length. He quickened his pace.

  Rhys wouldn’t last long at this rate. “Slower.”

  The arrogant bastard chuckled and then licked the very tip of Rhys’s cock before kissing it. Slowly silken lips parted, and Rhys sank into an inferno filled with the slick heat of Silas’s tongue. Feather touches pushed into his slit and around his glans. Light flared in Rhys’s veins, and his arms shook.

  Silas sucked Rhys in, a fraction at a time, massaging every inch of Rhys’s shaft as Rhys slid deeper and deeper into Silas’s mouth.

  Warmth curled into his balls.

  Silas reversed direction. The pull of silk and the caresses around his shaft made every nerve in his body swell and ache. Rhys threw back his head and moaned. Shit, he was going to—

  The grip Silas had on his cock tightened painfully at the base. That was the only thing that kept Rhys from shooting right then and there. Rhys twisted his hands in Silas’s hair. “Oh, God.”

  Silas’s other hand massaged Rhys’s balls.

  His lovers hadn’t blown him that often and never this well. “For someone who doesn’t suck dick, you’re damn good at it.”

  Silas’s reply was to take Rhys back into his throat, even more slowly than before, sucking hard.

  He needed to come. Now. He pushed on Silas’s head. “Faster.”

  The amused grunt that vibrated the length of Rhys’s shaft tightened his balls more than before. But Silas didn’t speed up. He took Rhys in farther and then pulled off again.

  The wind against his wet cock wrapped cool feathers around the shaft and sent a shudder through Rhys. Then the inferno of Silas’s mouth descended and burned his skin with wet, velvet touches. With each stroke, the air cooled his blood before Silas’s mouth set him on fire again. Light filled Rhys, pooling around his core, aching for release. It had nowhere to go. Rhys’s arms trembled, and he fell back against the lounge chair.

  Yes, he’d ordered Silas to his knees, told him to suck cock, but Silas had complete control over when Rhys would shoot down that lovely, tight throat.

  Silas took him in completely surrounding him with a wet fire that burned more than just Rhys’s flesh. His chest ached. Did Silas understand? Did he realize? Fucking was like everything else between them—a partnership.

  “I know.” Foreign thoughts caressed Rhys’s mind; then a lighthearted laugh vibrated him from the tip of his dick to his balls. “I understand.”

  Silas released the base of Rhys’s cock and quickened the pace, his lips a tight circle, his throat open.

  Rhys thrust his hips upward, hard and deep. He knew what it was like to be on the other end of a face fucking, the surrender it took, how hard it was to breathe. Even painful sometimes. He pounded into Silas’s mouth.

  Silas met each of his relentless strokes and never let him slip out. He fondled Rhys’s balls with the utmost care while taking him to the root.

  The light pooling in Rhys’s core blazed and arced down every limb in a storm of energy. This time there was nothing to hold Rhys back. “Oh fuck, Silas!” He thrust upward, pulled Silas’s head down, and came with his balls against Silas’s chin. He moaned deep and long until he couldn’t catch his breath. An eternity passed before the lightning in his veins lessened and he stopped coming.

  His hands slipped from Silas’s hair, his cock from Silas’s mouth. Silas laid his forehead against Rhys’s leg and gulped air, his breathing as harsh as the ocean waves crashing against the hull of the ship.

  A breeze blew across them, the scent of salt water mixing with the musk of sex and the smell of sun-warmed grass and pine. Goose bumps rose on Rhys’s arms under his jacket. Even far away from the garden, the energy of the forest and the field swirled around them.

  This was him—his element. Fae. The part that had been missing all this time. He shivered and watched Silas’s perfect face. And there was his home.

  Silas stirred and licked his reddened lips. He tucked Rhys’s cock back into his underwear and pants, then zipped and buttoned him closed. Finally he buckled Rhys’s belt.

  Neither Silas’s hair nor his eyes were golden, but he still had the look of a god—a smiling being of beauty and desire.

