Black Dagger Brotherhood 11 - Lover at Last (118 page)

No pumping needed. Blay came so hard his vision went twinkle-twinkle-little-star, and at that

very instant, Qhuinn started orgasming, too, those hips spearing inside and freezing for a split second before withdrawing an inch and going deep for another kicking explosion. And yeah, wow, the

combination of them both doing their thing was so erotic, it just primed everything all over again: There was no break for recovery, no pause at all. Qhuinn just resumed driving—if anything, it was

like the release had made his need stronger.

As the sex raged on—and in spite of all the strength he had in his upper body—Blay ended up

getting fucked clean off the bed, one hand locking on the side table to keep him from hitting the wall—

Crash.

“Shit,” he said roughly. “The lamp—”

Qhuinn wasn’t interested in home furnishings, apparently. The male just yanked Blay’s head

around and started kissing him, that pierced tongue penetrating his mouth, licking and sucking…like he couldn’t get enough.

Dizzy. He got downright dizzy from it all. In every fantasy he’d ever had, he’d always pictured

Qhuinn as a ferocious lover, but this was…on another level.

So it was from a distance that he heard himself say in a guttural voice, “Bite me…again….”

A great growl from above threaded into his ears, and then another hiss ripped through the

darkness as Qhuinn shifted positions, his massive weight torquing so that those sharp fangs could sink in deep on the side of the throat.

Blay cursed and wiped clean the rest of whatever was on the table, his chest taking the place of

the objects, his sweat-streaked skin squeaking on the varnish as he lay half on his side. Throwing a hand out, he caught the flat plane of the floor and shoved back, keeping them both stable as Qhuinn fed and fucked him so good….

Too many times to count, until the pillows were on the floor, the sheets were torn, another lamp

got knocked over—and he wasn’t sure, but he thought they banged the picture over the bed off the

wall.

When stillness finally replaced all the straining and effort, Blay breathed heavily, and still felt like he was underwater.

Qhuinn was doing the same.

The growing wet patch at Blay’s throat suggested things had gotten so out of hand that there had

been no sealing up the vein that had been taken. Whatever. He didn’t care, couldn’t think, wasn’t

going to worry. The blissed-out, floating aftermath was too glorious to spoil, his body at once

hypersensitive and numb, hot and temperate, sore and satiated.

Man, the sheets were going to need to be cleaned. And Fritz was undoubtedly going to have to

find some Super Glue for those lamps.

Where exactly was he?

Putting his hand out, he patted around and ran into carpet and a dust ruffle…and a blanket chest.

Oh, right—hanging off the far end of the bed. Which would explain the head rush he was rocking.

When Qhuinn finally eased off of him, Blay wanted to follow, but his body was far too interested

in being an inanimate object. Or more like a bolt of cloth, maybe…

Gentle hands lifted him up and carefully, gingerly, rolled him over onto his back. There was some

other movement at that point, and then he felt himself get repositioned against pillows that had been returned to their rightful place. Finally, a lightweight blanket was settled halfway up his body, as if Qhuinn knew that he was just about too hot to have any more coverage, and yet already feeling the

chill as the sweat that covered him started to dry.

His hair was brushed back from his forehead, and then his head was eased to the side. Lips like

silk kissed down the column of his neck, and then long, slow lapping sealed the puncture wounds that he had asked for and been given.

When it was done, he allowed his head to be turned toward Qhuinn. Even though it was pitch

dark, he knew exactly what the face staring into his own looked like—flush on the cheeks, half-mast lids, lips red—

The kiss that was pressed against his own mouth was reverent, the contact no heavier than the

warm, still air in the room. It was the consummate lover’s kiss, the kind of thing he had wanted even more than the hot sex they’d just had—

Panic struck in the center of his chest and resonated outward through him in the blink of an eye.

His hands shot out of their own volition, shoving Qhuinn away. “Don’t touch me. Don’t you touch

me like that—ever.”

He sprang up off the bed and landed God only knew where in the room. Fumbling around, he hit

various pieces of furniture, but then was able to orientate himself by the thin line of light that shone under the way out.

Grabbing his robe from the floor, he did not look back as he left.

Couldn’t bear to see the aftermath in any kind of light.

That made it all too real.

Eventually, Qhuinn had to will the lights in his bedroom on. He couldn’t stand the darkness any

longer.

As illumination flooded the space, he blinked hard and had to put his arms up to shield his eyes.

After things recalibrated in retina-land, he looked around.

Chaos. Total chaos.

So all of that had actually happened, huh. And how ironic that the inside of his head made this

goddamn mess look military-order in comparison.

Don’t you touch me like that.

Ah, hell, he thought as he scrubbed his face. He couldn’t blame the guy.

For one thing, he’d shown about as much finesse as a bulldozer. Wrecking ball. Armed tank. The

problem was, it had all been too much to show any patience: Instinct, as pure as octane and just as flammable, had lit him up—the session had been a case of letting the shit out.

Oh, God, he’d marked the guy.

Fuck
. Not exactly good form, considering Blay was already in love and in a relationship…and going back to his lover’s bed.

Then again, when a male was with the one he wanted, especially if it was the first time, that was

what happened. Hell broke loose….

It went without saying that it had been the best sex of his life, the first right fit after a long history of not-even-closes. The thing was, at the end, he’d wanted Blay to know that, had been searching for words and relying on touch to pave the way to the confession.

