Lover Mine (14 page)

It didn’t take long before what he was touching her with was as wet as what he was stroking and it was then that he slid his middle finger in deep. Using his thumb, he massaged the top of her and found a rhythm to match the pulls he was making at her breast.

He was bringing her to the edge, taking her with him, giving back as much as he was getting, when he knew he needed more. He wanted to be in her when she came. Then he would be completed in some ethereal way, made whole inside his skin.

It was a bonded male’s drive and necessity. What he had to have in order to feel at peace.

Lifting his lips from her breast, he dragged his hand from her sex and repositioned himself so that his glossy cock was poised over her open legs. Meeting her eyes in the incendiary moment, he brushed the short hair around her face. Slowly, he dropped his mouth downward—

“No,” she said. “That’s not what this is about.”

John Matthew shot upright, the fantasy of the dream shattered, his chest banding in frigid cords of pain.

With disgust, he let go of his arousal—not that he was hard anymore. His cock had positively shriveled up, in spite of the orgasm that had been on its way out of the thing’s head.

Unlike the dream, which had been a total hypothetical, those words were ones she’d actually said to him—and in precisely that sexual context.

As he looked down at his naked body, the releases he’d had, the ones he’d imagined he’d had on her, were all over his belly and the sheets.

Why the hell did that spell out
alone
like nothing else could.

Glancing at the clock, he saw he’d slept through his alarm. Or more likely he hadn’t bothered to set it. One bene to insomnia was that you didn’t need to recharge your phone from all the snooze buttons you hit.

In the shower, he washed himself quickly and started with his cock. He hated what he’d done in that odd half-asleep zone. It felt totally wrong to jerk off, considering the situation, and from now on, he was going to sleep in his jeans if he had to.

Although knowing his hand, the damn thing would have probably ended up behind the fly anyway.

Fuck it, he was gonna chain his wrists to the frickin’ headboard.

After he shaved, which like tooth maintenance was out of habit rather than pride in his appearance, he braced his palms on the marble and leaned into the main spray nozzle, letting the water sweep over him.

Lessers
were impotent.
Lessers
. . . were impotent.

Hanging his head, he felt the hot rush over the back of his skull.

Sex kicked up all kinds of bad shit for him, and as the image of a grungy stairwell bloomed like a stain on his brain, he popped his lids and dragged himself back to the present. Not that it was an improvement.

He’d have gone through what had happened to him a thousand times to save Xhex from being mistreated that way once.

Oh . . . God . . .

Lessers
were impotent. Always had been.

Moving like a zombie, he stepped out, dried himself, and headed for the bedroom to get dressed. Just as he was pulling on his leathers, his phone went off and he reached over to his jacket to fish the thing out.

Flipping it open . . . he found a text from Trez.

All it said was:
189 st. francis ave 10 2nite.

Clipping the phone closed, his heart beat with brutal intent. Any crack in the foundation . . . he was just looking for one little crack in Lash’s world, a fissure, something he could wedge himself into and blow the whole fucking thing to pieces.

Xhex might well be dead, and this new reality without her might be his forever more, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t avenge her.

In the bathroom, he strapped on his chest holster, weaponed up, and after grabbing his jacket, he went out into the hall. Pausing, he thought of all the people who would be gathering downstairs . . . as well as the time. Shutters were still down.

Instead of going left toward the grand staircase and the foyer, he went right . . . and walked silently in spite of his shitkickers.

 

 

Blaylock left his room a little before six because he wanted to check in on John. Usually the guy gave a knock around mealtime, but there had been none. Which meant he was either dead or dead drunk.

At his buddy’s door, he paused and leaned in. Nothing doing on the other side that he could hear.

After a soft knock wasn’t answered, he pulled a fuck-it and opened the thing in. Man, the place looked ransacked, with clothes everywhere and a bed that might possibly have been used as a demolition derby site.

“He in there?”