  “I think I understand Roman mythology better,” Rhys said.

  “That would be a trick.” Silas crawled up into the lounge chair and settled himself onto Rhys. “Romans didn’t understand Roman mythology. It’s rather convoluted.”

  Rhys wrapped his arms around Silas, soaking in his warmth. His hair smelled like sunlight on leaves. “How do you fit into it?”

  “I don’t.” Silas slipped his hand beneath Rhys’s jacket and stroked his side. This time the shudder that ran through Rhys wasn’t from the chill of the wind. “Though Silvanus is the name of a Roman forest god.”

  “And Quintus?”

  Silas raised an eyebrow. “Fifth.”

  Heat spread up Rhys’s face. “I should know that. Quintet. Quintuplets.”

  “Yes.” Silas kissed him on the cheek. “Mine was the fifth family of our court. Or so they said.”

  “Quintus Silvanus,” Rhys said, tasting the name on his lips. It didn’t sound right. “I prefer Silas Quint.”

  “So do I.” Silas laid his head down on Rhys’s shoulder. “So do I.”

  They lay for several minutes, wrapped in each other’s arms, bathed in the light of the western sun, the ocean the only voice on the wind until Silas spoke again.

  “Tell me how it is that you developed such wisdom in only twenty-eight years?” He nuzzled Rhys’s neck.

  Wisdom? “About the vampire?”

  “Yes.”

  Rhys rolled a lock of Silas’s hair between his fingers. He wasn’t wise at all. “It’s not me. It’s you. All the stuff you know. That Anax-bastard just rattles you too much for you to see it.”

  Silas pressed against Rhys. “It’s a problem.” His tight voice barely rose above the sound of the waves.

  “Yeah. But we’ll work it out.” Rhys found Silas’s lips and kissed him deeply. Silas shifted, and his hard shaft pushed against Rhys’s thigh. “Want me to do something about that?” Rhys spoke against Silas’s lips.

  Silas hummed. “Everything I want to do to you at the moment requires far less clothing, higher furniture, and a shower afterwards.”

  Pinpricks traveled outward from Rhys’s stomach, raising the hairs on his arms. Amazingly his dick stirred too. “We could go back to your cabin.”

  “That had occurred to me.” Silas kissed Rhys’s neck, and hands found the ticklish spot on Rhys’s side under his arm. “And I’m sore tempted. But I think we should remain in the sun.”

  The vampire. The flame of desire dwindled. “It’s never come out before dark before?”

  “I’ve never known any soulless to
walk in daylight. I don’t know how Anaxandros could.”

  The vampire had burned in the sunlight and felt pain from those burns. That had been plain in the snarl the creature had given when it tried to reach Rhys. “There’re stories about really old vampires being able to walk in the day.”

  “The old ones are hard to destroy. That very well might be the case.” Silas’s desire had deflated too.

  Pity. But Silas was right. Better to stay in the light and plan rather than fuck in the shadows and get eaten. “Will your sword work against it?”

  “Yes. The Messengers wouldn’t have sent me here unarmed.”

  Of course not. They were angels. Rhys shifted, caught Silas’s head in his hands, and made Silas look at him. “They also wouldn’t have sent you here if there wasn’t hope of success, Silas.”

  Silas squirmed against the truth. “A fool’s hope.”

  “More than that.” Silas tried to look away, but Rhys held him fast. He stroked a thumb over Silas’s cheek. “Listen to me.”

  “I am listening. I’m no match for Anaxandros. There’s only one fae who might have been.”

  “Might have been?”

  “He died hunting daemons.”

  Oh. The thought of Silas hunting daemons froze Rhys’s veins and he shuddered. “I’m here.” Rhys let Silas go. “You’re stronger now.”

  Silas laid his head on Rhys’s shoulder. “Not enough. Even if I could touch Anaxandros, there are four others.” He paused, then added, “And please don’t tell me the Messengers sent me to save you.”

