Oh, God, he’d marked the guy.
Fuck. Not exactly good form, considering Blay was already in love and in a relationship…and going back to his lover’s bed.
Then again, when a male was with the one he wanted, especially if it was the first time, that was what happened. Hell broke loose….
It went without saying that it had been the best sex of his life, the first right fit after a long history of not-even-closes. The thing was, at the end, he’d wanted Blay to know that, had been searching for words and relying on touch to pave the way to the confession.
But it was clear the male didn’t want to get close like that.
Which brought up a second, even more profound regret.
Revenge sex was not about attraction; it was about utility. And Blay had used him, just like he’d asked to be used.
That hollow feeling came back tenfold. A hundredfold.
Unable to stand the emotion, he burst up to his feet, and had to curse: The notable tightness in his lower back had fuck-all to do with the airplane accident, and everything to do with the pneumatics he’d just spent the last hour…or longer…throwing around.
Shit.
Going into the bath, he left the lights off, but there was more than enough to go by from the bedroom as he turned on the shower. This time, he waited for the water to get warm—his body was not up for another shocker.
It was so pathetic, but the last thing he wanted was to wash Blay’s scent off his skin, but he was being driven mad from it. God, this must be what the hellrens in the house felt like when they got all possessive: He was of half a mind to stalk down the hall, burst into Blay’s room, and shove Saxton out of the way. Matter of fact, he would have loved for his cousin to watch, just so the guy knew that…
To cut off that really frickin’ healthy train of thought, he stepped into the glass enclosure and went for the soap.
Blay was in a relationship, he pointed out to himself—again.
The sex they’d just had had not been about emotionally connecting.
So he was, in this moment of emptiness, getting shanked by his own history.
Looked like this was another case of fate giving him what he deserved.
As he washed himself, the soap wasn’t half as soft as Blay’s skin, and didn’t smell a quarter as good. The water wasn’t as hot as the fighter’s blood had been, and the shampoo wasn’t as soothing. Nothing came close.
Nothing ever would.
As Qhuinn turned his face to the spray and opened his mouth, he found himself praying Saxton wandered off the range again—even though that was a shitty thing to hope for.
Problem was, he had a horrible feeling that another case of the infidelities was the only way Blay would come to him again.
Closing his eyes, he went back to that moment when he’d kissed Blay at the end…really, truly kissed him, their mouths meeting gently in the quiet after the storm. As his mind rewrote the script, he wasn’t pushed away to the far side of a boundary he himself had created. No, in his imagination, things ended as they should have, with him stroking Blay’s face and willing the lights on so they could look at each other.
In his fantasy, he kissed his best friend again, pulled back, and…
“I love you,” he said into the spray of the shower. “I…love you.”
As he closed his eyes against the pain, it was hard to know how much of what ran down his cheeks was water, and how much was something else.
TWENTY-NINE
The following day, late in the afternoon, Assail’s visitor came back.
As the sun set and the last of the dusky pink rays pierced through the forest, he watched on his monitor as a lone figure on cross-country skis stood among the trees, poles balanced against hips, binoculars up at the face.
Or her hips, and her face, as it were.
The good news was that his security cameras not only had fantastic zoom, but their focus and sight line were easily manipulated by the computer’s joystick.
So he went in even tighter.
As the woman dropped the binoculars, he measured the individual lashes around her dark, calculating eyes, and the red tinge to her fine-pored cheeks, and the steady rhythm that beat in the artery running up to her jawline.
The warning he’d given to Benloise had been received. And yet here she was again.
It was clear she was connected in some way with that drug wholesaler—and the night before she had apparently been angered by Benloise, given the way she had marched out of the back of that gallery looking like someone had insulted her.
And yet Assail had not seen her before, and that was odd. In the past year or so, he had familiarized himself with the each-and-everys of Benloise’s operation, from the incalculable number of bodyguards, to the irrelevant gallery staff, to the canny importers, to the man’s flesh-and-blood brother who oversaw the finances.