by C. S. Poe
More of Calvin’s cock in me, more of his hands on me, more of him dictating the speed, the angle, the roughness. More of every dirty little thing he said as he lost himself in pleasure. He told me how good I was, how my ass was the best he’d ever had, how he wanted to come inside me and lick me clean.
I cried out loudly, moving my weight onto one hand to stroke myself. I was so hard, it hurt—I’d never needed a release as much as I needed one in that moment.
“You ready to come?” Calvin asked, one hand gripping my hair as he fucked me.
“Yes! I need to come,” I begged.
“That’s good, baby. Keep stroking yourself.”
“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” I said while awkwardly trying to keep moving back to meet him. My breath caught in my chest, and every muscle in my body tightened. “Oh God! Calvin!” And then I was coming hard, spurting onto the clean sheets and whimpering when he smacked my ass again, harder than he had yet.
I could feel Calvin coming, and his hands moved down to my hips, keeping me pressed against him as he rode out the sensations.
“You’re so gorgeous,” he said. “Fuck.” Calvin pulled out and flipped me onto my back, leaned down over me, and kissed me with a sort of aggressive possession.
I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him down on top of me, our kisses eventually calming as our blood cooled. “Wow,” I finally said, laughing.
Calvin grinned and kissed my nose, my cheeks, my forehead. “You liked that?”
“Yeah. I’ve never had that before.”
“Seems to me you’ve been denied a lot of sexual pleasures.”
I pursed my lips and shrugged one shoulder. “Sort of, I guess.”
Calvin hummed quietly, brushing damp hair from my forehead. “We should get going. You have to work today, don’t you?”
I stretched lazily. “No. Emporium is closed on Mondays.”
“Oh. What are your plans, then?”
“Shit.”
“What?”
“I have a brunch date.”
I could feel Calvin tense beside me. “I see.”
I grabbed my glasses off the nightstand so I could see him. “It’s not what you think.”
“Then what is it?”
It was a strange revelation to see he was jealous. “It’s just a customer. He’s asked me out a few times, and yesterday, after you got angry at me, I didn’t think I’d end up here with you. I plan on nicely letting him down.”
Calvin frowned and put an arm around me firmly. “Is that all?”
“The library,” I mentioned again. “Clean my house, I guess.”
“No, don’t go home.”
“I can’t live in your closet with you,” I said, before amending the comment, “I mean, the size of your apartment.”
“I need to have forensics check out your place.”
“Calvin, what’s the point? I’ve already been home twice. I’ve touched everything, moved books around.”
“Doesn’t matter, Sebastian. If we can find one fingerprint—a partial print, even. Besides, you need the locks changed too. It’s not safe.” He sat up, running his fingers through his hair until it stuck up comically. “Want to shower with me?”
“Together?” I asked with a chuckle. “Will we both fit in that tiny-ass little bathroom?”
“Unless you want to lay there covered in drying cum?” Calvin offered as he stood and tugged his condom off.
“Jesus, when you put it that way.” I stood and followed him.
Calvin tossed the condom as he turned the light on in the bathroom, then turned it back off. “There’s enough light coming through the window, right?” he asked, motioning to the small opening.
The fact that he noted I didn’t have contacts in and the light of the bathroom was too harsh was extremely thoughtful.
Calvin turned the shower on and then moved under the stream of warm water, tugging me in with him. He kissed me a few times, hands moving over me. “I hope you’re wearing a turtleneck to your date,” he murmured, maneuvering me under the water while he grabbed shampoo.
I opened my eyes, watching his blurry figure in the dim light. “Why do you say that?”
Calvin reached out and ran his fingers through my wet hair, soaping it up. He leaned down to kiss the side of my neck. “Because I left a mark.”
My hand reached up instinctively, touching the spot he kissed. “You did?”
Calvin hummed absently in response. “Sorry.”
“Actually, I don’t mind.”
He must have been smiling because I could hear a note of amusement in his tone. “Really?”
“It’s kind of hot.”
“You’re kind of hot. Rinse your hair.”
“Yes, sir.” I laughed to myself as I leaned back into the spray, letting it wash the soap out. I switched places with Calvin so he could wash his own hair next. “You know,” I said quietly while feeling around for soap and snagging a washcloth. “I think I’m going to have a thing about you and showers.”
“Why’s that?” Calvin asked.
“Because just a few days ago, I was jacking off in mine to thoughts of you.”
His hands came over mine, and he took the soap while kissing my mouth. “Good.”
“Good?” I repeated.
His hands were on me again, washing me with the cloth. “Yeah, because I was doing the same thing.”
“I can’t imagine that.”
“You doubt how sexy you are.”
I snorted. “Have you been paying much attention?”
“Plenty.” Calvin bent down to scrub my legs. “I’m not the one with a vision impairment.”
“Oh, low blow.”
He chuckled. “I think you’re fucking gorgeous, baby. Whether you want to believe that or not is your call.” He stood, turned me around, and ran the washcloth over my back and ass. “Just know that no amount of frumpy sweaters will ever make me think different.”
“Shopping is difficult for me,” I admitted.
