by Anna Zabo
Rhys gasped and loosened his grip in Silas’s hair.
He switched to Rhys’s other ball.
“Oh, God.” Rhys said.
Silas slid his cock along the sheets, his body aching with the need for release. Soon. But first he wanted Rhys’s inarticulate cry. He nibbled up Rhys’s hard length and drew his tongue over the scar left from where Rhys had been cut and kissed the head.
The velvet skin tasted of salt and the sharp tang of Rhys’s seed. Silas licked deep into his slit. Silas’s cock throbbed, the sweet pain mixing with the savory taste of Rhys.
Rhys had grown still and quiet but for delightful gasps and a constant shaking in his legs. Silas opened his mouth and drew Rhys in.
“Oh shit!”
Not exactly the cry Silas wanted. He’d have to do better.
He pulled Rhys into his mouth, loving the contrast from the silky head to the hard-veined length of Rhys’s shaft.
Ragged breaths from Rhys heated Silas’s blood. Wanting to hear more, he milked Rhys’s dick with his mouth, then sucked hard. He withdrew so slowly that he could map each bump and vein as they passed beneath his lips. Rhys quivered against Silas.
Slowly he took Rhys back in. And there was Rhys’s cry he so desired, a sound of abandonment and wonder. Silas answered back with a low moan he couldn’t have stopped had he tried.
Now, at last, Silas could give in to his own body. He fisted his cock and then spread precome over the head and down his shaft. Need twined in Silas’s belly, and his arms trembled with exertion, even as he pulled his mouth up on Rhys’s cock again.
Would that they could stay like this forever, caught between pleasure and release. But even he didn’t have that kind of control.
When the tenor of Rhys’s moans changed, he stopped sucking on Rhys’s cock.
Nails bit into his skull. “Damn it, Silas!” Rhys’s voice was rough and angry.
He sat up and stroked himself faster. He wasn’t about to search out his bottle of lube, but his cock was slick enough. With one hand under Rhys’s ass, Silas pushed the head of his dick against Rhys’s hole.
Rhys threw back his head, his anger replaced by a throaty cry.
Silas slid the head into Rhys, then stopped. Blazing heat surrounded him and gripped Silas tight, milking him, and a flash of euphoria hazed his vision. He held himself there, savoring the moment. Gods, did he love entering Rhys. Being one with him.
Rhys closed a hand around his arm. “Don’t you dare stop.” There was more growl than speech in his words. Sweat had beaded on Rhys’s forehead and dripped down his face. Wet lips, open mouth, he stared up. “You damn well better finish what you started.”
Silas pushed himself farther in. Rhys moaned and let go of Silas’s arm.
He placed his other hand under Rhys’s ass as he thrust in and out. Perspiration rolled down Silas’s face, into his mouth. His grunts mixed with Rhys’s moans and the slap of flesh as he drove himself forward. Pinpricks danced along Silas’s veins as light curled into his stomach. He fought the growing tension. Not yet.
Rhys bucked beneath Silas. All well and good, but anyone could do that to Rhys. Silas wanted—needed—to give Rhys more. Inscribe himself onto Rhys’s memories. Brand Rhys into his being. Silas shifted angles, looking for the one that would slide him against the correct spot, the one that would shatter Rhys to pieces.
He’d better find it soon. The pool of fire in Silas threatened to blaze out of control. He couldn’t hold it back much longer, though he wanted to. Wanted to hang in that sweet pain and give Rhys all he could, forever. Silas pounded in and up.
Rhys gripped the sheets with both hands and arched his back. He opened his mouth in what would’ve been a scream had any sound come out.
There. He slowed his strokes but hammered in harder.
Rhys squirmed and tried to reach for his cock, but Silas thrust into him before he touched himself, eliciting another shattering tremor in his body.
A different fire flared in Silas. Why hadn’t any other lover given Rhys this? He’d seen enough of Rhys’s past to know no one had. Anger gave way to satisfaction. Now no one else ever would. Rhys was his to love. To cherish. Entirely. Silas pistoned Rhys’s ass as fast and deeply as he could.