But it was clear the male didn’t want to get close like that.

Which brought up a second, even more profound regret.

Revenge sex was not about attraction; it was about utility. And Blay had used him, just like he’d

asked to be used.

That hollow feeling came back tenfold. A hundredfold.

Unable to stand the emotion, he burst up to his feet, and had to curse: The notable tightness in his lower back had fuck-all to do with the airplane accident, and everything to do with the pneumatics

he’d just spent the last hour…or longer…throwing around.

Shit.

Going into the bath, he left the lights off, but there was more than enough to go by from the

bedroom as he turned on the shower. This time, he waited for the water to get warm—his body was

not up for another shocker.

It was so pathetic, but the last thing he wanted was to wash Blay’s scent off his skin, but he was

being driven mad from it. God, this must be what the
hellrens
in the house felt like when they got all possessive: He was of half a mind to stalk down the hall, burst into Blay’s room, and shove Saxton

out of the way. Matter of fact, he would have loved for his cousin to watch, just so the guy knew

that…

To cut off that really frickin’ healthy train of thought, he stepped into the glass enclosure and went for the soap.

Blay was in a relationship, he pointed out to himself—again.

The sex they’d just had had
not
been about emotionally connecting.

So he was, in this moment of emptiness, getting shanked by his own history.

Looked like this was another case of fate giving him what he deserved.

As he washed himself, the soap wasn’t half as soft as Blay’s skin, and didn’t smell a quarter as

good. The water wasn’t as hot as the fighter’s blood had been, and the shampoo wasn’t as soothing.

Nothing came close.

Nothing ever would.

As Qhuinn turned his face to the spray and opened his mouth, he found himself praying Saxton

wandered off the range again—even though that was a shitty thing to hope for.

Problem was, he had a horrible feeling that another case of the infidelities was the only way Blay

would come to him again.

Closing his eyes, he went back to that moment when he’d kissed Blay at the end…really, truly

kissed him, their mouths meeting gently in the quiet after the storm. As his mind rewrote the script, he wasn’t pushed away to the far side of a boundary he himself had created. No, in his imagination,

things ended as they should have, with him stroking Blay’s face and willing the lights on so they could look at each other.

In his fantasy, he kissed his best friend again, pulled back, and…

“I love you,” he said into the spray of the shower. “I…love you.”

As he closed his eyes against the pain, it was hard to know how much of what ran down his

cheeks was water, and how much was something else.

TWENTY-NINE

The following day, late in the afternoon, Assail’s visitor came back.

As the sun set and the last of the dusky pink rays pierced through the forest, he watched on

his monitor as a lone figure on cross-country skis stood among the trees, poles balanced

against hips, binoculars up at the face.

Or
her
hips, and her face, as it were.

The good news was that his security cameras not only had fantastic zoom, but their focus and sight

line were easily manipulated by the computer’s joystick.

So he went in even tighter.

As the woman dropped the binoculars, he measured the individual lashes around her dark,

calculating eyes, and the red tinge to her fine-pored cheeks, and the steady rhythm that beat in the artery running up to her jawline.

The warning he’d given to Benloise had been received. And yet here she was again.

It was clear she was connected in some way with that drug wholesaler—and the night before she

had apparently been angered by Benloise, given the way she had marched out of the back of that

gallery looking like someone had insulted her.

And yet Assail had not seen her before, and that was odd. In the past year or so, he had

familiarized himself with the each-and-everys of Benloise’s operation, from the incalculable number of bodyguards, to the irrelevant gallery staff, to the canny importers, to the man’s flesh-and-blood brother who oversaw the finances.

So he could only assume she was an independent contractor, hired for a specific purpose.

Except why was she still on his own property?

He checked the digital readout on the lower right-hand corner of the screen. Four thirty-seven.

Ordinarily, hardly a time to rejoice, as it was still too early to go out. But daylight saving time had kicked in, and that human invention to manipulate the sun actually worked in his favor six months out of the year.

It was going to be a little hot out there, but he would deal with it.

Assail dressed quickly, pulling on a Gucci suit along with a white silk shirt, and grabbing his

double-breasted camel-hair overcoat. His pair of Smith & Wesson forties were the perfect

accessories, of course.

Gunmetal was forever the new black.

Grabbing his iPhone, he frowned as he touched the screen. A call had come in from Rehvenge,

along with a message.

Striding out of his room, he summoned the
leahdyre
of the Council’s voice mail and listened to it on the way downstairs.

The male’s voice was all about the no-bullshit, and one had to respect that: “Assail, you know

who this is. I’m calling a Council meeting, and I want not just a quorum, but perfect attendance—the king’s going to be there, and so will the Brotherhood. As the eldest surviving male of your bloodline, you’ve been on the Council roster, but recorded as inactive because you stayed in the Old Country.

Now that you’re back, it’s time to start going to these happy little get-togethers. Call me with your schedule, so I can work out a time and location for everyone.”

Coming to a halt before the steel door that blocked off the bottom of the stairs, he put the phone in one of his inside pockets, unlatched the lock, and slid the way open.

The first floor was dark because of the filtering shades that blocked out all light, and the huge

open space of the living room appeared like a cavern in the earth rather than a glass cage perched on the shores of a river.

From the direction of the kitchen, he heard sizzling and smelled bacon.

Walking in the opposite direction, he went into the burled walnut–paneled office he’d given his