by M. A. Grant
He rubs my dick through my jeans, and nothing hurts as much as when he stops so he can fumble with the button and zipper. I try to do the same to him, even though I’m gasping for air. My hands shake so badly I can’t manage it. He frees me first, pushing my pants and boxers down and growling when his hand finally closes around me.
My head thuds against the wall and I arch into his grip. His thumb swipes over that narrow slit, sliding over the beads of moisture he uses to help him twist over the crown, and my knees start to go.
He wedges his thigh between my legs, catching and pinning me with it as he frees himself.
His hand slams into the wall near my cheek and he presses his face against mine, so all I smell is his shampoo and soap.
Then his cock’s sliding hot and hard against mine. Roark’s hand tightens around us as he rocks his hips, pressing our bodies up and into the wall over and over. He makes a needy noise in the back of his throat that’s so at odds with everything I’ve known about him. That’s because of me. Lightning gathers at the base of my spine, threatening to loose itself through me. My muscles strain and tremble against the onslaught, desperate to make this last even if it’s a losing battle.
He nips my neck, a tender spot just below my ear, and I gasp.
“Finn,” he huffs against my skin, licking away the hurt and nuzzling against me. “Finn—”
I think I’m whispering please over and over like it’s some kind of prayer, but it doesn’t matter anymore. Not when he says my name that way.
My vision explodes with light and dark. Wet heat streaks over my abs and chest, spattering against my neck. I tremble, consumed, but the ley line isn’t there. It’s just me and Roark and he pants and shudders as he comes with me.
It’s a controlled slide to the floor. We end up a tangled mess, covered with jizz and sweat and trapped by the pants we never managed to finish pulling down. I can’t stop kissing him. He doesn’t seem to mind.
At some point, reality intrudes. He pulls back a bit, watching me from half-lidded eyes. His brain’s going a million miles a minute and I’m about to lose him. Before he can say anything, I tease, “Do you believe me now?”
Roark
“We can’t do that again.”
Finn smiles when I say that. He lies on his back, head hanging over the edge of my bed, his towel uselessly wadded at his side while he lets his body air-dry. His skin’s still pink from the heat of the water and both our fingers are pruney from how long we were in there together.
“I’m serious,” I tell him, toweling off my hair one more time. I hate when it drips everywhere. “That was a mistake.”
His expression is soft and fond and he ignores my baiting. He laughs when I run a finger over his ribs, but it trails off when I wander to his chest and trace the deep scars hachured into his skin.
“It’s okay,” he whispers, even though he hisses in surprise a moment later when I press my lips to the old injuries and trace them with my tongue.
It’s not. He still needs my help with the ley line. He’s become a topic of interest to the monarchs of both Courts. In a few weeks, I’ll walk away from him and never come back.
He runs his fingers through my hair. I close my eyes and turn into his touch. “It’s okay.”
“Stop saying that,” I mumble into his neck.
“Make me.”
He tastes like warmth and summer and rye whiskey and I’m drunk on him.
* * *
“We should probably talk,” he mumbles.
The moonlight glows over his sweaty skin, his closed eyes, the flaxen dusting of hair on his pecs that leads lower.
“What?” My brain won’t work. My head’s full of white noise after that round. The slightly bitter aftertaste of him lingers on my tongue still. He cried out my name when he came and until the day I die, it will be the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.
I curl up against him. Breathe his air.
“This is a mistake,” I say once more. But no one’s listening, not even me, and I drift off to sleep safe in his arms.
I wake to an empty bed. It’s odd to feel the ghostly warmth of his body in my sheets when he’s nowhere in sight. For a half second, the tiny piece of me that’s terrified by what I did whispers, You should be grateful that he walked away when you couldn’t.
My door opens and that thought’s drowned out by relief as Smith eases his way back in. He’s pulled on a pair of athletic shorts, but is otherwise gloriously naked. When he sees me awake, he gives a shy smile, and the color that floods his cheeks makes his freckles stand out.
“Hey,” he says, pushing the door shut behind him.
“Hey.”
“You still up for training today?” he asks. He settles himself comfortably on the foot of my bed.
It’s almost a relief how he acts like nothing’s changed. Well, except for the way his hungry gaze slides over me, as if he’s memorizing my body again, with his eyes this time instead of his lips and tongue. That is different. But his easy adjustment to our new circumstances assuages the awkward worry gnawing at me.
I stretch and sit up. “You never told me why it was so important for you to train so hard. You only mentioned that you wanted to help your family.”
Some unspoken war rages within him when he looks away from me and focuses on the picture I’ve left sitting on my desk. It’s my turn to wait. Finally, his shoulders relax and he says, “We need a good harvest this year. It’s important.”
“You want to use the ley line to help.”
“I need to use it to help. Do you believe in miracles, Roark?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Well, my parents do. And I need to give them one.” He glances back to me, grasping for levity. “Think you’re good enough to make me less of a magickal idiot?”
I lean toward him, fury stealing the coherency of speech until all I can bite out is “You’re not an idiot.”
