by J. R. Ward
He went across and righted the corners of the metal box. Then he fussed with the flour container, which was even bigger. Also scooted over the smallest of the three, the one that had salt in it.
When he turned back around, he was sick and tired of waiting for the other male to speak.
Trying to keep his frustration out of nuclear territory, he clapped his hands together and got with the program. "Look, I'll just dub in the words, okay? I've had a long night, I'm tired, and as much as I respect your journey or your exploration or whatever it is called, I think we can save us both time and aggravation by stipulating that you tried it, you were not into it, and you need some reassurance that I meant what I said about keeping things private."
"That is not why I came."
Work, then. Of course. "What of Minnie now?"
In lieu of a reply, Ruhn walked forward...and it was about when he was halfway across the distance that separated them that Saxton realized...
The male was aroused.
Very aroused.
Ruhn had not come here for a never-again, but rather for some-more.
Saxton's body responded instantly, his blood rushing, his cock hardening, his annoyance, frustration, and exhaustion instantly evaporating.
As the other male came to a halt with mere inches between their faces, Saxton had to smile a little. "I guess I read this wrong, huh."
"Yes," came the growl. "You did."
Holy from-out-of-nowhere.
Ruhn took hold of Saxton by either side of the throat and yanked him forward, the male's kiss nothing tentative or shy, nothing experimental. It was full on, tongue pushing inside, that big body thrusting hips and an erection the size of a baseball bat into Saxton and forcing him back against the countertop.
Oh...my God. It was a case of hang on for dear life as he was devoured, the power and hunger in Ruhn the kind of thing that was as shocking as it was unexpected and undeniable--
And then Saxton was spun around and bent over, a rough hand forcing him down by the shoulder blades onto the counter.
As Ruhn ground his cock into Saxton's ass, the male said in a guttural voice, "Say no now. If you're going to, say it now."
Saxton turned his head to the side, his cheek squeaking over the granite. Opening his mouth, he began to pant.
"Don't stop. Oh, God...do it."
All at once, the lights in the kitchen went out, the space plunged into darkness as Ruhn clearly willed it so. The hands that went for Saxton's fly were rough with impatience--and then his fine loose slacks were hitting the floor. A blunt head probed and then Ruhn spit into his own palm--
The possession was hard and very deep.
The ride was a pounding to the point of violence.
The orgasm that poured into him was soul shattering for them both.
And Ruhn did not stop. He shoved a hand under Saxton's chest and locked a hold on the front of his opposite shoulder. Then the male steadied his stance and pistoned, their lower bodies slapping together, Saxton's head banging into those metal canisters, something getting torn--his suit jacket. Throwing out a hand, he put his palm against the wall under the cabinets just so he didn't end up with a concussion--and then he searched for purchase with his other hand.
He didn't find it, his arm flapping around.
Thank God he had something underneath his torso or his legs, which were now loose as satin ribbons, would have gone out from him.
Except then he located something to hold on to. Reaching between his thighs, he gripped his erection and instantly came, his sure strokes throwing him over the brink. He didn't care where he was ejaculating or how much cleanup was going to be required.
When you were having the sex of your life, the aftermath was not what you concerned yourself with.
--
Ruhn finally collapsed on Saxton's back--after God only knew how many orgasms. And yet even though he stilled, there was no silence. He was panting so hard that his front teeth were whistling, and beneath him, Saxton was nothing but harsh inhales as well. The scent of sex was thick in the air, and his cock, which was still hard as a rock as it twitched inside of the male, seemed to be suggesting this was a pause, not an all-finished.
With a groan, he opened his eyes. Across the way, the oak table with its orderly lineup of chairs pressed into its flanks was a surprise.
Where were they--oh, right. The kitchen. In the Audience House.
He had come in the back. So he could come...in the back.
Okay, that was the worst joke he'd ever thought up. And by the way...dearest Virgin Scribe. What had he done here?
Putting his palms on the granite countertop on either side of Saxton's shoulders, he intended to push himself up and off, but that went nowhere fast. He was too exhausted, and it felt too good to leave.
