Lover Mine(127)

John laughed silently, stretched her thighs wide, and went down the length of her until he was back where he'd started on her . . . with his mouth all over her sex.

His name echoed loud in the room, bouncing around the tiled walls as he gave her more of exactly what she wanted and needed.





Studiously ignoring the sounds of sex was a skill Blay was getting waaaaaay too much practice at.

As he came out of the weight room, he heard the echo of John's name through the closed door of the rehab suite. Given the pitch and the tenor, it was clear a whole lot of conversating wasn't the cause.

Not unless Xhex was a closet meteorologist and John was giving her the weather report of her life.

And good for them. Considering how hard-core things had been with John and those treadmills, it was a blessing.

Blay took a second to debate returning to the mansion, and decided that given how long Qhuinn could go, it was too early to head for his room. Ducking into locker-landia, he took a quick shower and changed into a pair of scrubs from the Vishous collection. Out in the corridor once again, he hustled along, pushing through into the office and shutting the door tight.

Quick hearing test and everything was quiet as far as he knew, which was just what he was after. Unfortunately, a check of his watch showed he'd blown through only about an hour and a half total. To think he'd always assumed an efficient shower was a wonderful thing.

Considering his alternatives, he decided to sit behind the desk. After all, studiously not listening to Xhex and John was an issue of decorum. Tuning out Qhuinn and Layla? Self-preservation.

Much better to rock the former than the latter.

Parking it in the swivel chair, he stared at the phone.

Saxton had been one hell of a kisser.

One . . . hell . . . of a kisser.

Blay's eyes briefly closed as heat wafted through him, like someone had started up a banked fire in his stomach.

He reached out to the receiver . . . and couldn't commit, his hand hovering, but not picking up.

And then he remembered Layla sauntering out of his bathroom, heading for Qhuinn.

Snatching the receiver from its cradle, he dialed Saxton's number and wondered what the hell he was doing as the line rang.

". . . Hello . . ."

Blay frowned and straightened in the office chair. "What's wrong?" Long pause. "Saxton?"

There was a cough and a wheeze. "Yes, 'tis I . . ."

"Saxton, what the hell is going on?"

There was a terrible silence. "You know, I loved kissing you." The strangled voice became wistful. "And I loved"--another cough--"being with you. I could look into your face for ages."

"Where are you?"

"At home."

Blay looked at his watch again. "Where is that."

"Are you seeking to play hero?"

"Do I need to?"

This time the coughing didn't stop after just one hitch. "I'm afraid . . . I . . . must go."

There was a click and the call went dead.

With his instincts screaming, Blay bolted through the closet into the underground tunnel, and dematerialized past the steps that led up to the mansion.

He took form again in front of another door hundreds of yards down.

At the Pit's entry, he put his face in the camera's eye and hit the intercom. "V? I need you."

As he waited, he prayed to the Scribe Virgin that Vishous was--

The stout panel whipped open and V was on the other side, his hair wet, a black towel around his waist. Jay-Z's Empire State of Mind was thumping in the background and the scent of fine Turkish tobacco drifted out.

"Whassup?"

"I need you to get me an address."

Those icy silver eyes narrowed, the tattoo on his left temple flexing. "What kind of addy you looking for."

"Off a civilian's cell phone number." Blay recited the digits he'd just dialed.

V rolled his eyes and stepped back. "Child's play."

And it was. Couple of keystrokes at the Brother's Four Toys and V looked up from his computers. "Twenty-one oh five Sienna Court--Where the fuck are you going?"

Blay spoke over his shoulder as he strode past the leather couches and the wide-screen television. "Out your front door."

V dematerialized and blocked the exit. "Sun's coming up in twenty-five minutes, true?"

"Then don't keep me here a second longer." Blay slid his eyes to the Brother's. "Let me go."

The whole lot of nonnegotiable he was feeling must have shown in his face because V cursed low. "Make it quick or you aren't coming back."

As the Brother opened the door, Blay thin-aired it right out . . . and took form on Sienna Court, a tree-lined street with Victorians of various colorful extractions. He flashed down to 2105, a perfectly conditioned clapboard number painted in dark green with gray-and-black trim. The front ginger-bread porch and the side door were lit with lanterns, but inside everything was dark.