Devil at the Crossroads

by Cornelia Grey

  His pale skin and white hair almost glowed against the thick burgundy velvet. Logan’s mouth watered as he was hit by the realization that this was actually going to happen—he was about to have sex with a fucking devil straight out of Hell and fuck, if he hadn’t already damned his soul, this surely would do the trick.

  Farfarello tilted his head to the side, leaning on the armrest, pale fingers clutching the rich velvet like a king on his throne. Slowly, deliberately, he spread his legs, exposing his hard cock to Logan’s hungry gaze. “Come here,” he said.

  In an instant, Logan flung himself at the devil’s feet, kneeling before him, ready to offer any tribute he deemed necessary, worship him any way he wanted. Yet he didn’t dare touch—didn’t dare fill the aching, burning inches that still separated them. Maybe there was something to it; maybe a human wasn’t allowed to touch a devil without permission. He drank in the sight of that supernaturally pale skin, of each angry mark in stark evidence there. Farfarello’s cock, a shade darker than his body, was thick and hard right in front of Logan’s face, jutting out from that soft-looking hair, a single, mesmerizing drop of liquid on the tip . . .

  “Do it,” Farfarello whispered, reaching down to touch Logan’s lips. He slipped his hand back behind Logan’s neck, twining his fingers in Logan’s hair, inching him forward. “I know you want to. You can.”

  But still Logan hesitated. He leaned forward, just barely—he didn’t know where to put his hands, so he left them hovering, uncertain. It was Farfarello who guided him, took his wrists and placed Logan’s hands on his naked thighs. Logan’s fingers clenched instinctively, and Farfarello hissed.

  Having Farfarello’s warm flesh under his hands—knowing he could touch him—broke the invisible barrier holding Logan back, and he bent his head, breathing in Farfarello’s scent. He put his mouth on Farfarello’s cock, pressed his lips to the length of it, placed close-mouthed kisses on the veins he could feel under the skin, the marked ridge, the swollen head. When pre-cum wet his lips, Logan opened his mouth and let his tongue dart out, licking it away.

  The first taste of Farfarello’s cock was exhilarating. So was feeling his thighs tense, hearing his sharp intake of breath. Logan licked him again, slipped his tongue in the slit at the top, around the head, then down its length in slow, leisurely swipes. He’d given head before, sloppy, drunk, hurried affairs in dirty club bathrooms, but this—fuck, he wanted to lick and worship every inch of Farfarello’s cock, wanted to swallow every last drop of his cum. Logan parted his lips and took the head of Farfarello’s cock into his mouth.

  It was just this side of too big. Logan wasn’t very good at blowjobs, hadn’t had a lot of practice. He could feel the weight of Farfarello’s gaze on him as he let go of Farfarello’s thighs and grasped the base of his cock, holding it steady as he tentatively sucked and licked the head. Farfarello moaned encouragingly, and Logan risked a glance up. Farfarello’s fingers were clutching the armrest, and he was leaning back, his pale cheeks flushed, his red eyes fixed on Logan’s mouth. Emboldened, Logan slipped lower, taking more of Farfarello’s cock into his mouth, trying to get used to the girth—licking him all over, swiping his tongue under and around it. His spit trickled down Farfarello’s shaft and onto his fingers, so Logan moved his hand, pumping where his mouth couldn’t reach. Farfarello seemed to like that—his cock pulsed in Logan’s mouth and rewarded him with a drop of hot, salty liquid. Logan licked it greedily, pulling back for a moment to swallow.

  He paused to look at Farfarello’s cock, glistening with his spit, fisted him all the way to the top, feeling it slip easily in his fist. He licked the flushed head, sucked on the tip, flicked it with his tongue. He may not have been skilled, but he was enthusiastic, and that seemed to be enough: Farfarello’s eyes were half-lidded, his mouth parted as he gasped heavily. His hand came to rest on Logan’s head, twining in his hair—not to push him down, not trying to force him lower, but simply holding on. Logan sucked harder, loving Farfarello’s taste, loving how he shifted his hips in small, hiccupping thrusts, pushing himself into Logan’s mouth. Logan worked him faster, hearing Farfarello’s bitten-off curses, wondering if he was getting close—he wanted Farfarello to come in his mouth, wanted to swallow everything he had to give. He jerked him, titillating the slit with his tongue, ready—