He flinches away and the muscles of his back flex. “You call me one all the time.”
“I call you that because—” I swallow as he braces himself. How long has he believed me when I throw that word at him? For years, I’ve hidden behind it, afraid if I don’t call him that, I’ll trip up and call him something that gives away my true feelings. As if lying naked in bed beside him doesn’t give me away already.
Idiot.
The word hurts him. I never knew, or maybe I just ignored it because it was easier to push him away than risk some kind of admission.
I start again, lowering my voice and trying to be honest for a change. “I call you that because I know it upsets you. But it’s not true.”
His ribs expand, a shaky, staccato movement. I untangle myself from the sheets and move closer.
“How many non-magickal beings do you think attend Mathers?” I ask.
“Two dozen?” he guesses.
“Two,” I correct him. “You and a werewolf who hasn’t turned yet.”
I skim my hand down his spine. He shudders, but doesn’t pull away from the touch.
“So,” I continue, “there’s really only you.”
He tries to stand. “Mathers’s greatest disappointment.”
“Stop that.” I tighten my fingers around his wrist and tug, twisting him back toward me.
He hunches over the bed, legs braced awkwardly against the force.
“Stop saying that about yourself. You are doing the impossible, Finn. No one in history has had your power and lived this long. No one could control it the way you can. You are the most powerful human on the planet, and everyone wants a piece of you.”
“I know that,” he whispers. “Isn’t that why you finally said yes?”
He goes scarlet as he looks past me to the rumpled sheets, but it’s too late. That fear rings between us and everything snaps into brilliant clarity.
I pull him closer, focusing on his quickening breath, the way his mouth drops open in surprise.
“No, Finn,” I say. “That happened because you’re a go
od man and I wanted you. I lied to my mother last night because what happens between us is none of her damn business. And I will help however I can because this matters to you.” Carefully, I release him. He doesn’t try to run. “Now, how much time do we have before you leave?”
He licks his lips. “About a week? I leave Saturday. Get back Monday.”
“We’d better get started, then.”
His fingers tap nervously against the band of his shorts. “Roark, I don’t want you to regret this.”
“Smith, shut up. You aren’t one of my regrets. Move so I can get dressed.”
He reaches for me, his hand sliding over the curve of my calf, skating higher and higher. “Later.”
At least that bruised look isn’t in his eyes anymore.
Chapter Sixteen
Phineas
It doesn’t get easier. Using the ley line, I mean. My control’s about what it used to be, even if it comes more willingly when called. No matter how many times we try, I can’t quite coax it to help plants grow stronger. It tries, but the energy’s too unstable, too wild, and all that’s left is smoldering ash.
“Stop thinking,” Roark orders as he flips through his Sumerian Literature textbook and pushes yet another houseplant across the table toward me. “You always fuck up when you overthink.”
He passed his Sumerian final with flying colors despite missing most of last term, the bastard, and was recommended to continue on. He doesn’t need to continue with the language for his master’s degree, but it amuses him and could aid his diplomatic efforts.
I’m learning that Roark’s entire life is a carefully scripted series of events designed to make him the most useful ruler to his people. He’s always on display. It sounds weird, but I’m kind of glad for his packed schedule of duties. It gives me time to breathe. To think. We spend our late nights together, part ways early in the morning, and meet up again in the afternoon or evening to run through more ley line practice.
Four days later, this new balance holds.
I glare at the plant in front of me. I swear, its tiny green leaves tremble in fear. “Focus on control. Don’t overthink... How do you propose I stop thinking, Lyne?”
He sighs and flips another page. “It shouldn’t be hard, Smith. You’ve had years of practice.”
From his seat on the couch, Herman cackles as he knits a new blanket to replace the one I accidentally burned last spring. If he knows what’s going on between Roark and me, he’s decided to keep it to himself. We aren’t being obvious, and Roark’s glamour has proven useful during the inevitable close calls that arise from living in the same small space.
Realizing it’s not worth it to waste my energy defending myself to both of them, I let my body go loose as I reach again for that current of energy. The ley line shakes itself a little, brushing off the last failure, and glides toward the plant. It soaks into the tiny container of earth and my skin tingles when it starts to work its way up through the roots. A faint shiver and two delicate new leaves begin to uncurl from the main stem.
It’s working. I can do this. I can bolster this last harvest, help my parents get enough money to save the farm—
Too late, I realize I’ve stopped paying attention. The ley line takes matters into its own nonexistent hands. There’s a sharp, sweet rush and the plastic container melts, as the dirt superheats, the plant exploding into a shower of sparks. I try to turn it off, but don’t know if I can.
Roark’s knee bumps into mine and that wild heat vanishes from the cool press of his body.
“Breathe,” he murmurs, never looking up from his book.
The clack of knitting needles ceases. “It smells like a burning salad bar,” Herman comments.
I wince. Roark points a lazy finger toward the plant and a moment later it’s encased in ice. Even the dark curl of smoke is trapped. He pushes another plant—one of the last two remaining—to me. “Try again.”