At the sound of Qhuinn’s voice, he stiffened and had to stop himself from turning around. No reason to. He knew that the guy would be wearing some kind of Sid Vicious or Nine Inch Nails or Slipknot T-shirt tucked into black leathers. And that his hard face would be cleanly shaven and very smooth. And that his spiky black hair would be slightly wet from the shower.

Blay walked into John’s space and headed for the bathroom, figuring his actions would answer the question well enough. “J? Where are you, J?”

When he pushed his way into all that marble, the air was thick with humidity and smelled like Ivory soap, which was what John used. Wet towel was on the counter.

As he turned around to go, he slammed right into Qhuinn’s chest.

The impact was like getting hit with a car and his best friend reached out to steady him.

Oh, no. No touching.

Blay stepped back quickly and stared out into the bedroom. “Sorry.” There was an odd pause. “He’s not here.”

Duh.

Qhuinn leaned to the side and put his face, that beautiful face, in the line of Blay’s vision. When the guy straightened, Blay’s eyes followed because they had to.

“You don’t look at me anymore.”

No, he didn’t. “Yes, I do.”

Desperate to get away from that blue-and-green stare, he cut himself some slack and went over to the towel. Wadding it up, he shoved the thing down the laundry chute, and damn if the cramming didn’t help a little.

Especially as he imagined it was his own head he was forcing into the hole.

Blay was calmer when he turned around. Even met those eyes. “I’m going down to dinner.”

He was feeling quite proud of himself as he walked by—

Qhuinn’s hand snapped out and latched onto his forearm, stopping him dead. “We have a problem. You and me.”

“Do we.” Not a question. Because this was one convo he had no interest in encouraging.

“What the hell is the matter with you?”

Blay blinked. What was wrong with
him
? He wasn’t the one fucking anything with a hole.

No, he was the pathetic fidiot who pined for his best friend. Which put him into wee-wee-wee-all-the-way-home territory. Any closer to chicking out and he’d have to carry Kleenex tucked into his sleeve to catch his tears.

Unfortunately, the flash of anger deflated fast and left him hollow. “Nothing. There’s nothing wrong.”

“Bullshit.”

Right. Okay. This was unfair. They’d already been over this territory and Qhuinn might be a slut, but the guy’s memory was perfectly functional.

“Qhuinn . . .” Blay shoved a hand into his hair.

On cue, that fucking Bonnie Raitt song shot into his brain, her rich voice singing . . .
I can’t make you love me if you don’t. . . . You can’t make your heart feel something it won’t. . . .

Blay had to laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“Is it possible to be castrated without being aware of it?”

Now Qhuinn was doing the blink. “Not unless you’re really fucking drunk.”

“Well, I’m sober. Dead sober. As usual.” And on that note, maybe he needed to take a page from John’s book and start liquoring it up. “I think I might have to change that, however. Excuse me—”

“Blay—”

“No. You do not get to ‘Blay’ me like that.” He stuck his finger in his best friend’s face. “You just do your thing. It’s what you’re best at. Leave me alone.”

He walked out, his head tangled but his feet mercifully on the ball.

Taking the hall of statues down to the grand staircase, he passed by the Greco-Roman masterpieces, and ran his eyes over those male bodies. Naturally, he Photoshop’d Qhuinn’s head on top of each one—

“You don’t have to change anything.” Qhuinn was right on his tail, the words low.

Blay got to the head of the stairs and looked down. The yawning, resplendent foyer before him was like a gift you opened with your body as you entered it, each step forward bringing you into a visual embrace of color and gold.

Perfect place for a mating ceremony, he thought for no particular reason.

“Blay. Come on. Nothing has changed.”

He glanced over his shoulder. Qhuinn’s pierced brows were tight, his eyes fierce. But as much as it was clear the guy wanted to keep talking, Blay was so done.

He started down the steps, moving fast.

And was not at all surprised when Qhuinn stuck with him—and the conversation. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Oh, right, like they needed to do this in front of the people in the dining room. Qhuinn was fine with audiences for all sorts of things, but Blay did not find peanut galleries helpful in the slightest.

