Liam Davis & The Raven (21 page)

I gasp
ed as his hands traveled down my sides and rounded my backside, one finger stroking my entrance. “Take me into your mouth!”

He murmured a laugh as he bent to his knees, his mouth
sustaining its contact with my skin. “I want to hear you cry my name when you come.”

His tented briefs brushed over my
leg and the moan he let out skated over the tip of my cock. I tilted my hips toward him, nudging my head at his parted lips. His gaze flew up to mine as his wet, warm mouth enveloped me. I moaned, my head falling to my chest as my eyes shut with the intense pleasure of being firmly sucked deep into Quinn. I thrust lightly, the head of my cock squeezing down his throat and twisting gloriously.

I slammed my arms on either side of the wall as Quinn moved in time with my thrusts
, as if he knew my song and could sing it to perfection. I wanted him to never stop.

Quinn’s finger
harmonized with my song of pleasure, nudging at my entrance with every outstroke. Water trickled down my ass and thigh and over Quinn’s shoulder. My tempo increased. I wasn’t sure which one I wanted more, to plunge down that deep, tight throat or to impale myself on his finger.

My orgasm built quickly, and I was panting harder and harder
and—

“
Quinn!
” It burst out of me, and my pleasure swelled with each of his swallows. I sagged against the wall, a spray of water hitting my shoulder and fanning outward, lightly misting Quinn.

He carefully drew off me, palms running down the backs of my thighs. He held my gaze as he slipped his hand down his boxer-briefs and drew out his hard length.
“Stay like that. Keep looking at me.”

Sitting back on his haunches, he pumped himself hard and fast
, as if already close to the end. His eyes shut briefly, but when he reopened them, they were locked on mine again. His body stiffened and he shot over my knee, my ankle, the floor.

He was suddenly trembling,
so I moved to the side, re-angling the showerhead so he could get some warmth. “No, that wasn’t what I—thank you,” he said.

He peeled out of his clothes and
for the next few minutes we focused on cleaning, taking turns to rinse off under the water.

Once we were out
, towels tightly wrapped around our hips, I headed for the door only to have my wrist snagged. I turned back toward Quinn, who was staring intently.

He softened his grip but didn’t let go.
“I don’t want you racing off to your bedroom, and I don’t want to wait another week without mentioning this.”

My gaze dropped to my wrist and back to him.
“Are you saying you want a relationship, Quinn?”

He drew him
self and that tingle-inducing shell he always seemed to wear right up close. He nipped my ear. “You bet your ass I am.”

I moved to his room, snatching up my laptop on the way.
His bed hadn’t been made and, climbing into it, I kept an eye out for the likelihood I’d be exfoliated by Pringle shards. Seemed a low possibility. The bedding might have been tangled, but it also smelled faintly of washing powder.

Sitting back against the headboa
rd with the pillow jammed behind me and my naked legs stretched out, I burrowed the right leg against Quinn’s body and opened up my laptop.

Quinn pecked my elbow
, rasping the edges of his teeth lightly over my skin. “Of course you’d bring your work in here.”

He
delicately nipped my elbow again, and then watched as I checked my mails. My mom had written promising next year she’d make up for having to work.

I
hit
reply
and typed back that it wasn’t a problem, and then I described in detail my ideas for “the article” that had to “wow” the chief. Mostly it was to cement the ideas for myself, but I knew my mother liked it when I went off on detailed tangents. She said it was always a privilege when she was allowed inside my head.

I wrapped up twenty minutes later,
asking her a question at the end about how her new job was going. Quinn watched, his breath funneling under the sheets and over my hip.

I dragged the mouse symbol to the “send” button, and hesitated. A quick glance at Quinn’s blond tufts and
clubbed ear nuzzled close to my side, and I added a P.S.

A soft chuckle came from Quinn, and the mattress bowed as he shifted himself into a sitting position. “‘P.S
. I’m gay?’” he read aloud.

I pressed send as I nodded, and then opened a fresh document for brainstorming.
“Thought telling her might be appreciated.”

Quinn nudged my leg and I glanced at him as he picked at the seams of his bedcover. Slowly, he raised his head.
“So, was I clear enough back there in the bathroom?”

My fingers stilled over the keyboard.
“Yes, you want a relationship.”

“And?”

I clicked opened my calendar, and looked over the dates and appointments and deadlines. “Can I give you my thoughts after I’ve submitted my features article?”

“You don’t have thoughts right now?”

“Of course,” I said, resting my head back against the wood, “but they are . . . overwhelmed. I’d like to sort them first and find the right answer, and at the moment, I’m too distracted with this article I have to wow the chief with.”

Quinn
twisted onto his knees, sheets falling to reveal his stunning nakedness. “Sometimes there is no logical answer. Sometimes it’s just a feeling. Stop thinking up here—and start thinking
here
.”