The male felt too good to leave.
As he tried to find the energy--and the will--to disengage, he thought of the other times he'd had sex. They had been exclusively with females, and only during his previous life. The encounters had been because he had been sought out by those wanting to be with an animal, and he had been provided to them for that specific service. His body had performed because of the timing of it all and because they had been naked and on him and his cock had risen to the occasion.
But he had never chosen them.
Saxton...he had chosen.
"I'm sorry," he said roughly as he summoned movement unto his arms. "I...am very sorry."
With a lithe twist, Saxton looked up at him. "Why in the world would you apologize for that?"
Ruhn felt a blush burn his face, and then he was ducking that direct stare and retracting. The air was cold on his arousal, and as he looked down, he was struck by an overwhelming need to do this all again. He had left a slick mess behind, but it was...the most erotic thing he'd ever seen.
Yet what did they do now? he wondered as he did up his jeans. That initial drive sated, he now couldn't believe he'd had the nerve to be so aggressive, so wanton, so--
Saxton straightened and pivoted around.
Fates, that face, those eyes, that hair...that erection, which seemed both a foreign and a familiar anatomy. Ruhn had never seen an aroused male up close before--and he was struck by an insatiable need to explore with touch and taste.
Indeed, this male was the answer to the "why."
"I ripped your suit," Ruhn said as he focused on the torn shoulder socket. "I am so sorry. I will pay to--"
Saxton reached over, grabbed the lower part of the sleeve--and yanked it clean off. As he dropped the cloth to the floor, he smiled. "Would you like to work on the other side?"
Ruhn laughed. He couldn't help it--and then he covered up his front teeth with his hand out of shyness. As Saxton grinned back at him, he had to look away. It was just too much beauty, too much excitement...too much everything.
"Have you eaten?" the solicitor asked as he reached down and pulled his slacks back into place.
"No, I have not."
"Let me make us Last Meal." Saxton passed a hand around the kitchen. "We are well stocked here. I will just excuse myself for a moment upstairs."
As Ruhn hesitated, Saxton took his face in his hands, and urged him down to the male's mouth. The kiss was as sweet as the sex had been possessive.
"I have to go to Mistress Miniahna's," Ruhn heard himself say. "To check on her before the dawn comes."
"All right, I understand." Saxton took a step back, a reserve tightening his features. "I shall see you at nightfall, then. We need to pay a visit to those real estate developers."
"Good."
There was an awkward silence. And then Ruhn blurted, "When?"
Saxton exhaled as if he were changing tracks in his head with effort. "Ah, let's say five forty-five. End of business for them, dark enough for us. We'll need to take your truck--"
"I mean us. When can we...do this again?"
Saxton's smile was quick and sustaining. "Anytime you like."
Ruhn reached up and brushed t
he male's face with his knuckles...before running his forefinger across that lower lip. Flashes of what they had just done replayed with a soundtrack of their moans and gasps.
"Thank you," he said.
Saxton shook his head. "I rather think I'm the one who should be saying that."
No, Ruhn thought. Not at all.
He leaned in and kissed the male. As his blood began to stir, he knew he had to go--or he was liable to never, ever leave.
"It is I who am grateful to you," he whispered against those lips.
"Who is Oskar?"
As the question was whispered in her ear, Novo came fully awake. At first, she had no idea whose chest she was lying all sprawled and warm on--but a quick inhale solved that problem. Peyton. She and Peyton were--
Yes, the hospital room. She was in the clinic, still recovering from surgery.
Lifting her head, she looked at the male she'd turned into a throw pillow. Peyton seemed perfectly content to be used in such a fashion, his naked body relaxed, his eyes heavily lidded, the mess at his throat already beginning to heal itself. Over on the floor, his tuxedo was all fallen-soldier-on-the-battlefield, scattered in pieces from having been cast aside.
His cock was much the same, resting flaccid and exhausted on one of his thighs.