I stare at the plant, frustration and worry cascading over me. I want to ask him to come with me, just in case things go wrong. But what if he says no? Maybe I can ease into it...
“Roark?”
His curious glance steals the rest of the words from me. The corner of his mouth quirks. “What?”
You’re such a coward.
“Nothing,” I mumble.
“Then try again.”
Much later, while I’m lying in bed, he continues the conversation as if it were never interrupted.
“I could join you, if you want.”
He says it so quietly I wonder if he waited until this moment, when I’m caught between the haze of dreams and wakefulness, to offer.
I lift my head from the pillow to watch as he skims off his wool slacks. There was another meeting of the Unseelie tonight, something official that required him to write a speech and make a bunch of calls to his mother. He didn’t volunteer what it was about and I didn’t ask. But I guess that even though he was busy today, he was still thinking about my problem.
“You’ve got responsibilities,” I say, collecting my scattered thoughts. “You can’t afford to take time off.”
He loosens his tie and his long fingers pop the buttons of his shirt. “I’m offering, Smith.”
This feels like more than something a friend would do. Roark’s help would require him to meet my parents. It would require us to put a name to whatever the hell we are now. He’s not impulsive, so I’m sure he’s thought about the magnitude of his offer, but...
But since our first night together, we’ve been careful to never discuss the what-ifs. Our history—let alone any future we might cautiously and privately consider—is too complicated.
I want to accept and thank him. Explain how much this means to me, how it makes the hard-edged worry that bites into my ribs when I think about home too much seem smaller. “You don’t need to do that,” I say instead.
He gives a low grunt and finishes stripping, dropping the rest of his clothes to the floor. I pull my cheap comforter back so he can crawl into my narrow bed.
“It’s important, right?”
I shift, making room for him to tuck his head under my chin. “Yeah,” I admit. I trust him with that. I’m not quite willing to hand over all the details yet, but sharing this much is...safe. Strange how that’s changed.
“Then I’ll be there. I promise.”
His statement buzzes over my skin and I wonder if there’s some hint of magick in those two words. He falls asleep before I can ask what prompted the offer. I lie there, watching the stars blink through my window, until sleep pulls me under into familiar, distorted dreams.
* * *
It’s only a matter of time until the shit hits the fan. In the back of my mind, I know that. The relative peace had to end sometime.
Still, walking into the apartment to discover Robin Goodfellow hovering over our table, eating microwave popcorn, is unnerving.
“Prince Lyne,” he says, spewing tiny chunks of food all over, “your mother sent me.”
Roark’s immediate reaction pushes the situation from unnerving to treacherous. His eyes never leave Goodfellow, even when he takes a step away from me and forces physical distance between us. The past few days when we’ve walked together on campus, even when we’re around other fae, he doesn’t seem to care that we stay so close we sometimes bump into each other by accident. Goodfellow’s appearance makes Roark wary, which makes me wonder if it would be easier to kill the intruder right now.
“Ah, the messenger,” Roark drawls. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Queen Mab requests your presence in the sídhe,” Goodfellow says.
He’s skinny, all gangly limbs and long, knobby fingers. His dark hair is long, tousled, and curls over his forehead and the tops of his ears. His most striking feature is the shadowed stubble over his jaw. I’ve never seen a faerie with it before.
Roark is the picture of royal indifference. “I assume your visit here means that I’m expected sooner rather than later.”
; “Yes, Your Highness.”
Roark nods and heads toward his room. His exit leaves me standing awkwardly in the living room with the still-floating interloper. The faerie examines me with an aseptic gaze and the ley line snarls at his perusal.
“Heard a lot about you after that ball,” Goodfellow muses. “Seems like you’re getting a lot of attention in the Courts. Still, I’m not sure what they see in you.”
He tosses me a piece of popcorn. I catch it, holding it between thumb and forefinger, and let the ley line swallow it with a tiny burst of flame. “Neither do I,” I say, tossing the destroyed kernel back to him.
He catches it, turning it this way and that as he examines what’s left. His grin chills me to the bone.
Roark returns with his satchel. He’s changed back into what I’m starting to recognize as his Court attire: slacks, a dress shirt, tie, and jacket. The constrained lines match the rigid control he maintains over his emotions, his body, even his voice. Masterful in his ennui, he waves a hand toward Goodfellow. “Tell Mother I’m on my way.”
“Of course, Your Highness.”
I jump when Goodfellow disappears without a word, only the outline of his toothy smile hovering for a half breath longer.
“Don’t fuck with him,” Roark warns me, checking his bag and tugging at the lapels of his jacket.
“I try to avoid him.”
Final inspection done, Roark swipes a hand through his hair. “Good. He’s not one of ours. Unaffiliated with either Court. I can’t put a leash on him. We only put up with him because he’s an excellent messenger.”
“He’s also a jackass.”
“You have no idea. He’s the one who told my mother the rumors about your power.”
“Well, shit.” Probably shouldn’t have shown off said power.
The silence between us weighs heavier than it has in days.
“Planning on being gone long?” I ask, gesturing at his bag.