by Kirby Crow
Jean still had that smug, wicked smile, supremely confident. “Liar. You're such a poor liar, bebè.”
“I'm not your baby. Why did you leave the coach?”
Jean slipped his hand around Marion's hip. “Don't be mad, baby.” He jerked Marion close with a sudden, strong movement, pressing their bodies together tightly. “Don't make a fuss,” he said close to Marion's ear. “Eyes are on us.”
Marion went still and the hand he’d placed on Jean's shoulder, intending to shove him away, suddenly became gentle. He lowered his head and pretended to be giving in. “Who?” he murmured.
“Don't know. They've been shadowing me for an hour.” Jean grabbed a handful of Marion's ass and hunched his pelvis forward lewdly to rub against him.
The sudden friction of Jean's thick cock against his was unexpected, electric. It shot past his defenses like an arrow. Marion inhaled sharply. He felt his own cock growing stiff and the muscles of his belly tightening in excitement. It really has been too long, if a little dry-humping from Jean can scramble my thinking like this.
Jean's hand cupped the back of his neck and he knew that Jean could feel how hard he was. He could see it in Jean's pleased smirk.
“Miss me, lover? Want to go someplace a little more private, where we're less likely to get a rock dropped on our heads?”
He found it difficult to say “no” like he meant it, even when he knew it was a ruse for spying eyes. Jean could feel exactly how much he was affected. He clutched Jean's arms and pushed his hips forward, avoiding his eyes. “Lead on.”
They ducked out of sight under a sagging awning of old canvas, then Jean took his arm and tugged him through a dim alcove with a narrow exit into an alley. They crossed the alley and Jean lead him into the Prato, a little square surrounded by insulae with a capped well and pump. Here the cobblestones were mostly whole. At the far end of the square was a high bridge spanning a wide canal that led to the Fortezza.
Jean crossed the Prato and led him through an arcade and into the long hall of a blue-painted insulae. They passed several doors, until Jean stopped at one and pushed it open. The room had plaster walls and smelled of jasmine. A thread of green vine with a sprinkle of white blooms curled in through an open casement overlooking a few feet of canal. Another insulae blocked the view beyond that.
Jean shoved him against the dusty wall, pressing his face to Marion's neck.
“You can stop now,” Marion gasped. “No one can see us.”
“But I don't want to stop.” Jean's mouth was hot against his ear. “I want more.” He took Marion's hips in both his hand and pulled him against his body. “You want it, too.”
“I don't.” It was a weak refusal. Marion closed his eyes and tried to conjure Tris's sweet face, but all he could see was Kon's disapproving glare.
“Your cock does.”
He ached so badly. It had been so long since anyone had touched him like this, with so much surety and raw lust. Jean rubbed his rough beard over Marion's skin, biting his neck.
Marion writhed and twisted half-away, gasping. “No marks, damn it!”
Jean chuckled against his throat and marked him anyway, sucking blood up to the skin and leaving a red bruise. Jean's hand dropped and he felt Marion's cock through his trousers, his palm gripping Marion's length and stroking, moaning for him, wanting him...
“Damn you,” Marion snarled. He grabbed Jean by his collar with both fists and dragged him to his mouth. Jean tasted like wine and his tongue was rude and demanding, stabbing against Marion's teeth until he opened up.
Marion moaned and felt himself falling hard, giving in. Jean was so familiar, so available, and there was no effort to it, no fear of disappointing him or doing the wrong thing. Jean wanted him, and there were no shadows looking over Jean's shoulder, no disapproving father figure. When he kissed Jean, it was only him.
The buttons of Jean's shirt popped as Marion ripped at his collar. Marion groaned as he exposed Jean's broad chest. Jean had the body of a god, all perfect lines of muscle and golden skin scattered with black hairs, laced with scars fine or deep like any man who had fought in a war would be. They were matched in that, at least.
Jean was helping him, shrugging the long black coat off of his back, his eyes fixed on Marion intently. Marion's hands went to Jean's nipples immediately, pinching and touching. He licked his lips. His mouth was almost watering for it, and he pulled Jean forward and bent his neck to settle his mouth around that hard little nub, sucking it between his lips and flicking it with his tongue.
