Lover At Last(118)

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.