“Oh fuck!” Rhys’s eyes were wide, his hands balled into fists against the bed. He threw back his head and groaned as ribbons of spunk landed on his chest.
That cry, the sight, and Rhys’s ass tightening around him cracked what little control Silas had. Lightning clouded his vision as his balls tightened. He slammed into Rhys and every inch of Silas’s body seemed to cry out as he emptied himself. His yell was just as guttural and long as Rhys’s.
Silas fell next to Rhys, unable to hold himself up any longer. Not any of his lovers had ever made time stop or poured such fire into his veins. His soul ached.
He’d find a way to keep Rhys alive.
Silas couldn’t tell which of them was trembling more. His vision turned white about the edges and faded, his lips suddenly dry.
Oh.
Well, that had certainly been worth it. Rhys was going to be furious, though.
“God, Silas.” Rhys’s voice was breathless. “That was awesome!”
He felt Rhys’s lips brush his cheek. “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” he whispered. Then his vision turned dark, and he fell into oblivion.
Silas went limp against Rhys. What the fuck?
“Silas?” Rhys kissed his cheek again. No response. And none when he slid out of Silas’s slack embrace.
Rhys rubbed a shaking hand through his hair. Jizz slid down his chest. Shit. He was still pretty high from the best orgasm of his life.
He was going to kill Silas when he woke up. If he woke up.
Hell.
Other than the sweat and mess of sex, Silas was pristine, if a little pale. He was breathing. All his wounds had been healed and the poison gone. Surely he’d have noticed—
“Damn it, Silas!” Rhys flopped down on the bed, his heart thumping.
Blood loss. Silas had said he’d probably be weak for a while, and yet the fool had gone and fucked Rhys with abandon. He should’ve stopped Silas, but he hadn’t been awake enough to think.
Sunlight slanted in the windows. Rhys glanced over at the clock: 1:27. Not too late. He rubbed his eyes and cursed. How the hell had he become the smart one in a relationship with a guy more than two thousand years old? What if that asshole vampire came out in the day again? Rhys hauled himself out of the bed. He knelt down and found the hilt of Silas’s sword.
Good. So if Anax-bastard showed up, he’d have a weapon. Silas would be furious he’d taken the blade. Tough shit. He pulled it from under the bed and made his way to the bathroom.
He left the blade on the sink counter and the door open, just in case.
Ten minutes later, he placed the sword on the coffee table and then stood in front of Silas’s closet. Sadly all that remained on the hangers were slacks, collared shirts, and sedate sweaters. Everything was a bit too corporate. It was like the crap his father—
Not his father. Derrick Matherton wasn’t his father.
Pinpricks ran up his arms. What was the man—that half-fae who had fathered Rhys—like? He’d never find out now. He’d taken the millions rather than the opportunity to search for him.
Perhaps that had been a mistake. On the other hand, he didn’t want to be beholden to anyone, not even Silas. His inheritance granted him freedom, provided he could keep the vultures away.
He grabbed a pair of black pants and a dark blue shirt and dressed.
On the bed, Silas lay sprawled among pillows and sheets, alive but otherwise unmoving.
“Silas.”
Nothing.
At least there was coffee. And room service, if it came to that. He popped a pod into the coffeemaker and brewed a cup. Wrapping his hands around the warm mug, he settled into a chair at the coffee table and waited.
Maybe it was the aroma, but as Rhys sipped his coffee, Silas stirr
ed, rolled over, and burrowed under the sheets. A groan issued from beneath a mound of white cloth.
Rhys snorted. He might have found it endearing in any other circumstance.
A few moments later, Silas emerged from beneath the covers and sat up. He looked around the room before settling his gaze on Rhys. If he noted the sword—and Rhys was sure he did—he had no reaction to it. “How long have I been unconscious?”
Rhys glanced at the clock. “About a half hour.”
Silas grunted, then scrubbed his face with his hands. “My apologies.”
“What the hell were you thinking?”
“I was thinking,” Silas said, his words all honey and heat, “that I wanted to see you writhing in ecstasy.”
Rhys pressed his lips together and fought to hang on to anger, even as his cock threatened to harden.
