Lover At Last(38)

Cursing, he withdrew his legs from the desktop and sat up. His body was stiff as a board, aches blooming in all kinds of places as he willed on the overhead light.

Crap. He was still naked.

But come on, like the modesty elves would have snuck in and clothed him in his sleep? Just so he wasn’t reminded of what he’d done?

Putting his shorts on, he shoved his feet into his trainers and then reached for his shirt—before remembering what he’d used it for.

As he stared at the crumpled folds of cotton and felt the stiff places in the soft cloth, he realized that no amount of rationalization was going to change the fact that he’d cheated on Saxton. Physical contact with someone else was only one way of measuring infidelity—and yeah, that was the biggest divide. But what he’d done last night had been a violation of the relationship, even though the orgasm had been caused by his brain, not his hand.

Getting to his feet, he was half-dead as he went to the door and opened it a crack. If there was anyone around, he was going to duck back inside and wait for a clear shot into the corridor: He so completely did not want to get caught coming out of this empty office, half-clothed and looking like hell. The upside to living at the compound was that you were surrounded by people who cared about you; the downside was that everybody had eyes and ears, and no one’s business was just their own.

When he didn’t hear voices or footsteps, he exploded out into the hall and started walking briskly, like he’d been somewhere for a good reason and was heading to his room for an equally important purpose. He had a feeling he’d gotten away with it when he hit the tunnel. Sure, he didn’t usually go shirtless, but a lot of the Brothers or males did when they were coming from the gym—nothing unusual.

And he really felt like he’d won the lottery when he stepped out from under the mansion’s grand staircase and got another good dose of empty-bowling-alley. The only problem was that, going by the sounds of china being cleared in the dining room, it must be later than he’d thought. He’d obviously missed First Meal—bad news for his head, but at least he had some protein bars in his room.

His luck ran out as he took the stairs up to the second floor. Standing in front of the closed doors to Wrath’s study, Qhuinn and John were dressed for fighting, their weapons strapped on, their bodies covered in black leather.

No way in hell was he looking at Qhuinn. Just having the guy in his peripheral vision was bad enough.

“What’s going on?” Blay asked.

We’ve got a meeting now, John signed. Or at least, we’re supposed to. Didn’t you get the text?

Shit, he had no idea where his phone was. His room? Hopefully.

“I’ll hit the shower and be right back.”

You might not have to rush. The Brothers have been sequestered for the last half hour. I don’t have any idea what’s going on.

Next to the guy, Qhuinn was rocking back and forth in his shitkickers, his weight shifting like he was on a walk even as he went nowhere.

“Five minutes,” Blay muttered. “That’s all I need.”

He hoped the Brotherhood would open those doors by then—the last thing he wanted was to get stuck passing time anywhere near Qhuinn.

Cursing as he went, Blay jogged down to his room. Usually he took his time getting ready, especially if Sax was in the mood, but this was going to be a wham-bam, thank you, ma—

As he opened his door, he froze.

What the…hell?

Duffels. On the bed. So many of them he couldn’t see more than an inch and a half of the king-size duvet—and he knew whose they were. Matching Guccis, in white with the navy blue logo and the navy blue and red cloth strapping—because according to Saxton, the traditional brown-on-brown with the red and green was “too obvious.”

Blay shut the door quietly. His first thought was, Holy shit, Saxton knew. Somehow, the guy knew what had happened in the training center.

The male in question came out of the bathroom with an armful of shampoo, conditioner, and product. He stopped dead.

“Hi,” Blay said. “Taking a vacation?”

After a tense moment, Saxton calmly came over, put his load down in a travel bag, and turned back around. As always, his beautiful blond hair was swept off his forehead in thick waves. And he was dressed perfectly, in another tweed suit with matching waistcoat, a red cravat and red pocket square adding just the right accent of color.

“I think you know what I’m going to say.” Saxton smiled sadly. “Because you’re far from stupid—just as I am.”

Blay went to sit down on the bed, but had to recalibrate because there was nowhere to put himself. He ended up on the chaise lounge, and, with a discreet lean to one side, he tucked the wadded shirt under the skirting. Out of sight. It was the least he could do.