“Why?”
“Colors. The world depends so much on its ability to see color. Colors provoke emotions, and maybe it sounds stupid to you, but I get so stressed out trying to understand if a yellow shirt is going to clash with the rest of my attire that I want… to cry.” Now I knew how dumb that sounded. I was essentially crying over spilled milk while an Army veteran cried over massacred children.
Calvin turned me around and kissed me.
I wrapped my arms underneath his and held on to him for a moment. “I used to try more,” I added. “I had a fashion color wheel and everything, but it was just too much work. It’s easier to trust my dad to buy a bag of secondhand crap for me in white, gray, and black, which he says can’t clash no matter what.”
“I can solve this for you,” Calvin said.
“Really? Complete human eye transplants?” I asked hopefully.
“No, just go around naked.”
“That doesn’t solve shit.”
“It’ll make me happy, though.”
I laughed and shoved Calvin playfully. “Ass. Give me that,” I said, grabbing the cloth and soap. I started scrubbing his chest and arms.
When we finished washing each other down, which I’ve never ever done with a guy before but was pretty fun and intimate, we got out and toweled off. I popped my lenses in so Calvin wouldn’t have to shave in the dark.
He paused from lathering his face to hold mine and stare curiously at my eyes. “So they do make your eyes dark.”
“Yeah. Extra protection, like a second pair of sunglasses.”
“And if you don’t wear them?”
“Everything’s just too bright.”
He rubbed the side of my face with the pad of his thumb before letting go.
I fetched my bag and glasses from the other room and joined him again, not daring to manually shave like Calvin. “I cannot see well enough to trust a razor against my jugular,” I explained, making a half-assed effort on my face with an electric r
azor.
Calvin smiled and continued shaving in silence.
I sort of liked this. Neil and I had never shared the bathroom to get ready, but it was sort of sweet and domestic to be shaving together, even if it was too cramped and crowded. “Have you been with a lot of guys?” I asked while brushing my teeth.
Calvin had finished shaving and was washing the soap off. “Define ‘a lot,’” he answered.
“More than one by several.”
“Then yes,” he answered dryly.
“A lot of boyfriends?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“How many?”
He started brushing and didn’t answer until he finished. “One or two.”
“That’s it?”
Calvin nodded and grabbed deodorant and cologne. “Yeah.” He looked over at me. “Why, you know someone who’s interested?”
I snorted and washed my mouth out. “I know a guy,” I agreed.
“I think I’ve told him no a few times.”
“He’s a persistent shit.”
“I’ll say.”
I laughed and leaned over to read the label on Calvin’s cologne.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing. I just like that smell.”
Calvin started coffee after finishing in the bathroom. “Can you stay, or do you have to drink coffee with your date?” he asked, and don’t think I didn’t notice the tone in which he said date.
“I can stay,” I replied, voice muffled as I tugged a T-shirt over my head.
Calvin stood in front of his closet in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs that hugged his upper thighs, his cock and balls heavy and snug in the soft cotton.
I moved up behind him and wrapped my arms around him, pressing up close.
“Hello,” he said, still sorting through hung up shirts.
“Hey.”
“I don’t have time to go a second round, baby, so don’t get me excited.”
“I’ll try not to.” I leaned my forehead against his warm back for a beat before kissing his freckled shoulder. “How long would it take for me to kiss each freckle you have?”
“You’d be dead before you finished.”
I laughed and let him go so he could dress. “Do you not like them?”
“I don’t mind. I hated them as a kid.”
“Why?”
“I got picked on a lot.”
It was extremely difficult to imagine anyone being dumb enough to pick on someone as hot and dangerous as Calvin Winter.
“Before I figured out I was into guys, I couldn’t get a girlfriend because none of them wanted to date a ginger.” He turned while pulling a shirt over his shoulders. “It’s easier for girls with red hair—everyone thinks they’re cute. Not so easy for guys.”
“I’ll keep you,” I offered.
He smiled slightly. “Yeah, I know you will.”
“What do you want in your coffee?” I asked, walking back the whole two feet to the kitchen.
“Cream,” he said, pulling on trousers and tucking his shirt in.
Good grief, the way Calvin’s muscles rippled and pulled the fabric…. Look away, look away.
I offered him a fresh cup once he came over to the counter. “Hold on,” I said, reaching for his tie. “It’s crooked.”
He held still as I adjusted the knot before taking a sip. “Thanks.”
“Do you have time to eat?”
“I’ll grab a bagel before I get to work,” he answered.
“When are you sending forensics to my apartment?”
Calvin sat on a stool. “First thing.”
I nodded. “All right.” I reached into my pocket and pulled a key off a ring. “In case you need it.”
Calvin accepted the key without question. He took another sip of coffee before standing and reaching around me to pick up his keys from the counter. I thought he was going to put mine on the ring so he wouldn’t lose it, but instead he shifted one of his own off and passed it over.
“What’s this?”
“I don’t know how long it’s going to take,” Calvin answered. “So if you need to go somewhere, just come home. Here—I mean.”
“Oh… thank you.”
