Lover At Last(78)

“Fuck my cousin, it’s got nothing to do with him for me. If you were alone, I’d still be right on this carpet, on my knees, wanting to be with you. If you were mated to a female, if you were dating someone all casual and shit, if you were in a million different places in life…I’d still be right here. Begging you for something, anything—one time, if that’s all you’ve got.”

Qhuinn reached out again, going under the robe, stroking a strong, muscled leg—and when Blay stepped back again, he knew he was losing the battle.

Shit, he was going to lose this chance if he didn’t—

“Look, Blay, I’ve done a lot of shitty things in my life, but I’ve always kept it real. I almost died tonight—and that sets a male straight. Up there in that airplane, looking over the dark night, I didn’t think I was going to make it. Everything got clear for me. I want to be with you because of that.”

Actually, he’d known a fuck of a lot sooner, waaaaaaaay before the Cessna situation, but he was hoping the explanation made sense to Blay.

Maybe it did. In response, the guy weaved on his feet, as if he were going to give in—or leave. There was no telling which one it was.

Qhuinn rushed to get more words out. “I’m sorry I’ve wasted so much time—and if you don’t want to be with me, I get it. I’ll back off—I’ll live with the consequences. But for the love of God, if there’s a chance—for whatever reason on your side—revenge, curiosity…hell, even if you’ll let me fuck you just once and never, ever again, for the sole reason of driving a stake through my heart? I’ll take it. I’ll take you…any way I can get you.”

He reached out a third time, snaking his hand around the back of Blay’s leg. Stroking. Pleading. “I don’t care what it costs me….”





TWENTY-SEVEN


Looming over Qhuinn, Blay was preternaturally aware of everything around him: the feel of Qhuinn’s hand on the back of his thigh, the way the hem of the robe brushed against his calf, the scent of sex thickening the air.

In so many ways, he had wanted this his whole life—or at least ever since he’d survived his transition and had any sexual impulse at all. This moment was the culmination of countless daydreams and innumerable fantasies, his secret desire made manifest.

And it was honest: Qhuinn’s mismatched eyes were without shadows—or doubts. The male was not only speaking the God’s honest as he knew it in his heart; he was at peace with laying himself vulnerable like this.

Blay closed his lids briefly. This submission was the opposite of everything that defined Qhuinn as a male. He never surrendered—not his principles, not his weapons, never, ever himself. Then again, the turnaround did make some kind of sense. Facing death did tend to be followed by a come-to-Jesus chaser….

The trouble was, he had a feeling this wasn’t going to last. This “eye-opener” was undoubtedly tied to that plane ride, but as with a heart attack victim resuming his piss-poor diet soon afterward, the “revelation” probably didn’t have a long shelf life. Yeah, Qhuinn meant what he was saying in this heady moment—there was no doubting that. It was hard to believe it was permanent, however.

Qhuinn was who he was. And soon enough, after the shock wore off—maybe at nightfall, maybe next week, maybe a month from now—he was going to go back to his closed-off, hands-off, distant self.

Decision made, Blay reopened his lids and bent down. As their faces got closer, Qhuinn’s lips parted, the fuller, lower one pursing as if he were already trying out the taste of what he wanted—and liking it.

Fuck. The fighter was so magnificent, his powerful bare chest glowing in the lamplight, his skin carrying a sheen of arousal, his pierced nipples rising and falling to the driving beat of his heated blood.

Blay ran his hand down the corded muscles of the arm that linked them, from the heavy thickness of the shoulder to the bulge of the biceps and the cut curl of the triceps.

He removed the palm from his thigh.

And stepped away.

Qhuinn paled to the point of going gray.

In the silence, Blay didn’t say a word. He couldn’t—his voice was gone.

On sloppy, loose legs, he scrambled for the way out, his hand flapping around the doorknob until it gathered enough coordination to open up the exit. Walking out, he couldn’t have said whether he slammed the door or shut it quietly.

He didn’t make it far. Barely three feet toward his room, he collapsed back against the smooth, cool wall of the hallway.

Panting. He was panting.

And all that effort wasn’t doing any good. The suffocation in his chest was getting worse, and abruptly his vision was replaced by black-and-white checkerboard squares.