TWO
Back at the Brotherhood’s mansion, Blaylock sat on the edge of his bed, his naked body flushed, a sheen of sweat across his chest and shoulders. Between his legs his cock was spent, and his hips were loose from all kinds of bump and grind. At the other end of the spectrum, his breath was squeezed, his flesh requiring just a little more oxygen than his lungs could provide.
So naturally he reached for the pack of Dunhill Reds he kept on his side table.
The sounds of his lover showering in the bath across the way, along with the spicy scent of hand-milled soap, were achingly familiar.
Had it been almost a year now?
Taking out one of the cigarettes, he picked up the vintage Van Cleef & Arpels lighter Sax had given him for his birthday. The thing was made of gold and marked with the firm’s trademark Mystery Set rubies, a 1940s lovely that never failed to please the eye—or do the job.
As the flame jumped up, the shower turned off.
Blay leaned into the lick of fire, inhaled, and flicked the top back down. As always, the slightest hint of lighter fluid lingered, the sweetness mingling with the smoke that he exhaled—
Qhuinn hated smoking.
Had never approved of it.
Which, considering the number of outrageous things the guy made a regular habit out of, seemed downright offensive.
Sex with countless strangers in club bathrooms? Threesomes with males and females? Piercings? Tattoos in various places?
And this guy didn’t “approve” of smoking. Like it was a vile habit no one in his right mind would bother with.
In the bathroom, the hair dryer he and Sax shared went on, and Blay could imagine that blond hair he had just grabbed onto and pulled back hard flowing in the artificial breeze, catching the light, shining with highlights that were natural.
Saxton was beautiful, all smooth skin and sinewy body and perfect taste.
God, the clothes in that wardrobe of his. Amazing. Like the Great Gatsby had jumped out of the pages of the novel, gone down to Fifth Avenue, and bought out whole blocks of haute couture.
Qhuinn was never like that. He wore Hanes T-shirts and fatigues or leathers, and still sported the same biker jacket he’d had from just after his transition. No Ferragamos or Ballys for him; New Rocks with soles the size of truck tires. Hair? Brushed if it was lucky. Cologne? Gunpowder and orgasms.
Hell, in all the years Blay had known the guy—and it had been since birth practically—he’d never seen Qhuinn in a suit.
One had to wonder if the guy knew that tuxedos could be owned, not just rented.
If Saxton was the picture-perfect aristocrat, Qhuinn was a straight-up thug—
“Here. Tap your ashes in this.”
Blay jerked his head up. Saxton was naked, perfectly coiffed and scented with Cool Water—and holding out the heavy Baccarat ashtray he’d bought as a summer solstice gift. It was also from the forties, and weighed as much as a bowling ball.
Blay complied, taking the thing and balancing it in the palm of his hand. “Are you off to work?”
Like that wasn’t obvious?
“Indeed.”
Saxton turned away and flashed a spectacular ass as he went to the closet. Technically, the guy was supposed to be living next door in one of the vacant guest rooms, but over time his clothes had migrated in here.
He didn’t mind the smoking. Even shared every once in a while after a particularly energetic…exchange, as it were.
“How’s it going?” Blay said on an exhale. “Your secret assignment, that is.”
“Rather well. I’m almost finished.”
“Does that mean you can finally tell me what it’s all been about?”
“You shall find out soon enough.”
As the flapping of a shirt emanated from the walk-in, Blay turned his cigarette around and stared at the glowing tip. Saxton had been working on something top-secret for the king since the fall, and there had been no pillow talk about it—which was probably only one of the many reasons Wrath had made the male his private lawyer. Saxton had all the discretion of a bank vault.
Qhuinn, on the other hand, had never been able to keep a secret. From surprise parties to gossip to embarassing personal details like whether you’d gotten laid together by a cheap whore at—
“Blay?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
Saxton emerged, fully dressed in a tweed Ralph Lauren three-piecer. “I said, I’ll see you at Last Meal.”
“Oh. Is it that late?”
“Yes. It is.”
Guess they’d screwed their way through the first place setting of the day—which was how they’d rolled ever since…
God. He couldn’t even think about what had happened a mere week ago. Couldn’t even put into mental words how he felt about the one thing he’d never worried about coming to pass—right in front of his own eyes.