He touched my chest
, and I frowned at his fingers, staring at the bitten-off nails a long moment before I spoke. “What if I will never be like you, Quinn? What if I don’t always yell and laugh and cry and cheer at things you or others might?”

He
dropped his fingers to the edge of the pillow under me.

“Maybe,” I said, drawing the laptop closer and jotting in the date,
“we should
both
think about things.”

His nod was slow and measured.

“Do you want me to leave?” I asked, gesturing toward the bed and the door.

“No.” He planted a kiss on the side of my lips.
“I still want you to sleep next to me. And would you think about something else if I asked?”

“Of course.”

“Would you come home with me, Shannon, and Hunter for Thanksgiving?”

Chapter 16

Heavy.
My limbs felt heavy as I made my way into
Scribe
that Friday. Each step toward the office felt like I had weights around my ankles. I chalked it up to a case of extreme nervousness, but that didn’t help the matter. Logically, I knew my articles were of the utmost quality and that I had to place in the top twenty-five of the BCA competition, but . . . but—

What?

There was no reason to allow this heavy feeling to consume me. I shook my head as if it would help lighten me, but it only sent a wriggly, tickly feeling to my stomach.

My pocket buzzed.
A text from Hunter. He wanted to meet for coffee at Crazy Mocha Coffee that afternoon.

Okay
, I wrote back. By then I might be able to eat something. I couldn’t eat this morning—Quinn had pressed a spoon of oatmeal to my lips but they wouldn’t budge. Even the kiss he gave me afterward, licking away the smudge of mushed oats, left me empty of our usual thrills. All I’d wanted was to lean my head on his shoulder, for him to take the heavy feeling away.

I stepped out of the stairwell. In front of me were the frosted
glass doors separating me from the buzzing, literary-charged atmosphere that encompassed most of my life—and the BCA results.

If I placed in the top ten, along with
winning a feature article, surely the chief would be hard-pressed not to promote me to features editor? As soon as I had his word, I’d have a reason to mail my father again. He’d sit up and pay attention then—or at least keep me on his radar over the next couple years.

I pressed my clammy hand to the textured glass, rolled my shoulders back, and opened the door to the next stage in my life.

The board loomed at the back of the room, a halo of white notices around the navy-framed results.

One step in.
To my right, in the corner of the room, Jack leaned back in his chair, swiveling as he chatted to a copper-haired girl I’d never seen before.

“So,” she said in a playful voice, “are you going to invite me to the
cathedral party or not? It’s supposed to be the party of the year, and I could
really
make it the party of your year.”

“Sorry, babe, not this time. I’m only there to work. But maybe next time.”

Five steps in. To my left, photocopiers murmured and beeped, and ahead the chief was bent over the sports reporter’s desk, tapping Nick’s fingers away to type into the laptop.

“An intro something like this
 . . .”

Ten steps in.
Hannah was frowning as she grumbled into the telephone, doodling on a loose piece of notepad.

Twelve steps in. Someone cut
in front of me. His Mohawk casually lifted before he returned to studying the stack of old
Scribe
magazines he carried.

Fourteen steps in. I was one step away from the board. A few people stood checking it in front of me, and I tapped my foot, unable to hold back the impatience. I glanced back to Hannah and raised a hand. She nodded and then turned into the phone once more.
The doors at the back opened. I pivoted. Jill was coming in, fumbling with the flap on his satchel. He let it go with a frustrated slap and stepped toward his corner desk—

And froze. His body seemed to tighten as if he’d been magically turned into a statue. I followed his gaze to Jack
’s hand climbing up Copper Girl’s arm to her cheek.

Jill snapped into action, twisting away from the sight, and left
the office.

Jack scowl
ed as he stared over Copper Girl’s shoulder at the fogged doors. There was definitely something going on between the two of them, and my initial thoughts were: lover’s quarrel. Then I adjusted them to: unrequited love.

Maybe that was the reason Jill didn’t want to speak up about that night
. Maybe he didn’t want it known that he was interested in his best friend. Perhaps The Night Warrior had seen him try something on Jack and when Jack retreated, leaving Jill humiliated, The Night Warrior had his victim just the way he wanted him. Vulnerable. Easy lunch.

Jill would hate anything that made him appear weak
or outcast to his peers. It would affect his having a “life.”

Finally the board was free. I nudged my glasses up
ward and read the list from the bottom up. The heaviness affected my finger too, increasing with every inch I had to lift.

I stole higher and higher, my stomach twisting again, a panicked flare gurgling out of me when I reached the last few places.

My name. It wasn’t there. It wasn’t . . .

“That can’t be right,” I said,
scanning through the list again. I must have overlooked it—

Nothing?

I blinked at the paper over and over as if somehow my name would suddenly appear. I scratched the back of my neck, my glasses popping forward with my frown. I rubbed a knuckle against my brow, and slowly picked my way to the chief. Hannah sent me a sympathetic smile as I passed. How long had she already known?