She had the sense it would be back in working order at the drop of a hat.
"A lover?" he prompted.
"Who?"
"Oskar. You said his name in your sleep just now."
"Oh, that's no one."
"Really? You seemed upset--or your voice did."
"Must have been a nightmare for no good reason."
"Yeah." He brushed a wisp of hair back from her cheek. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"You want to go on a date with me sometime?"
Novo cocked a brow at him. "A date."
"Yup. Dinner. Dancing. This kind of thing."
"Are you thinking there will be sex involved?"
"Hoping, sure."
"Maybe."
His smile went straight into the center of her chest, sure as that dagger had: slow, confident, sexy. "I love a challenge."
"I'm not a challenge, though."
"You are as far from easy as anyone I've ever met."
"You can never win me. That's why I'm not."
"Isn't that the very definition of a challenge?"
"No, it's called a brick wall. You're welcome to try me, though."
"Somehow, someday," he held his forefinger aloft, "I'm going to get through to you."
"Ask yourself why you're bothering to try. You'll get far more out of that endeavor, I assure you--"
"She's soooooooooooooo hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh, hiiigh above me--"
Novo recoiled and had to talk over all the off-key. "Why are you singing?"
"--she's soooo looooovely--"
Novo had to laugh. "You are a total freak, you know that--"
"--liiiiiike Cleeeopatraaaa, Joooooooannn of Arrrrccc--"
"Oh, my God, you are tone deaf."
As she covered her ears, he really turned up the volume. "--or Apppphroooodiiiiteeee--"
His arms wrapped around her and he kissed her and kissed her again. But it wasn't about sex. He seemed to like the fact that she was laughing, and the mouth-to-mouth was his way of telling her that.
"Why are you such a whack job?" she said against his lips.
" 'Cuz I will do just about anything to see that smile of yours."
"Why do you care?"
"How can I not?"
Novo rolled her eyes. "Listen, you need to stop."
"I did. I'm no longer singing. But if you want me to go through my repertoire of Wham!, I have that shit on deck right now for you. I also do a mean Flock of Seagulls, wassup."
"I'm talking about being charming. I hate it. Just be yourself."
"What if I am being myself."
"Frustrated lounge singer?"
"Someone who wants to make you smile."
She shoved herself off of him and sat up--at least until her IV lines stopped her. "I think you need to go."
Peyton just put his hands behind his head and continued to lie there like a lion sunning himself. Except he was not king of the jungle and, hello, the light source was fluorescent and coming from the bathroom.
Damn it, that roughed-up blond hair and those sleepy blue eyes were too fucking attractive. Especially considering they were the cherry on top of one hell of a naked-ass sundae.
"I can't," he drawled.
Wait, what had they been talking about? Oh, right. The Peyton charm. "You sure as hell can cut the shit."
"By the way, it's two in the afternoon." He nodded at the clock over on the wall. "Daylight is a real buzzkill, so you can't tell me to go. As annoying as you find me, I'm very sure you don't want my death on your conscience."
"Do not underestimate how irritating you can be." Novo pointed to the door. "And no matter what time of day or night, you can always leave this room."
"Make me."
She blinked. "What...?"
"You heard me, hard-ass. Unplug yourself, pick me up, and toss me out there like litter. Otherwise, I'm just sooooo comfortable right here. I mean, this two-inch pillow--that's basically like putting my head on a Frosted Mini-Wheat--is diiiiivine. And don't get me started on these sheets. I mean, hello, I'm throwing my Porthault out as soon as I get home and replacing it with this sandpaper. My ass is getting buffed to a high shine with me just breathing."
Novo mostly kept the laugh to herself. Mostly. "Stop. You're not funny."
"No? Not even a little?" He winked at her. "How about I do my best joke ever."
She crossed her arms over her chest--and then abruptly froze. As she looked down at herself, she took a ragged breath.
Instantly, Peyton was all serious and sitting up. "What's wrong. I'll get the doctor--"
"No, I'm okay."