  Stubborn, foolish man. Rhys tasted the truth. Why couldn’t Silas? “Maybe they sent me here to save you.”

  Silas raised his head and peered into Rhys’s face, his expression a mixture of worry and wonder.

  “That never occurred to you, did it?”

  “No.” Silas’s fingers were warm against Rhys’s cheek. “But that makes far more sense than the other way around.”

  Rhys couldn’t help the snort. “For someone who’s lived a goddamn long time, you really don’t know yourself very well.”

  Silas stiffened. “For someone who has known me less than two days, you seem very sure of your knowledge of me.”

  “But I do know you.” He kissed Silas, smoothing out some of the angry lines on his brow. “Please stop fighting me.”

  Those lines folded into worry. “If I fail, it’s not just my life. I’m not afraid to die. I’ve never been afraid. But if you—” His voice cracked, and he fell silent.

  Rhys stroked Silas’s hair. “Then use that clever mind of yours to figure out how to beat them.” He kissed Silas again. “Because I don’t want to die on this boat. And I want that thing’s head.”

  Chapter Ten

  Silas lurked under a set of stairs and against the bulkhead, his glamour wrapped close about him. He loosened the grip on his sword for the fourth time. An odd thing, to have apprehension nipping at his heels. He’d never been so anxious on a hunt, not even during his first. But the longer he and Rhys waited for the soulless, the more worry pooled in his mind and the harder he clenched his sword.

  That wouldn’t do at all in a fight.

  Ten or so feet away, Rhys leaned against the deck railing outside the Piano Bar, his back to Silas. Long strands of elemental energy flowed about him, dancing in a wind of their own making. The smooth curve of Rhys’s ass peeked out from behind the tails of his tuxedo.

  Rhys was, as he himself would’ve said, the perfect image of vampire bait. A living being full of energy and beauty.

  Silas loosened his grip again. This wasn’t the most clever plan he’d ever devised, but given all the factors, including Rhys’s insistence that he hunt with Silas, it was the best he had.

  There were some merits to using Rhys as bait, though. Proximity to Rhys hid Silas’s elemental signature under that brilliance and chaos. Rhys was also far safer here under Silas’s watch than alone in one of their cabins.

  Not that he would ever admit that to Rhys—the imp was smugger than a cat on a fishing boat. No need to encourage him further.

  One hitch marred their little trap. Three hours after sunset, not a single soulless had appeared. Frustrating didn’t even begin to describe the night.

  As if sensing Silas’s thoughts, Rhys sighed loud enough to be heard over the ocean and kicked at the metal band on the bottom of the railing. “Maybe,” he said, “I should go back in and dance some more.”

  Oh, Silas knew with whom Rhys wanted to dance. Heat settled in his stomach and made his face warm. “If you’d like.” Even though his glamour swallowed the words to human ears, he kept his voice low.

  Rhys peered over his shoulder. “Jealous?”

  He didn’t deign to reply. Rhys snorted and went back to watching the sea.

  And to think the night had started out so promising, even if a bit windy. Silas ran his tongue over his upper lip, but the salt he tasted there was from the sea air, not Rhys.

  Close to sunset, they’d left the lounge chair and returned to Silas’s cabin. Rhys needed very little cleaning up—a side benefit to Silas sucking him off—and no change of clothing at all. He, however, changed into something more appropriate for destroying soulless on the windswept decks of a ship. For the rest of the night, he’d followed Rhys, a silent and deadly shadow, while Rhys enjoyed all the nightlife the ship had to offer.

  Enjoy Rhys did. With abandon. While no soulless had taken the bait during his romp through the ship’s clubs, plenty of humans had noticed him. Most of his admirers had been women, but a few had been men.

  Now that had pleased Rhys. For the gentlemen, his grin was true, his laughter infectious. He’d even danced with a particularly handsome blond, close enough that their hips had touched. Rhys hadn’t cared one whit what anyone thought.