  Farfarello’s fingers tightened painfully in his hair and yanked him back. “Wait,” he gasped, sounding breathless, like he was barely holding it together. “Wait, let me—” He pushed Logan off, pried his hands away, and Logan let him, too consumed with desire to object, even though his mouth watered for Farfarello’s cock. Anything Farfarello wanted, anything at all, he would do it. A predatory hunger stirred in his stomach as Farfarello turned around, kneeling on the broad armchair, offering his muscular ass and the pale, scarred span of his back to Logan’s eyes, his white hair spilling everywhere. Farfarello craned his head to look at him, reached back to part his buttocks, exposing himself to Logan’s gaze. “Come on,” he said, low, voice rough. “Lick me. Make me good and wet for you. I want to come while you fuck me.”

  Logan tore his shirt off, tossing it aside before nearly attacking Farfarello, hungry and eager to please him. Oh, yes, he wanted to fuck him. He wanted to sink into the devil’s body and pound him through the damn armchair. Wanted to fuck him so hard he’d feel it for days, wanted to make him scream his name.

  He placed his hands on Farfarello’s muscular ass and licked him, right on his hole, without hesitation. He sank his tongue inside, slipping it easily into the tight muscle. Farfarello’s loud moan made him bold, his musky taste made him greedy—Logan started rimming him in earnest, pushing his tongue back and forth, pulling out to lick wetly around Farfarello’s hole and scrape his teeth on the smooth skin of his buttocks before plunging in again. Soon, Farfarello was pushing back against him, moaning shamelessly. Logan followed his instinct—fuck, he’d never done this before, not on chicks, not on a dude, let alone a fucking devil. He pulled back, sucked two of his own fingers, wetting them thoroughly, and pressed them against Farfarello’s opening, massaging it in slow circles. He pushed harder and watched in fascination as his fingers sank into Farfarello’s body, all the way to the knuckle. His reward was instantaneous—Farfarello stiffened and arched his neck, moaning loud, tightening around Logan’s fingers. The pale skin of his back was beaded with sweat, his thighs shaking minutely. Watching Farfarello, a goddamn devil from Hell, come undone on his fingers went straight to Logan’s head. He pulled his fingers out and pushed them back in, over and over, fucking him slow and steady.

  Farfarello gasped and moaned, hips stuttering, trying to push against Logan’s cock, which was hard, straining against the fabric of his jeans. Fuck, he just wanted to sink inside the writhing body in front of him, feel those tight, hot muscles around his cock. He shoved his fingers in harder—Farfarello gasped and let his head fall forward, resting his forehead on the armchair. Logan leaned in to lick around his fingers, slipping lower to tongue Farfarello’s balls, already drawn tight. When he suckled gently on the delicate skin, shoving his fingers in to the knuckle, Farfarello fucking broke.

  “Son of a bitch,” he gasped, turning his head sharply, reaching to grab a handful of Logan’s hair. “Fuck me, now. Or I swear to God I’ll make you regret the day you were born.” He was flushed, all over, red eyes flaring, his hair a mess, and heat shot straight to Logan’s cock, so intense it almost hurt.

  He got up, dizzy, his head wrapped in electric spider threads, reached with fumbling hands to open his jeans, grasp his boxers, pushed them halfway down his thighs as Farfarello angled his hips, tilting his ass up for him. Logan’s hands were nearly shaking as he parted Farfarello’s buttocks again, exposing him, brushing his hole with his thumb. Farfarello squirmed under his touch, but stilled abruptly when Logan pushed the tip of his cock against his opening. His spit did the job well enough and he breached Farfarello, sliding in inch by maddening inch. Farfarello’s body gripped him, so tight and hot Logan cou
ldn’t repress a groan. Fuck. He couldn’t have stopped now for the world.

  He sank all the way in and paused, gripping Farfarello’s hips hard, trying desperately not to come. Farfarello was tense, but he seemed determined not to wait. He inched forward, pulling away from Logan as much as he could, then sank down with a loud moan. Logan gritted his teeth as Farfarello did it again, moving smoothly as he balanced on the cushions, fucking himself leisurely onto Logan’s cock, opening up for him. Farfarello craned his head to glance at Logan from the corner of his eye. He looked feverish, so close—without a sound, he mouthed Fuck me, and Logan fucking lost it.