With hands that shook, she reached up to the hospital johnny's ties. Loosening the top one, she gently parted the two halves...and stared down.
In a barely audible voice, she whispered, "It's gone. The scar...is gone. It's healed. My heart...has healed. There's no pain."
Peyton leaned in. And then he reached out and brushed his finger down the perfectly regenerated skin. There wasn't even a mark.
"I didn't want to die." She cleared her throat, but she was still hoarse. "Out there. When it happened...I didn't want to die."
"You sound surprised."
Novo closed her eyes. "I am."
"I'm sorry."
Trying to snap out of it, she shut his sympathy down. "You already apologized for the mistake."
"No." He shook his head. "I'm sorry there was a time when you wanted to die."
"I never said that."
"You don't have to."
Before she could try to slam that door closed, he did the strangest thing.
Peyton took her hands, drew them away from the ties, and then turned them over. Dipping his head, he kissed her on both wrists, his lips the softest of brushes. And afterward, he gathered the ties she had been holding...and executed a perfect bow, the two loops exactly the same, the pair of ends of equal length, the johnny now re-closed.
Placing his hand over her heart, he whispered, "I am so glad you're okay."
Without another word, he wrapped his arms around her and urged her back down onto his chest.
She resisted. For a little bit.
But then she stopped fighting.
--
As the hours of daylight passed, Peyton did not sleep. He just stroked Novo's back with a slow hand, the contours of her spine and muscles a landscape he learned better with each pass.
He had often recognized her strength. How could he not? There was a lot of pain underneath all of that, though--and he was struck by a need to find out her secrets, get in and help her conquer those demons. But come on, what could he really do for her? He was more boat-with-a-hole-in-it than competent-rescuer-on-the-high-s
eas.
At some point, he must have drifted off, because the wailing of that patient with the mental breakdown woke him up. Listening to the howling, he wondered how much longer anyone could last in that condition.
A quick check of the clock on the wall and he cursed. Five o'clock.
Damn it, he didn't want to leave her and he most certainly did not want to go where he was expected at five-thirty. But he was used to doing shit he had no interest in.
With slow, careful movements, he repositioned Novo--and prayed that she stayed asleep. She looked like she was really making the turn, what with that scar healing up already and her brows relaxed now, not furrowed in pain. When he was standing on his own two feet and she had curled onto her side, he eased the blankets into place and realized that they had never been skin to skin. She hadn't taken her johnny off, and he hadn't even gotten in under the covers.
Seemed like a metaphor for all the things she was keeping to herself.
As he pulled on his tuxedo slacks, he had some notion that he should leave well enough alone. Sexual attraction did not a relationship make, and neither did it justify demands for emotional connection. And hell, he knew firsthand from those hours on the phone with Paradise that people talked about themselves on their own timeline and no one else's.
Just leave her be, he told himself. Those defenses of hers were in place for a reason.
His tuxedo shirt was a wrinkled mess and he hated that as he pulled it on, but it wasn't like the thing was going to stay on him for longer than the walk down to the males' locker room. He'd take his shower there and throw on a set of scrubs.
Over at the door, he stared back at Novo sleeping on that hospital bed. She was in the position of a young, her knees tucked up tight, her arms, too, those hands of hers that were so good with weapons curled into innocent rolls under her chin. Black lashes rested on cheeks that were no longer so pale, and that heavy black braid was like a rope as it lay along the archer's bow of her back.
He had some thought that he was never going to see her like this again.
This moment, right here, was a one-off, an artificially constructed instant limited to the final phase of her recovery. The next time he saw her, she was going to be up and at him and everyone else, her body whole and fully functioning, her mind sharp, her faculties no longer dimmed, but firing on all cylinders.
He had been granted a gift the now. Not by her, though. She never would want anyone to see her like this.
Stepping out of the room, he took off the piece of paper that had been taped to the door and folded it a couple of times so that Dr. Manello's shitty handwriting was no longer visible. Then he put the thing in his pocket and hustled down to the locker room.