The tight lump in my throat hurt to swallow, but I swallowed nevertheless before moving into the chief’s office.

He wasn’t in there, but I’d seen him talking to the sports reporter. He’d be here soon. The chair dug into me and the seat was still cool after ten minutes of sitting on it. I fumbled with the pen in my pocket, but it was a lazy, irresolute touching. I couldn’t even summon the energy to click.

The air stirred
as I waited for the chief to round the desk.

He did, slowly. “Liam,” he said as if he’d been expecting me to pop in. “How are you doing?”

He sank into his chair and stroked his beard, gaze leveled to mine.

“There must have been some mistake,” I heard myself saying. “My articles should have placed.”

“It’s a blow, I understand. But you did well with one of your three submissions.”

“Twenty-eighth? It’s a good ranking for
that
piece, but—”

“
That
piece, Liam, is good, and it is what your peers want to read. I’m sorry you didn’t do as well as you wanted to, but that is the nature of competition. From what I’ve seen developing in your party page columns, I’m very sure you’ll do even better next year. Look at this as a learning curve, not a curve ball.”

I let go of my pen, withdrawing my hand from my pocket
, and stood. The chief had certainly made his point. Perhaps I should be thanking him for submitting the story that placed at all, but I couldn’t. Every swallow was bitter and painful.

Chief Benedict sighed and smiled, soft and empathizing
. “Look, Liam, It might not seem like it now, I’m just trying to help nurture your potential.”

My glasses kept sliding down my nose, and I pushed them up again
as I stood. “I’ll still wow you with my feature article, chief.”

Crazy Mocha Coffee
. Two o’clock, and half full. I sat at our usual table and lethargically leafed through a Booster Gold I’d had carefully tucked in the back pocket of my bag.

Hunter rolled in at quarter past, a smug smile on his face. “Get me a latte. I think it’s your turn to shout.”

When I came back, two coffees in tow, he slapped the comic shut. “That’s a good one,” he said with a wink.

I nodded and slumped
onto the chair.

He took
a sip, placed his cup on the table, and reached for his camera. “What party is up for tonight? I was thinking, maybe you want me to take some pictures that you could add to your column? If you want.”

My
column. Oh, the party page. I couldn’t remember what party I was supposed to go to tonight. It was on my calendar. I’d check it later. I gave Hunter a short nod and dipped my finger into the foam of my coffee, swirling it around.

“That’s it?” Hunter
asked, cocking his head at me. “I thought I’d get more than a nod.” He flipped off the lens cap. “Say cheesy balls. . . . Still a no? Okay, then cheesecake.”

Snap! Snap!

“I’m good, you know,” he said from behind his camera. “This could add some cutting edge to the whole overall impact of your column.”

That sore lump rose
in my throat again.

“And that’s exactly what my work needs to be enjoyable,
isn’t it?”

Hunter drew back, lowering his camera.
“Whoa, man. It’s just an idea. I’ve been searching for something to do besides economics and thought maybe you’d put in a good word at
Scribe
.”

I
played with the froth on my coffee some more. “Sure, I’ll put in a word.” I glanced up at him. The last time we met had been the night we discovered the true identity of The Raven. “Have you had a chance to talk—?”

His jaw flexed and he rested his camera on the table with a light
thunk
. “I tried.”

“And?”

“I didn’t know what to say, so I rambled on about basketball for longer than anyone wants to hear.”

Had he also been heavy with nervousness? Had his limbs felt as if they’d never feel normal again? “Were you nervous?”

He chuckled and veered his gaze away from mine. “Ah, fuck it,” he said picking up his drink. “I was shit scared. All I could think was, dude, I’ve known you my whole life, how could you not tell me about this? And suddenly, I didn’t want to hear the answer.” He shrugged, and gave a cursory glance toward his legs.

“
Maybe it will go better next time.”

“Maybe.” He took up his camera again and stared at the screen. “You want to tell me what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” I brought my foam-covered finger to my lips, but it seemed too much of an effort to lick it. I used a napkin instead.

“Come on. Spit it out.”

I shook my head even as I began spilling every detail about the BCA competition. “I just
—I thought for sure . . . What’s wrong with them?”

“Them the judges? Because it’s obvious, a lot.”

“Them, my articles.”

Heat spr
ang at the backs of my eyes, an unfamiliar feeling. I closed them and kept swallowing until it was under control. When I opened them, Hunter was pushing his way around the table. He used his buff arms to yank me toward him and held the back of my head firmly as he pressed his forehead to mine. “You’re fucking beautiful, you know that? Right now you make me wanna cry. I’m sorry the BCA thingy turned out to be a dud, but you’re gonna be awesome, Liam, and I’m stoked I’ll be around to see it.”

“Thanks,” I murmured as he slowly pulled away. “It’s
 . . . I mean . . . when I get your texts . . . I look forward to seeing you.”

He waggled his brows. “I tend to have that effect on people.”