  He grasped Farfarello’s hips, lifted them up and slammed into him, relishing Farfarello’s surprised cry. He fucked into him hard, loving the wet smacks of skin on skin, Farfarello’s gasps and broken curses. The armchair shook under his thrusts, wobbled—it might just topple to the floor any second, but Logan couldn’t bring himself to care. All that mattered was Farfarello’s heated skin, which seemed to be fucking glowing, the way he arched his back and pushed into Logan’s thrusts, the way his hole stretched snugly around Logan’s cock as he moved, drawing away before sinking in to the hilt.

  Farfarello moaned and cursed, holding onto the armchair with a hand as he jerked himself off with the other. “Fuck, right there,” he groaned, throwing his head back with abandon, moaning loud and shameless. He was so sensual, so unabashed in his pleasure, Logan knew no mortal would be able to resist such a tempter. His erotic moans, his taste, the grip of his flesh—Logan could have lost his fucking mind, and he wouldn’t even care.

  He stared, mouth parted, bewitched, as Farfarello tensed and shook under his hands, panting and moaning as his cum spilled on the velvet. He gritted his teeth as Farfarello clenched around him, riding out his orgasm on Logan’s cock—and Logan fucked him through it, unrelenting. Farfarello’s moans turned desperate, and he reached back, blindly, pale fingers glistening with cum, seeking where Logan’s cock sank into him, rubbing at his opening. And with that, Logan’s brain was fucking fried as his orgasm slammed into him—his last coherent thought was that he’d give Farfarello anything, his soul, his goddamn life, if he were but to ask.

  The dressing room stank like smoke, and vomit, and the pungent smell of alcohol.

  Logan blinked slowly awake. The cold electric light made his eyes burn. He rolled heavily on his side, the bedsprings creaking loudly, the tangled blanket clinging to his sweaty skin. A fat glass, perched beside his pillow, fell off the bed and rolled on the stained green carpet, spilling what looked like whiskey gray with ashes and a few sodden cigarette butts.

  He didn’t know what time it was. The room had no windows; he couldn’t even tell if it was night or day. He pushed himself upright, wincing at the searing pain in his head, the sour taste in his mouth. The air in the room was cool on his heated skin; there was utter, nearly eerie silence around him. Everything seemed strangely clear, too bright, piercing his brain. He was nauseous, and his head was pounding, and yet he was lucid for the first time in . . . he couldn’t remember how long. He had a vague recollection of bright lights and screaming people and a vast, suffocating hollow spreading in his chest, choking him—and then anger, shouts, screaming lights, and a crushing roar, like a wave of thunder hurtling toward him.

  Another concert, he realized. Another concert he’d fucked up. He remembered stumbling on cables, the crash of smashed wood when he’d fallen. His hands felt swollen, pulsing, and when he held them up to his face, he saw they were torn and scratched, full of wooden splinters. He must have shattered the guitar. A thousand people screaming, whistling, somebody throwing things. A glass bottle shattering right next to his face as he’d crawled on the stage. He’d been too drunk, too high, everything swirling. The last thing he could remember were the broad arms of a roadie forcibly carrying him away between dizzying, flashing bright lights, and into a pool of sticky blackness.

  Logan had no idea how much time had passed. For all he knew, he could have slept for a fucking week.

  He dragged himself to the tiny bathroom, into the shower. The water was lukewarm, and he just stood under it, his eyes closed, feeling it patter on his shoulders, trickle down his back, his legs. Without much success, he tried to remove the splinters from his hands. He didn’t want to remember, to piece together the fleeting images that flashed behind his eyelids. He just wanted to erase that night from the world. Everything was still and silent around him, and he welcomed that. His muscles ached, and his stomach was knotted. Logan wasn’t sure if he was hungover or hungry, or both. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten.

  Couldn’t remember the last time he’d done a lot of things, really.

  He toweled himself down, slipped on a pair of jeans he dug out of the dirty laundry on the floor, and brushed his teeth. The white foam swirling down the drain was stained pink. When he lifted his eyes to the mirror, he cringed. He was a fucking mess. His wet hair was still glued in clumps by whatever they used to style it plastic-hard for his concerts. He’d washed out the colorful highlights someone had sprayed in it, and the green and blue had trickled down his neck, his chest. He tried halfheartedly to wipe it off; he combed his fingers through his hair, yanking at the knots, trying to get rid of the industrial gel. His eyes were sunken, he needed to shave, and someone had apparently clocked him at some point, because there was a ring-shaped cut on his cheekbone, the skin tinted red and purple. He gave his reflection a grim smile, feeling the pull and sting of his injured skin. His publicist would be pissed.

