Black Dagger Brotherhood 11 - Lover at Last (45 page)

His body took over, going rigid in a series of racking spasms that ran from the top of his spine

down into his legs.

And just as the out of control sensations were beginning to ebb, the world went wonky on him,

like his sense of balance had been blown along with his—

No, the world was fine. Qhuinn had just popped him up off the floor, gotten out from underneath,

and was positioning himself behind….

As Qhuinn pushed inside with a lightning-fast strike, Blay let out a moan that he was quite sure

could have been heard in Canada—

The squeal that pierced through the room made him frown, even through the pressure and the

pleasure.

Oh. They were moving the couch over the floor.

Whatever. He’d buy the house another one if they broke the damn thing; he was
not
stopping this.

The rhythm was every bit as punishing as his had been—and in this case, payback was not just

what he deserved; it was exactly what he wanted. With every thrust, his face got pushed into the soft cushions; with every retreat he could take a breath; then it was back in tight, the cycle starting all over again.

Readjusting his legs so that Qhuinn could go even deeper, Blay had some vague thought that they

had definitely banged the sofa into a different position, but who the hell cared as long as it wasn’t out into the hall?

At the last moment, just before he came again, he had the presence of mind to grab for his pants.

Shaking his boxers free, he—

Qhuinn’s hand reached over, took the Calvins and did the deed, making sure there was something

to catch his release. Then a moment later, his chest was hauled off the couch so he was upright on his knees. Qhuinn handled everything, gripping Blay’s cock while covering the head—all the while

pounding, pounding, pounding…

They came at the same time, a pair of shouts echoing around the room.

In the midst of the orgasm, Blay happened to glance up. In the big old-fashioned mirror that hung

between the two windows across the way, he saw them both, knew they were joined…and it made

him come all over again.

Eventually, the thrusting slowed. Heart rates went down. Breathing grew easier.

In the leaded glass of the mirror, he watched as Qhuinn shut his eyes and tucked his head

downward. Against the side of his throat, Blay felt the softest of brushes.

Qhuinn’s lips.

And then the male’s free hand drifted upward, pausing to stroke across Blay’s pecs—

Qhuinn froze. Jerked back. Removed his lips, his touch. “Sorry. Sorry, I…know you’re not into

that with me.”

The change in the guy’s face, that return to the cynical normal, was like being robbed.

And yet Blay couldn’t tell him to come back in close. Qhuinn was right; the instant that tenderness appeared, he started to get panicky.

The withdrawal was quick, too quick, and Blay missed the feeling of fullness and possession. But

it
was
time to end this.

Qhuinn cleared his throat. “Ah…do you want to…”

“I’ll take care of it,” Blay mumbled, replacing Qhuinn’s hand over the crumpled boxers at his

hips.

During the sex, the silence in the room had been about privacy. Now, it just amplified the sounds

of Qhuinn pulling his leathers back on.

Shit.

They had gone down the rabbit hole again. And while it was happening, the sensations were so

intense and overpowering, there was no thinking of anything other than the sex. In the aftermath,

though, Blay’s body felt too cold in the seventy-degree air, different places throbbing from use, his legs loose and wobbly, his brain fuzzy…

Nothing seemed secure or sure. In the slightest.

Forcing himself to get dressed, he piled the clothes on as fast as he could, right down to his

loafers. Meanwhile, Qhuinn was the one who returned the sofa where it belonged, carefully putting

the feet of the legs back in the divots they’d made in the carpet. He also rearranged the throw pillows.

Straightened the Oriental.

It was like it had never happened. Except for the boxers that Blay crushed in his fist.

“Thank you,” Qhuinn said quietly. “I, ah…”

“Yeah.”

“So…I guess I’ll go now.”

“Yeah.”

That was it.

Well, other than the door closing.

Left alone, Blay decided he needed a shower. More food. Sleep.