He marched back up two steps, until they were face-to-face. “What was her name?”

Qhuinn recoiled. “Excuse me?”

“The receptionist’s name.”

“What receptionist?”

“From last night. At the tat shop.”

Qhuinn rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on—”

“Her name.”

“God, I have no fucking clue.” Qhuinn went palms-up, the universal language for
whatever.
“Why does it matter?”

Blay opened his mouth, on the verge of spelling out that what had meant nothing to Qhuinn had been hell to watch. But then he knew it would sound possessive and stupid.

Instead of talking, he reached into his pocket, took out his Dunhills, and fingered one up. Popping it into his mouth, he lit the thing while staring into those mismatched eyes.

“I hate that you smoke,” Qhuinn muttered.

“Get over it,” Blay said, turning away and heading downward.

“W
here you going, John?”

Down in the mudroom at the back of the mansion, John froze with his hand on one of the doors that led into the garage. Goddamn it . . . a house this big, you’d think you could leave without an audience. But no . . . eyes everywhere. Opinions . . . everywhere.

It was like the orphanage in that respect.

He turned and faced Zsadist. The Brother had a napkin in one hand and a baby bottle in the other, having obviously just gotten up from the dining room table and come in through the kitchen. And gee, guess what . . . next person through the door was Qhuinn, and he had a half-eaten turkey leg with him as if it were his last hope of food for, like, the next ten hours.

Blay’s arrival turned it into a fucking convention.

Z nodded at the grip John’s hand had on the knob, somehow managing to look like a serial killer in spite of the baby paraphernalia. Probably the facial scar. More likely the eyes that were flashing black.

“I asked you a question, boy.”

“So where’s your Rubbermaid.”

Qhuinn polished off his dinner and then deliberately walked over to the trash bins to toss the cleaned-off bone. “Yeah, John. You wanna answer that.”

No, he fucking didn’t.

I’m out of here
, he signed.

Z leaned forward and planted a palm on the door panels, the napkin hanging loose like a flag. “You’ve been taking off a little earlier and a little earlier every night, but you’ve reached the cutoff. I’m not letting you go this early. You’ll be burned to a crisp. And P.S., if you ever think of leaving without your private guard again, Wrath’s going use your face as a hammer, feel me?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, John.” Qhuinn’s voice was a growl of disgust and he had an expression on his puss like someone had cleaned a bathroom with his bedsheets. “I’ve never stopped you. Ever. But you fuck me like this?”

John stared at a place somewhere over Z’s left ear. There was a temptation to sign that he’d heard when the Brother had been looking for Bella, he’d gone shit wild and done all kinds of crazy things. Except bringing up that
shellan
’s abduction was a red cape in front of a bull and John was already doing the cloven-hoof thing about a female. Two would be overkill.

Z’s voice dropped. “What’s doing, John?”

He stayed quiet.

“John.” Z leaned in further. “I will beat an answer out of you if I have to.”

Just got the time wrong.
The lie sucked ass, because if that were true, he’d have made a move to go out the front door and not covered his tracks with the trash story. But he honestly didn’t care whether the bucket that carried his bullshit had a hole in the bottom.

“I’m not buying it.” Z straightened and checked his watch. “And you’re not leaving for another ten minutes.”

John crossed his arms over his chest to keep from commenting on the lockdown, and as the
Jeopardy!
theme played in his head, he felt like he was going to explode.

Z’s hard stare sure as hell didn’t help.

Ten minutes later, the sound of those shutters lifting all around the mansion broke up the standoff and Z nodded at the door. “Okay, go now if you want. At least you won’t fry out.” John turned away. “I catch you without your
ahstrux nohtrum
again, I’m turning you in.”

Qhuinn cursed. “Yeah, and then I’ll get fired. Which means V’ll Donald Trump my ass with a dagger. You’re welcome.”

John gripped the knob and yanked his way out of the house, his skin feeling too tight. He didn’t want trouble with Z because he respected the guy, but he was pretty damned volatile and the trend suggested that was only going to get more true.