He nodded and finished his cup before going to put his shoes on. Well-worn Oxfords with the wide, flat toe. Classy and handsome on Calvin.
I followed after, and soon both of us were bundled up against the cold and ready to go.
“Call me after your visit to the library,” he said as he locked the door.
“Sure.”
“Or if… anything happens.”
“Should something happen?” I asked warily.
He turned and looked down. “Just be careful, okay?”
“Will do, Officer.”
“And don’t go digging around where you shouldn’t.”
“Who, me?”
“Seb, I’m serious. No sleuthing around.”
I waved a hand at him before tucking it into my jacket pocket. “I won’t.”
“All right.”
“You be careful too,” I said.
He leaned down and kissed me in the privacy of his doorway. “Have a good day.”
I smiled as I followed him down the stairs to leave the building. It was all very sweet and domestic.
Except for the ongoing murder investigation.
But it’s always something.
Chapter Thirteen
THE NEW York Public Library took their rare books collection seriously. I signed in with my library card and ID, and checked my coat. No bag, pens, or anything of the sort allowed into the room. For those there to study the books, notes could only be taken with pencils, and photographs were at the discretion of the curator.
“Sebastian Snow,” a woman spoke as I was allowed inside. “You’re here to examine Tamerlane by Edgar Allan Poe, correct?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied.
She was a tall, broad-shouldered, pretty woman with her hair tied back elegantly and a suit that made her look extremely dashing. “My name’s Kate Bell. I’ll be showing you the book.”
“Wonderful.” I followed behind her as she motioned me along.
“Professor?” she asked.
“What? Oh, no. I’m an antique dealer, actually. I’ve sort of become interested in Poe lately.” Sort of.
“I see.”
She didn’t offer further conversation, but I needed to keep asking questions. About anything. I’d strike at something important sooner or later. As much as I believed Calvin was working his ass off to get to the bottom of this case, I was afraid he wouldn’t get there in time. Pesky things like paperwork and legal proceedings held him up, and with already two dead and this creep zeroing in on me, I wasn’t willing to stand by idly anymore.
I technically hadn’t promised Calvin I wouldn’t snoop about. I’d help, whether he wanted the assistance or not.
“Do many people ask to see Tamerlane?”
“Now and then,” Kate answered, slowing her walk to look at me. “It’s not the work he’s known for.”
“Written by a Bostonian.”
She smiled. “That’s correct. Poe published the work anonymously. The printer was a young man named Calvin F. S. Thomas, whom Poe hired and paid to produce the copies of Tamerlane. The production amount is rather disputed, but in general it is believed that no more than fifty copies were made.”
“My father is a retired professor of American literature,” I said. “He told me there’s only twelve copies known to exist today. Is that so?”
“Very true.” Kate stopped walking. “It is known today as the Holy Grail of American literature. To find one, especially any copy not already accounted for, would be priceless.”
“How much is it worth? Of course, its condition taken into consideration.”
“The last copy that sold at Christie’s auction went for over half a million dollars,” Kate answered. “A few years ago.”
“To a private buyer?”
�
�Yes. One or two I believe are owned by individuals. The rest are in universities, libraries, and the Poe museum,” she said, ticking off the points on her fingers.
We started walking again. I was sort of amused by the fact that Poe’s printer had been a man named Calvin. Here I was, on a search for Tamerlane like Poe would have been looking for someone to bring his book to realization, and in swoops a man named Calvin. Not that I wanted to be Poe. I was more than happy with my own appearance, had no desire to marry my cousin—or a woman at all, for that matter—and I’d prefer not to die under tragic, mysterious circumstances in a few years.
Calvin F. S. Thomas. If it wasn’t for you, we may not be in this mess today.
Or perhaps Poe never would have published his work at all.
Imagine a world without Edgar Allan Poe.
A more surprising, selfish thought occurred to me: I’d have never met my Calvin.
Kate brought me to a desk that had been prepared, and Tamerlane was brought out. After I put my regular glasses on and explained my vision issues, I was allowed to look at the book with my magnifying glass.
The book was surprisingly simple. It wasn’t even a book. It was a pamphlet. Forty pages entitled Tamerlane and Other Poems. The paper was fragile and discolored from all the years it could have been stored in an attic before finding the light of the literary world. It was small too. A lot smaller than I thought it would have been.
“It didn’t receive any real critical acclaim,” Kate explained. “Much of it was inspired by Lord Byron. Are you familiar with him?”
“I studied his work in college for a time.”
I was allowed to sit and read the poem of “Tamerlane,” which was an incredible experience. And my curator, Kate Bell, was something else. She had endless facts to share about both Poe and the book, which I was sucking up like a sponge.
“DETECTIVE WINTER,” Calvin said when answering his cell.
“It’s me.”
“I know.”
Was that some kind of code? I’m in public so I have to pretend this is a work-related call?
I frowned but didn’t say anything about it. “I’m just calling to say I finished at the library.”
“Where are you going now?” Calvin asked quietly. I could hear other voices in the background.
“Patty’s Diner. Some place a few blocks from the library, actually.”