  He wondered why no one had come knocking on his door yet. It was so quiet and silent around him, and it never was anymore: not during the day, not in the deep of the night, not even when he tried to have a fucking wank. It was a constant stream of PR people and girls and representatives and guys in suits, and questions and demands and words, words, words. Logan spat more blood in the sink. Screw everything—he sure as hell wouldn’t go looking for them.

  He padded back into the dressing room, dug around piles of discarded clothes. There was too much shiny, sparkling designer shit that he didn’t recognize and looked stupidly expensive and just as uncomfortable. In a corner of his bag, he found a balled-up, worn Jimi Hendrix T-shirt. It was stained, and smelled like oil—looked like he’d used it to wipe down the guitar strings. He pulled it on without a second thought. The smell was familiar, comforting, and he patted down the fabric on his chest, grateful.

  Suddenly, he needed a guitar. Right fucking now. He longed to feel the heavy, reassuring wood under his hands, the hard strings under his fingertips. He felt like he hadn’t touched one in years. Hell, he’d had one in his arms just the day before—or whenever that concert had been—and he couldn’t even remember it. He didn’t remember what she looked like, what her voice was, how she’d responded to his touch. Hah. Wasn’t that the story of every woman he’d met in the past six years.

  Logan looked around, but there were no guitars in the room. Why should there be? It had been so long since he’d played just for himself—just him and the music in an empty room—and suddenly he missed it so much he could barely breathe. He owned dozens of guitars, in all sorts of fancy shapes and garish colors, and they were shuffled from tour bus to stage and back again like expensive packages by whoever it was that took care of these things. He didn’t even know who handled his instruments. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d carried his own fucking guitar.

  He had dozens of guitars, and yet not one was there, with him, not one was really his—and it felt so wrong that he nearly choked on it.

  He wanted to tear the room apart looking for one, but he didn’t have the energy. There was no anger, not anymore. Just a crushing weariness. Instead, he crouched down and halfheartedly pulled out piles of clothes from the bottom of the wardrobe, hoping to find something buried underneath. He didn’t even recognize any of the clothes, and yet they must be his. He crawled across the room, sifting through rolled-up posters, bags and luggage and trash cluttering ever
y corner; he pushed it all aside, undoing every mound that looked big enough to hide an instrument. Nausea was brewing in the pit of his stomach. There was nothing he recognized here. If it wasn’t for his face splashed on every poster and leaflet and magazine, for his name printed all over the fucking place, he’d think he was in somebody else’s room.

  And all of a sudden, he realized he was. Somebody else’s room. Somebody else’s life.

  He nearly wept when he found it, hidden under his king-sized bed between a stained, bunched-up red satin blanket, crumpled fliers, and an empty box of condoms. He didn’t know how it had ended up there; he could swear he hadn’t seen it in years. There was no reason why anyone would bring it up and tuck it under his bed, and he sure as hell wasn’t the one who’d done it. He pulled it out with something akin to reverence, the familiar worn case comfortingly heavy. It was covered in dust, and Logan wiped it down with his hand, uncertain. It looked like it had been here for months, years even, just waiting for him to find it. It was impossible: they’d only arrived here a day or two before.

  The clasps opened easily, and there it was—the familiar gleam of the translucent wine-colored top, the texture of the wood peeking out from underneath. He gingerly took the guitar out, reveling in its familiar weight, how easily it still fit in his lap. It was her, there was no question; it was as familiar as his own arm or leg, and he recognized every single scratch and dent it had accumulated in the years he’d spent lugging it around everywhere, back when he always had it out, always playing. It felt as if a hundred years had passed. It was his Gibson, and for the life of him, he had no clue how it had ended up here, but he was so grateful, he could cry. He held it to his chest, feeling small and hollow, embarrassing tears welling in his eyes.

  He needed to get out of here. The thought that someone could come knocking on his door at any minute was unbearable. He put the guitar back, slipped on a worn pair of sneakers and a battered black jacket and picked up the case. He cracked the door open, peering out. The hallway was dimly lit, all shadows and dangling yellow lightbulbs. No one in sight. Logan had no idea how that was even possible, but he had every intention of taking advantage of it.