Instead, he stayed in the second-story sitting room, looking at that mirror, remembering what he

had seen in it. In his mind, he had some vague thought that they couldn’t keep doing that. It wasn’t safe for him emotionally; in fact, it was the equivalent of holding your palm above a lit burner over and over again—except every time you put your hand back above the flame, you lowered the distance

between your flesh and the heat. Sooner or later? Third-degree burns were the least of your problems, because your whole goddamn arm was on fire.

After a while, however, that self-preservation thing wasn’t what he dwelled on.

It was what had started the whole thing.

Make it stop.

Blay drew a hand through his hair. Then he looked at the closed door and frowned, his mind

churning, churning, churning…

A moment later, he left in a rush, walking quickly.

Before breaking into a jog.

And then falling into a flat-out run.

FORTY-ONE

It was around ten in the morning when Trez headed over to Sal’s Restuarant. The trip from the

apartment at the Commodore to his brother’s fine-dining establishment wasn’t long, only ten

minutes, and there were plenty of free parking spots in the lot when he got there.

Then again, the place didn’t open, even to the kitchen staff for prep, until one in the afternoon.

As he walked over to the entrance, his boots crunching in the snow, he half expected the code that

unlocked things from the outside not to work: iAm hadn’t come home at the end of the night, and

assuming those cocksuckers at the s’Hisbe hadn’t taken the guy for collateral, there was only one

place his brother could be: After two pots of coffee and a lot of checking his watch, Trez knew that if he wanted to make peace, he had to head across town.

Cool. The combination hadn’t been changed.

Yet.

Inside, the place was old-school Rat Pack done right, a modern interpretation of the era that had

spawned the likes of Peter Lawford and the Chairman of the Board: An entryway with black-and-red

flocked wallpaper took you to the receiving area, where the coat check, retro hostess stand and

cashier’s desk were. To the left, and to the right, there were two main dining rooms, both done in

black and red velvet and leather, but they weren’t where the local made guys, politicians, and wealthy types hung out. The sweet spot was the bar up ahead, a wood-paneled room that had red leather

banquettes set against the walls and, during regular hours, a tuxedoed bartender behind a thirty-foot oak stretch serving nothing but the best.

Striding into the bar’s dim expanse, Trez headed around the far end of the five-tiered display of

bottles and hit the flap door. As he pushed his way into the kitchen, the scent of basil and onion, oregano and red wine, told him just how stressed iAm was.

Sure enough, the guy was facing off at the sixteen-burner stove on the far wall, five huge pots

simmering in front of him—and what do you want to bet there were things in the stoves, too.

Meanwhile, wooden cutting boards were lined up on the stainless-steel counters, the dead heads of

various kinds of peppers lolling around next to the very sharp knives that had been used.

Ten bucks to guess who the guy had been thinking of when he’d been chopping stuff.

“You going to talk to me at all?” Trez said to his brother’s back.

iAm moved to the next pot, lifting its lid with a white dishcloth, a big slotted spoon going in and stirring slowly.

Trez leaned to the side and pulled over a stainless-steel stool. Taking a seat, he rubbed his thighs up and down.

“Hello?”

iAm went to the next pot. And then the next. Each had a separate spoon for flavor flagellation, and his brother was careful not to cross-contaminate.

“Look, I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you came by the club tonight.” Every evening, iAm headed

over to the Iron Mask for a check-in after Sal’s closed. “I had some business to take care of.”

Shit, yeah, he did. Baby girl with the bouncer BF had taken forever to get out of his car when he’d gotten her to her house—eventually he’d walked her to the door, opened the way in, and all but

toastered her through the jambs. Back at his Beamer, he’d hit the gas like he’d planted a bomb in the walk-up, and as he’d steamed over to the Iron Mask, all he’d heard in his head was iAm’s voice.

You can’t keep doing this.

iAm turned around at that point, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the

stove. His biceps were big to begin with, but cranked like that, they strained the bounds of the black T-shirt he was wearing.

His almond-shaped eyes were half-lidded. “You actually think I’m pissed off that you weren’t

around when I got to the club? Really. It’s not because you left me to deal with AnsLai or some shit.”

Annnnnnnnd they were off to the races.