  Silas’s little experiment in the elevator had certainly unlocked the exhibitionist in Rhys. Or perhaps it was his fae blood finally showing.

  Rhys’s change in attitude should’ve delighted Silas. Glamouring the both of them could be tiring, even with an abundance of element. Rhys being comfortable in his own skin was a blessing. It boded well for the future.

  Silas repeated that thought during the very long five minutes he’d watched Rhys on the dance floor. It was a wonder he hadn’t ground his teeth to nubs.

  Jealous? Life was too long to worry about what any given romantic partner was up to. Silas’s life being what it was, his affairs had always been blessedly brief. He preferred it that way.

  No, he wasn’t jealous in the least. Never mind that he and Rhys were inexorably bound together, that looking at Rhys drove breath from his lungs and blood to his cock.

  Silas shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Oh, he was quite the wretched liar.

  “Do you dance, Silas?” There was too much amusement in Rhys’s quiet voice.

  “Of course I do.” When this was over, he was going to thoroughly enjoy showing Rhys just how well he danced.

  At the railing, Rhys straightened and spoke louder. “Once more into the breach, dear friends.”

  “Come now, it can’t be that bad.” A woman’s melodious and fluid voice floated down from the next deck. Footsteps on the metal stairs over his head followed, descending from above.

  Silas felt nothing living above him. He loosened his grip on the gladius.

  Rhys stepped away from the railing. Shadows sharpened his features, exposing the deep worry written on his face.

  “You seemed to be enjoying yourself.” The creature that stepped onto their deck had once been a woman. Long black hair, pulled into a braid, swung against its back. More details than that, Silas couldn’t see.

  The soulless clicked its tongue. “Why are you all alone, little Quarter? Where’s your friend from the dance floor?”

  The accent was Hindi. A surprise. The lust for physical immortality wasn’t as strong in cultures that believed in reincarnation. Silas took two silent steps away from the stairs and the bulkhead.

  “He’s probabl
y still on the dance floor. I’ll go check.” The reply was cavalier, but a tightness in his voice betrayed Rhys’s fear. He angled toward the door.

  The soulless shifted, cutting off Rhys’s retreat. “Why don’t you dance with me, Rhys?”

  A shudder ran through Rhys at the sound of his name. “Dead’s not exactly my type.”

  Laughter, strangely close to the sound of glass bells, echoed across the deck. “Did he tell you that, your fae? That we’re dead?”

  Silas took three more steps. The last one took him within sword’s length.

  “And just where is Quintus Silvanus? Has he abandoned you already?”

  “What do you think?” Annoyance and dejection flashed across Rhys’s face. “I guess he had his own plans.”

  The soulless stepped forward and touched Rhys’s arm. “He’s more of a fool than I thought, to leave you alone for us to take.”

  Rhys froze under the soulless’s touch, even as he fought against its thrall.

  Silas raised his sword, cocked his hips, and waited. So that dance with the blond hadn’t been entirely out of lust, but part of a ruse for the soulless. Clever Rhys.

  “Now,” the soulless said, “where is Quintus Silvanus?”

  Rhys spoke the truth because he had no choice. “He’s behind you.”

  It turned. Silas swung and cleaved its head from its shoulders. The trunk fell, smoldered, and burst into flames. The head rolled to a stop, before collapsing to ash. A length of braided hair fell to the deck, limp as an old rope.

  Rhys rubbed his arm. “That’s a bit disturbing.”

  “The hair?”

  “Yeah. I kind of like it when there’s nothing left. Like before.”

  So did Silas. Others who hunted the soulless sometimes took trophies and kept track of the numbers. He didn’t. The Messengers knew the count. That was enough. He knelt and tossed the braid onto the pile of smoking ash that had been the soulless’s body. The hair ignited, flamed, and was gone.

  “Better.” Rhys toed the edge of the ash pile. “What about this?”

  “The wind will scatter it into the sea.” Silas rose and listened for other movement. “We won’t be able to do that again, I believe.”