Nischal [leopard spots 9] (5 page)

“I have more control than that,” Nischal muttered to himself. His voice was stripped bare from lack of use. He had an accent that would set him apart, too. At least he knew English. He’d picked it up over the years, and Kapuk had insisted that he and Sabin learn some of it, too. Maybe he wouldn’t completely freak Preston out.

Who was he kidding? He looked like a madman. He’d scare the shit out of Preston.

But that didn’t stop him from striding towards the man when Preston suddenly stepped out of the door labelled ‘Office’.

Preston stumbled and almost fell, then he moved slowly, as if he were hurting as he walked. Nischal imagined he was. It hadn’t been but a day since he’d seen Preston, but the joy that surged through him made it seem they’d been apart for a lot longer. It also implied they knew each other, which they didn’t, and everything happening to Nischal right then was just too bizarre to process. He let his instincts take over. His human thoughts were just complicating things.

His leopard knew what he wanted.
Preston.
The man was wearing a blue tank top and his shoulders were covered in coppery freckles. His hair glinted orange and red and gold under the hot sun, and sweat made his pale skin glisten. The khaki shorts he wore covered him nearly to the knees, but his ass rounded out that material nicely, and his calves were muscled and smattered with red-gold hair.

Nischal had figured he was gay but he’d never had a chance to act on his needs. Now he had years of them pent up inside him, trying to leak out of the end of his cock as he watched Preston.

The man held himself well, those broad shoulders back, chin up just a bit. Preston wasn’t skin and bones. He was stocky, muscular, but not overly so, as if he worked out just enough to keep himself from turning too soft.

Nischal wanted to roll in him, roll over him and cover Preston in his scent. He watched every step Preston took, the way Preston’s ass flexed under his shorts, the way he swung his arms and placed his feet.

Then Nischal began to stalk his prey.

* * * *

Getting out of Texas should have been Preston’s first order of business, but he’d ended up crashing at the clinic the night before. Exhaustion had taken him in its arms and kept him wrapped up until the sound of a screaming child had forced him back to consciousness.

While he kind of appreciated Dr Glaston and the staff letting him sleep, he’d really rather have done so somewhere private. Waking up with dried drool on his chin and sleep in his eyes, with one of the clinic workers looking at him, had been fucking awful.

He also didn’t feel rested. He’d had nightmares.
Jesus, nightmares seems too tame a description. Fucking hellish visions.
There’d been Paul, lifeless, his body rotting in stop-action type motion while he floated and flopped in the air like something out of a Slipknot video. And the scene had changed, flicking to Paul, chained, starved, beaten…

After the interview yesterday, Preston had been wrung out. He hadn’t admitted to the agents that he’d planned to kill anyone, but he was pretty sure they’d figured it out. The more he thought about it, the more guilt had eaten at him. He’d almost become the same thing he thought Suraj and Yangani were.

In some of his nightmarish visions, he’d been the one hurting Paul. Preston’s belly cramped and his vision swam. He didn’t feel good—something wasn’t right in his body and mind. Maybe it was the Texas heat and the fact that he hadn’t eaten or drunk anything today. Nothing other than a pill to help him relax and a sip of water to wash it down.

Dr Glaston had insisted on the medicine because Preston was wound tighter than a spring coil, but he couldn’t help it. Something was building in him, something he didn’t understand. There was the guilt and worry for Paul—damn it, shouldn’t he have known if his twin were alive?

But no, he and Paul had been close, true, but there’d been none of that feeling what the other felt. When Paul had broken his wrist, Preston hadn’t felt even a twinge. Just like when Preston had had his appendix flare up on him. Paul hadn’t had a clue that Preston was having emergency surgery while Paul had been out partying with some friends.

They were close, and Preston felt as if part of himself were gone, but he couldn’t read his brother’s mind or any of that other rumoured twin stuff he’d heard of. He just knew that Paul had gone to see snow leopards in a small southern town over a year ago, and he’d never returned. Preston had been waiting for him, because Paul had left him a voicemail and had sounded despondent over another man dumping him.