Jean moaned loudly and clasped the back of Marion's head. “Ohhhh oh oh... yes,” he groaned out. His fingers curled into Marion hair. “I can't wait to feel your mouth on my cock again. Oh, suck it baby, suck me.”
Jean was always vocal in bed. Marion reached down and stroked Jean's cock through his trousers, rubbing up and down.
Jean tongued his neck and bit his ear, ragged breath hot against his skin. “I'm going to fuck you, Marion.”
Like hell you are.
Marion got his heel against the wall and pushed, turning until he had Jean against the wall and trapped with his body. “You're going to do what?” He bit Jean's scratchy chin, then lashed his tongue against Jean's mouth. “You're the one getting fucked.”
Jean grinned. “How long has it been since you stuck it in? I bet I could make you come just like this.” Jean thrust up against him, rubbing their cocks together through layers of material.
Marion responded by dropping both of his hands to Jean's groin and tearing at his belt and buttons. He moaned when the thick, hot length of Jean's cock bobbed free and was in his hand. It felt so good, his sex was so warm, the skin silky and damp at the same time, and so hard. Jean had a hard-on like a piece of carved oak. Marion curled his fist around it deliberately tight to hear Jean's hiss of pleasure. He jerked his hand up and down, jacking him off lewdly, and Jean writhed against him and moaned, pushing his hips forward for more.
“You always did whine for cock like a begging dog,” Marion growled against his cheek.
“So fuck me like one.”
Jean shoved his trousers down his thighs and arched his back against the wall, and Marion suddenly found himself letting go of Jean's cock and running his hands over his chest, feeling the taut nipples with his fingers, pulling at them until Jean moaned and thrashed his head back and forth. He stripped Jean's shirt completely off and felt his hard shoulders, the ridges of muscles in his biceps, and the long, flat expanse of his belly, dusted with black hairs.
I love your body, he thought. He couldn't say it. He loved Tris's body, too, his elegant looks and his slender strength like a fine rapier. Jean was an axe to Tris's sword, but Tris's body was a stranger to Marion. He'd never taken it, never lost himself in it, never thrust himself deeply into it and cried out a name. Jean was scent and touch and a feeling he knew. Jean was memory, and he reached for it.
“Turn around,” Marion growled. When Jean didn't move, he grabbed Jean's shoulder and dragged him around, pushing his face against the wall. He looked down and saw the curves of Jean's firm ass offered up to him.
“Spread your legs,” he ordered. His cock ached and it felt like all of him was centered into one white-hot area below his waist. He spat thickly into his hand and rubbed it on the head of his cock, then nudged Jean's thighs wider apart and reached down, guided by instinct and need. “I said open up, damn it!” He kicked Jean's feet apart with his boots and forced him to bend his knees.
Jean hissed when the snubbed, wet head probed him, and Marion wrapped his arm around Jean's throat.
“Let me hear it, Jean.”
Jean shook his head, the damp, curling ends of his hair slapping Marion's face.
Marion pushed, sliding his cock into him with effort. Jean felt tight and hot and it was good, so damn good. He tightened his arm and bit the side of Jean's throat, marking him with his teeth. “Give it to me, give it up, let me hear you.” He held Jean's hip with his other hand and shoved into him.
Jean cried out thinly, and Marion held him tighter, fucking him hard. His hand scrabbled at Jean's groin only to find Jean's hand already there, stroking himself. Jean braced his other hand on the wall and spread his legs as wide as he could, urging Marion deeper. Marion pushed Jean's hand away from his dick and curled his fingers around the thickness of it, and they found a slow, violent rhythm together.
Jean gasped with every hard thrust. His head fell back to rest on Marion's shoulder as he was taken, and he began to make small, urgent sounds that Marion knew all too well. Marion reached between Jean’s legs and stroked the thick shaft almost brutally, thumb brushing over the head with every thrust, knowing how that drove Jean wild. Jean keened deep in his throat and bucked against him, his ass clenching tight.