“I can’t see any of them face-to-face, you know that.” Trez lifted his hands, all what-am-I-gonna-

do? “They would try to force me to go back with them, and then what are my options? Fight? I’d end

up killing the son of a bitch, and then where would I be?”

iAm rubbed his eyes like he had a headache. “Right now, it appears as if they’re taking a

diplomatic approach. At least with me.”

“When are they coming back?”

“I don’t know—and that’s what makes me nervous.”

Trez stiffened. The idea that his cool-as-a-cucumber brother was anxious made him feel like he

had a knife to his throat.

Then again, he was well aware of exactly how dangerous his people could be. The s’Hisbe was

largely a peaceable nation, content to stay out of the battles with the Lessening Society and away from pesky humans. Scholarly, highly intelligent, and spiritual, they were, on the whole, a pretty nice group of people. Provided you weren’t on their shit list.

Trez looked at those pots and wondered what the meat in the sauces was. “I’m still working off

the debt to Rehv,” he pointed out. “So that obligation has to come first.”

“Not to the s’Hisbe anymore. AnsLai said, and I’m quoting, ‘It’s time.’”

“I’m not going back there.” He met his brother’s eyes. “Not going to happen.”

iAm turned back to the pots, stirring each one with its designated spoon. “I know. That’s why I’ve

been cooking. I’m trying to think of a way out of this.”

God, he loved his brother. Even pissed off, the guy was trying to help. “I’m sorry I pulled a ghost and made you deal with this. I really am. That wasn’t fair—I just…yeah, I really didn’t think it was safe to be in the same room with the guy. I’m
very
sorry.”

iAm’s thick chest rose and fell. “I know you are.”

“I could just disappear. That would solve the problem.”

Although, man, it would kill him to leave iAm. The thing was, if he went on the lam from the

s’Hisbe, he could never have any contact with the male again. Ever.

“Where would you go,” iAm pointed out.

“Not a clue.”

The good news was that the s’Hisbe didn’t like to have any contact with UKs. No doubt even

showing up at his and iAm’s apartment had been traumatic, even if the high priest had just

dematerialized onto the terrace. Dealing directly with humans? Being around them? AnsLai’s head

would explode.

“So what was your business?” iAm asked.

Great. Onto an equally happy subject.

“I went to see that warehouse property,” he hedged. But come on, like he was going to voluntarily

bring up the chick and her boyfriend?

“At one a.m.?”

“I made an offer.”

“How much?”

“One four. The asking price is two and a half million, but there’s no way they’re going to get it.

The place has been vacant for years, and it shows.” Although…even as he said that, he had to admit

he’d felt presences there. Then again, maybe that had just been his stress level talking. “My guess is that they’ll come back at two, I’ll throw out one six, and we’ll come to terms at one seven.”

“Are you sure you want to tackle that project right now? Unless you show up at the territory with

your mating tackle ready to be used, the issue with the s’Hisbe is only going to escalate.”

“If things come to a head, I’ll deal with it then.”

“When,” iAm corrected. “That would be ‘when.’ And I know what happened in the back parking

lot, Trez. With the guy and that woman.”

Oooooof course he did. “You see the tapes or something?”

Goddamn security monitoring.

“Yes.”

“I handled it.”

“Just like you’re handling the s’Hisbe. Perfect.”

Temper flaring, Trez leaned in. “You want to be in my shoes, brother mine? I’d like to see how

well you’d deal with this bullshit.”

“I wouldn’t be out fucking whores, I’ll tell you that much. Which makes me wonder…isn’t our

real estate agent a female?”

“Fuck you, iAm. For real.”

Trez shot off the stool and marched out of the kitchen. He had enough problems, FFS—he didn’t

need Mr. Superior with the Julia Child skills armchair-quarterbacking this whole thing with twelve

kinds of potshot commentary—

“You can’t keep putting this off,” iAm called out from behind. “Or trying to bury it in between the legs of countless women.”

Trez stopped, but kept his eyes on the exit.

“You just can’t,” his brother stated baldly.

Trez pivoted around. iAm was over by the bar, the flap door swinging next to him so that there