At first Preston had thought Paul had just taken off, but Paul wasn’t like that. By the time he was allowed to file a missing persons report, he had known something was terribly wrong. No one had believed him, except a few of Paul’s closest friends.

Preston shook his head and nearly fell over. He was definitely dizzy, and weirdly aroused. He snorted and pushed away thoughts about how he’d had to beg the cops in that town to check out the place where Paul had gone missing. He didn’t want to think about the blood they’d found or, well, anything right then.

Preston looked at the key card in his hand again. Sweat dripped down his brow and into his eyes. “Shit.” He swiped at his forehead then rubbed his eyes, and almost-clear vision allowed him to make it up the stairs to the door with his room number on it.

Once he got inside the room, he winced at the stale smell of it. Feet and cigarettes, that seemed to be the awesome combination. Preston was just going to have to deal with it. He was beat, and just as Agent De la Garza had promised, his bags were waiting for him on the bed. She could have recommended a better place, but he told himself to quit bitching. He was about broke and the government was paying for the room.

Still, the acrid scent was too strong. He propped the door open with the metal anti-lock hook on it. Then he turned the AC temperature setting down as low as he could get it. He’d take a quick shower then lock the door and sleep for twelve hours or so. No one was going to bother him. Not unless Suraj’s or Yangani’s ghost came by, if such a thing were possible.

The lukewarm water had a funky smell to it too, but considering that he smelt like a sweaty armpit, Preston didn’t care. He opened the motel soap and began scrubbing at his skin. He was still sore, but not horribly so. Not enough to deter his cock when he began soaping up his balls.

How long had it been since he’d got off? Preston couldn’t remember. That in itself told him it’d been too long. He plucked the washcloth off the small shelf on the shower wall and got it wet. There was no rush—he was going to enjoy beating off.

Preston started by scrubbing his body clean with the soapy cloth. He saved his most sensitive parts for last. The first scrape of that nubby material over his asshole made Preston’s legs quiver and his cock leap.

“Fuck,” he dragged out in a guttural voice that made his throat ache. Preston tipped his head up and opened his mouth. He let water run into it and swallowed some down. It helped his parched, sore throat tissues, and he went back to rubbing the washcloth over his pucker.

He brought his other hand around to fondle his balls. Preston sighed and closed his eyes as he touched himself. His nipples hardened and ached for some pressure, but he couldn’t do anything about them, not when it felt so good to palm his nuts and press a finger to his hole.

Preston hitched one leg up onto the hand bar on the wall. He arched his back and slid a finger into his ass. His breath stuttered at the small invasion. It’d been too long, too long. Even just that made him want to come.

His body warmed under the onslaught of arousal. His cock rose heavy and full to curve up against his belly. Preston wished he had a thick dildo, one with the balls built onto it. Maybe one of those kinds he could stick to the bathroom tiles and fuck himself into oblivion on…

“Yeah, fuck yeah,” he ground out as he left off playing with his balls to fist his shaft instead. Whatever the doctor had given him sure hadn’t relaxed him completely. Preston grinned and stroked up the steely length. Water alone wasn’t helping with the grip so he cracked open one eye long enough to find the little container of conditioner on the shelf.

Preston opened it with his teeth, unwilling to take that finger from his hole. He wiggled it and moaned happily. How had he gone without this?

After emptying the conditioner onto his dick, Preston dropped the little bottle and started stroking again. Occasionally the scratches on his back stung, small reminders of the danger he’d been in yesterday. Over that, though, came the memory of a rough, wet tongue against his skin.

Preston shivered. He could have been killed, he could have been maimed, but he hadn’t been. Instead, it almost seemed like the leopards had helped—

Why am I thinking about leopards while I’m jerking off?
Preston snorted. He focused on the way his hand felt on his cock, the drag of skin on skin, and he pushed a second digit into his asshole as well.

“Uhn…gawd!” He needed more in his ass, more stretching, more fullness. He needed more goddamned arms, too! Preston tightened his hold on his cock and pumped harder. If he just had a big dick ramming into his ass, he’d be in nirvana.