A sparrow flew through the casement and then out again, soft wings flitting in dappled light. Marion cried out through gritted teeth and the orgasm crested over him so fast and strong that he was powerless, just closing his eyes and holding onto Jean and driving his cock into him like it was a hard race he had to finish or die.
His breath whistled in his throat and he was covered in sweat under his coat. His cock was still stiff between the damp cheeks of Jean's ass, glossy with his own seed.
“Feels so damn good to be inside you,” Marion moaned and slid slowly in and out a few times, luxuriating in the slick, relaxed grip of a body well-fucked. Jean shuddered all over as Marion’s hand left his cock to cup his balls. Marion drew his fingers through the thick, curling hair at the base of Jean’s cock. “You want to come?”
Jean nodded wordlessly, head down, his breath hitching in little gasps.
“I love this,” Marion whispered into Jean’s ear as he began to stroke him again, his breath puffing against the soft ends of Jean’s hair. “After I come inside you, when you feel so slippery and marvelous.” He thrust in deep and his over-sensitized skin was like an ache of pure pleasure.
Jean gave a shaking moan and spurted in his hand. Marion closed his eyes at the sound of it and kept his arms around Jean, fucking him slowly and letting the pleasure roll over him, making his toes curl inside his boots.
Too soon the world started to reassemble itself and demand attention. He heard birds outside the casement and the muted sounds of the Zanzare, a thread of conversation not far away. Marion sighed and kissed the side of Jean's neck regretfully, letting his cock slip out of him.
He wanted to let Jean pull away first, but when Jean's hand curled around his and held it, he gently tugged away.
“We should move before your followers begin searching for you at street level,” Marion said. He scrubbed his hand, wet with Jean's come, on his trousers.
Jean silently pulled his trousers up and began to button them, his chin down, his face closed.
Marion buttoned up his shirt. “Did you find anything?” he asked in a murmur, not wanting his voice to reach beyond the room.
Jean plucked his shirt from the floor. “L'arciere,” he replied in the same tone.
Marion stared at him. “You’re kidding.”
Jean looked at his shirt, then down at his limp cock hanging between his legs, shrugged and began to clean himself with it. “Nope. He's got a pack of muscled idiots working for him. Not Teschio. Amateurs trying to make a name for themselves, but not all of them. I met a bell'uomo named Thorn. If you meet him, give him a wide berth. A killer who moves like a ghost.” Jean tossed the shirt to him.
Marion used it to wipe the sticky mess off, giving Jean a half-hearted grimace. “Sorry.”
“I've got other shirts.” A grin tugged at a corner of Jean's mouth. “It was worth it.” A moment passed. “So are you still marrying him?”
The afterglow fled abruptly and Marion felt like banging his head against the wall. “Don't,” he groaned. “Of course I'm still marrying him. What did you think; that one back-alley screw with a man who's sucked, fucked and spread for half the Colibri would make me change my mind?” He regretted it as soon as he said it. Shame flashed through him at Jean's wounded look.
“Damn you to hell,” Jean said in a choked voice. “Don’t you understand? You were everything I ever wanted to be. You were my Tris.”
Jean's fists clenched and for a moment Marion thought Jean was going to hit him, but all the anger seemed to go out of Jean at once, and his big shoulders sagged.
“I’m sorry,” Marion murmured.
“I’m not you. I don't know how to do the right thing,” Jean said, the words falling slowly out one upon the other. “Or even what the right thing is. I never would have made warden without you. Hell, I probably wouldn't even be alive without you. I'd have gone down with the Teschio and it would have been me on that crane right beside Aureo. We belong together, you and I. I thought it was always going to be that way. Then you pulled away from me and I knew that everything I'd ever been afraid of was happening.” He looked at Marion, chest heaving deep and slow as if the breaths hurt him, his eyes wet. “You'd finally seen me for what I was, and it wasn't good enough.”
“You were,” Marion whispered, guilt flooding his heart. “You were all I wanted for a long time. I never meant to hurt you. I thought you didn't need me. I thought you'd roll right on like you always did, breaking hearts and heads in your wake, nothing touching you, nothing holding you back, least of all me.”
Marion moved to hold him, but Jean pushed him away.
Jean wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Don't feel sorry for me, you bastard.”