Silas climbed out of bed, stumbled, then sat back down. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to get me a cup of coffee?”
Rhys rose, slapped a pod of French roast in the machine, stuck a mug underneath, and turned it on. “You shouldn’t have.” He watched the coffeemaker cycle through its brewing. “Don’t get me wrong, it was the best damn fuck I’ve ever had, but there are more important things than sex.” The machine finished.
He took the cup to Silas and sat back down at the table. He ran a finger over the leather-wrapped handle of Silas’s sword.
Something in Silas’s expression flickered—anger, embarrassment, Rhys couldn’t tell. That changed completely when he sipped his coffee. Silas frowned into the cup. “I knew you’d be angry, but not this angry.” He sighed but sipped again.
“Think of it as penance for being a complete fool.” Irritation faded as he studied the blade of the sword. Faint knot work twisted up the middle channel of the blade. He’d missed that before. “It really was the best sex I’ve ever had.”
“Good. Now I have a bar to rise above.”
Good God. Rhys shifted in his chair, his balls tightening at the thought. “Doesn’t mean you’re not an ass for exhausting yourself.”
Silas placed the mug on the side table next to the bed, and stood. This time he remained standing. “An extra half hour unconscious won’t make a difference. By sunset, I’ll have recovered as much as I would’ve otherwise.”
“And had Anax-bastard shown up?”
“Anax—” Silas cuffed a laugh, but sobered. “Yes, fucking you was a risk. But then so was sleeping. Had Anaxandros come during either, we’d both be dead.”
He had a point there. “I just don’t want to see you the worse for wear because of me.” There were no scars on Silas that he could see, no sign of injury. But his sun-kissed skin was a shade too ashen.
“I’m alive because of you.”
Rhys sipped his coffee as cover for the sudden ache in his chest and throat. It didn’t help. “So, what now?”
Silas wore his patented thoughtful look.
Rhys shook his head. “We’re so not having sex again. Not now.”
Silas waved the words away. “There are other things I can show you. But first I need to shower.” With that, he strode across the cabin and disappeared into the bathroom.
Other things. Rhys chewed on those words and finished his coffee while he waited. What other things?
In short order, Silas emerged smelling of almond soap. He dressed—tweed pants with a black belt and a green button-down shirt, which he tucked in. Silas looked like some hot-as-sin accountant. The clothes might be corporate, but Silas would never look like a pencil pusher.
“Now come here. And bring my sword.”
A voice like bourbon, velvet and rich with a bite at the end. He still must have been miffed at the whole sword thing. Rhys rose, picked up the sword, and joined Silas.
“What do you think of it?” Silas gestured at the blade.
“It’s lighter than I expected.” Rhys twisted his wrist, moving the blade a few inches. “It feels like I’m cutting air.”
“You are.” Amusement touched Silas’s voice. “Your grip’s wrong. Here.” He grasped Rhys’s arm and shifted the position of his hand and fingers on the hilt. “Better.”
And it was. Rhys took an experimental swing.
Silas clicked his tongue. “Use your hips, not your arms.”
That made no sense. “How the hell do you use your hips to swing a sword?”
“Have you ever played baseball?”
“Of course I have. I—” Hips. Swinging a bat. “Oh.”
“Exactly.”
“But that’s with two hands.”
“Same idea and a similar form. In a pinch, swing with both hands. Just aim for the soulless’s neck, if it comes to that again.”
Vampires. Though the sword didn’t weigh any more, it suddenly seemed more substantial in Rhys’s hand.
“Or stab, as you did last night. But pull back or let go.”
The sharp memory of the flesh curling as it burned caused him to ball his free hand into a fist. “Do they usually go up that fast?”
“Sometimes. It depends on the age and the wound.” Silas stepped back and seemed to study him. “I want you to try something.”
“I don’t think I can learn sword fighting in a day.”
“You can’t.” Silas rubbed his chin. “But if you’re willing, it wouldn’t be a bad skill to learn.” Rhys opened his mouth, but his reply was forestalled by Silas raising his hand. “It’s not something you need consider now.”