He tried working a third finger in, but he’d never been a contortionist. He was short and stocky, and his arms reflected that. Preston closed his eyes and envisioned himself getting fucked instead. His lover mounted him from behind and held him with a firm grip as a thick, long cock began to fill him.

“Yes, fuck.” Preston imagined a scrape of teeth over his nape, the firm, hard grip of a man’s hands on his hips, the press of balls against his. He wanted to be so full he couldn’t handle any more. He wanted rough and fierce, scratches and marks and bruises. He wanted to feel like he’d been fucked for days.

And in his mind, a swarthy dark-haired lover held him in a grip that left fingernail marks on his skin as he slammed into Preston’s ass with bruising thrusts. The fantasy catapulted him into release as he imagined the stranger grunting and shoving him against the wall to really pound away at him.

Preston’s balls ached as they shot cum up to his dick. He yelped and fucked his hand even as he tried desperately to stretch his hole more. His climax shook him to his toes and he cried out as spunk jetted from his slit. The fingers he’d shoved in his ass were clamped in a tight vise as he came, and Preston could only pant through the rest of his release.

When he came back down from the intense orgasm, his hands were both in his lap and he was sitting on the shower floor. He didn’t know how it’d happened, just that he’d ended up there. It was jolting, but nothing felt broken, so he supposed he’d somehow got down and sat.

On a nasty motel shower floor.
Preston leapt up so quickly he slid on the wet flooring. “Shit!” he screeched as he tried steadying himself by grabbing the shower curtain.

But the shower curtain was yanked out of his hand the second he caught hold of it. Preston blinked and figured he was seriously hallucinating. He’d hit his head after all, or something, because a hairy, naked man had taken a hold of Preston’s arm, steadying him. There couldn’t be a hairy, naked man in his motel room. That made no sense.

Except I left the fucking front door cracked open. Shit!
Then Preston did something he’d never done before in his life.

He fainted.

Chapter Six

It hadn’t been Nischal’s intention to strip down and jack off. But damn it, he’d slipped into the room, which Preston had idiotically left open. The man was fine, but nonetheless, he’d wanted to grab Preston and scold him until he promised not to be so foolish ever again. Anyone could have come into the room and hurt Preston. There would be no more taking such risks.

The small room was rank, but Nischal had focused instead on the scent of Preston. It made Nischal’s dick achingly hard, and his heartbeat raced. Every moment Nischal thought of Preston, scented him, heard him, made Nischal more certain that Kapuk had been right.

If that was the truth, then Nischal had found the one person in the world meant for him.

The very idea of it was terrifying and tantalising and irresistible. Nischal had heard Preston in the shower, and had been unable to resist entering the room.

Through the white curtain, he’d easily made out Preston masturbating. It’d been too much. Nischal’d had a visceral need to join him, but he’d also had enough sense to know that would have been a disaster.

As if stripping naked and beating off along with Preston was any better an idea.
Yet he hadn’t been able to do anything else.

Preston had come and the aroma of his cum, along with the sounds he’d made, had ripped Nischal’s climax right out of his cock. It’d left him stupid too. He hadn’t even considered what would happen when he was busted naked and cummy in the bathroom.

Preston’s attempt to give himself a concussion forced Nischal to act. He couldn’t let Preston be hurt. The thought of that made him panic and he yanked the shower curtain aside so he could catch Preston.

He hadn’t realised Preston had clutched the material, and when Nischal yanked it from him, Preston lost his balance all over again.

Now Nischal had the sexy little stud by one arm. Then he didn’t. Preston’s eyes rolled back as an expression of shock flitted over his face. He sagged and his wet skin was impossible for Nischal to keep a hold of.

“Shit!” He leapt into the shower and ended up going down with Preston. At least neither of them hit their head, if that was any consolation. Cool water splattered down over them, and Nischal closed his gaping mouth before he ended up drowning himself.

He manoeuvred Preston around until he had the pretty man in his lap. Preston might not be typically pretty or handsome, but to Nischal, he was perfect. Pale skin, cinnamon-coloured freckles, hair the colour of Nischal’s favourite sunsets back in Nepal. Nischal really liked Preston’s build, shorter than Nischal by several inches, and thick in body and cock.