“I won't,” Marion promised softly.
Jean pinched his nose and raked his hair back from his forehead. “Listen,” he said. “About this mess with Aequora, I think you need to let this one go. If we lose the woman and boys, so be it. Something bigger is at work here. If we stay, we're going to lock horns with it directly.”
“Good.”
“We'll lose.”
Marion dropped the damp shirt to the floor. “I can't lose exiles. When I took the badge, I swore to protect them.”
“And return to the Citta Alta in triumph, with Tris throwing roses at your feet.”
Amazing how quickly they could get back to arguing, after such pleasure. He buckled his belt with short, jerking movements. “Tris has nothing to do with any of this.”
“The Archer doesn’t agree.”
His fingers halted on his buckle. “What does that mean?”
Jean shrugged into his coat and rubbed his face. His mouth was swollen and red from kisses. He seemed very reluctant to speak. “Don’t go insane, aye? Tris is here, in the Zanzare. The Archer has him.”
Marion felt the blood drain from his face. “Tris is safe at home.”
“He’s not. He was with me when—”
Marion grabbed Jean by the throat. “What have you done?” he snarled. He shook Jean savagely. “Tell me!”
Even being choked, Jean put two fingers to Marion’s lips and managed a shhh. Noise would bring attention.
Marion let him go, his hands shaking. “Tell me,” he hissed. “And if you’ve hurt Tris in any way I swear to Jesu—”
“Shut up.” Jean rubbed his throat. “It wasn’t me. He came down here himself.”
“He’d never. That’s a lie.”
“Call me a liar again and I’ll answer with my fists.” Jean pulled his coat on. “He came down here looking for you.”
Marion struggled to contain the panic and rage that gripped him. His sweet boy, down here with these men, these animals. Alone. Without protection. And Jean had allowed him to be taken by Kon’s enemies. Despair threatened to swallow his fury. He beat it back. “Why?”
“Because of something he found out about Kon. He thinks the information was meant for you, but Paris found it first.”
“Paris?” Marion felt his fragile control slipping again. “I’m going to kill that peacock.” At the moment, he meant it. He imagined Paris’s throat between his hands, how his eyes would bulge as the life left them.
“Don’t blame Paris. Tris gave him the sli
p, drugged him and left him somewhere near the Averlo.”
“I don’t believe you. Tris wouldn’t do that.”
“Then he had a run-in with some gangers in the Colibri, took a clue from one of them, came down here and got into a brawl. He was winning, too. Well... sort of. I chased the bastards off, took Tris with me to see Franny, who—by the way—he damn near kicked to death when Franny threatened you.”
Marion felt dazed, even sick. His lovely, gentle Tris. “That’s not the man I know.”
Jean nodded. “Exactly. I like him a lot better this way.” He smiled without humor. “Look at you, mouth like a fish on a string.”
Marion turned and put his hands on the wall. He pressed his forehead against the cool brick and closed his eyes. “But the Archer has him now,” he said faintly. “Does he know who Tris is?” A child could have heard the tremble in his voice.
Jean gripped his shoulder gently and turned him. He laid his hand on Marion’s cheek. “He knows he has the son of the magestros,” he said softly. “I’m sorry. I did everything I could. I swear it.”
“Is he hurt? Has that bastard hurt him?”
“Not yet. We’re going to get him back. The Archer wants something in return, though.”
“Anything,” Marion said at once.
“Not so quick,” Jean warned. “He wants us, you and me.”
“Done.”
“No.” Jean stroked his thumb over Marion’s cheek. “He doesn’t want us dead or hostage. He wants our allegiance.”
Realization swept over Marion. L’arciere wanted to recruit them. He pushed Jean tiredly away. “And if we refuse?”
“I don’t think he’ll kill Tris. What good is one more dead body to that man? But he wouldn’t let Tris go. He’d take him to sea.”
It was Kon and Aureo all over again, only Kon had held nothing over their heads to enlist their loyalty, had made no threats. They’d joined Kon because it was a better life, and—for Marion—the only way to cleanse the innocent blood from his hands. The Archer represented a return to the past, to the graycloaks and the gangs. The whole cruel, bloody business starting again.