Rhys nodded. If—when they reached New York, the possibilities were endless. “What do you want me to do?”
“Feel the sword in your hand, the weight, how the grip feels against your skin. The texture of the hilt when you shift your fingers. Imprint that into your mind. Remember it as if your existence depended on recalling this moment.”
Closing his eyes, Rhys focused on his hands. He’d done this type of thing before, memorizing the shape and texture of items. It helped when sculpting. He flexed his fingers, felt the slide of the leather wrap against his palm, the cool kiss of the guard along his forefinger and thumb. “Okay.”
“Keep your eyes closed.” Footsteps on carpeting, then the gentle heat of Silas standing behind him. Almonds and pine. “And focus. On the hilt, please.”
Warmth suffused Rhys’s face. “I am focusing.” He turned his attention back to the sword.
“Now imagine that the air to your right is solid, that you can pierce it with the tip of the sword. See the blade slip through this space, as if reality were a sheath.”
Silas had done that, pushed the sword into somewhere else. His heart fluttered. What happened if he got this wrong? “All right.”
“Now sheathe the sword.”
Rhys kept his eyes closed, painting a picture of his movements. As he cut into the air, a pressure that he hadn’t felt when swinging the blade ran down the length of his arm. He pushed against that, shoving the sword deeper into the slit he’d painted in reality.
Ice bit into his hands, and cold tendrils wrapped his wrist.
“Let go, Rhys.”
He did, opening his eyes in time to see his hand missing from the length of his arm before he snatched it back from a swirling mass of…something. Light? Dark? The hole in the air snapped shut.
Rhys flexed his fingers. The sword was gone.
“Well done.” Silas kissed the back of his neck and pulled him tight against his warm body.
Holy hell. Rhys stared at the spot where the sword had been. The tingling in his spine had nothing to do with Silas for a change. He looked at his hand. “Why’d you want me to memorize how the sword felt?”
Silas’s chuckle vibrated against his back. Hot breath caressed his ear. “Because now you’re going to pull it out.”
Put his hand back in there? “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Frightened?” Amusement in that honey voice, and a hint of mockery.
“You’re an ass. You know that?”
Another kiss to the nape sent a shudder through Rhys. “Yes,
actually, I do,” Silas said.
Bastard.
Terrified was a more apt description. The freezing slickness that had wrapped around his hand while it wasn’t here chilled him to the marrow. But knowing how to draw a sword out of thin air… Well, that could come in handy.
He clenched his hand, shook it out, then closed his eyes and plunged it back into that awful place.
God, it was cold. Something that felt like feathers tickled across the back of his hand. Where the hell was the sword?
Silas’s voice rang in his ear. “The hilt, Rhys. Remember.”
He did. And then it was there in his hand. He tightened his grip and pulled the sword free. When he opened his eyes, the blade was there, diamond edge sparkling in the sunlight pouring in from the windows.
“Well, shit,” Rhys said.
Silas laughed, rolling peals of pure amusement and love.
This time the tingling in Rhys’s limbs had everything to do with Silas. “You’re going to tell me I shouldn’t be able to do this, aren’t you?”
“It’s a fae trick, to store things in the Aether. You’ve enough fae blood.”
“But it’s your sword.”
“Ah, yes.” Silas sobered. He took the sword from Rhys’s hand and stepped away to twirl it in the sunlight. He frowned. “The Messengers gave the blade and the burden to me. But you’ve used it once. You may need it again.” In a flash of light, he slid the sword into nothingness.
“How do you do that so quickly?”
“Practice,” Silas said. Then he smiled.
Shit. “Again?”
“Until you can draw it without thought.”
“Really, really an ass.”
Silas stepped forward, cupped Rhys’s chin, and pulled him into one of those devouring kisses that set every nerve in his body on fire. When Silas broke it, he spoke. “Yes.”
God, this man. “Fine.”
He was able to draw the sword five more times before his hand turned numb. It had gotten easier and quicker. Not as fast as Silas, but his final draw before he dropped the sword onto the cabin floor and cupped his frozen hand against his chest had been deemed acceptable by the rat-bastard-fae he loved.
