“Right. Sorry.” Rhys felt heat spread upward from his chest as he flushed crimson, and his dick rose a little more. His limbs quaked as he made himself obey, kneeling and bracing his elbows on the altar and trying not to think of God’s—or Father Maurice’s—opinion on his position. The tang of antique pine and waxy varnish filled his nostrils, and the sticky surface of the altar dragged at his fingertips.
“That’s it, boy.” Darius trailed his hand down Rhys’s spine. The contact was electric, tightening everything along its path all the way to Rhys’s belly. “Just give in. Relax and enjoy it. Trust me.”
Despite the instructions, he tensed at the feel of Darius’s hands on his butt, squeezing and kneading. He made a dismayed sound, shrinking from the touch, but Darius didn’t let go. He pushed Rhys’s cheeks apart and teased the tight knot between them with a finger. Rhys groaned in confused longing, getting louder when his erection bumped the altar. He yelped when something warm and wet replaced that careful finger. It wasn’t until he felt the steamy heat of Darius’s breath along his crack that he realized what was happening.
Oh God. With his tongue?
Rhys’s knuckles turned white as they tightened around the ornately carved edge of the altar. He wriggled, trying to escape the stroking—or possibly to greet it. Revulsion mingled with perverse pleasure.
This shouldn’t feel good. It shouldn’t feel— Oh, Jesus, save me.
Darius’s sweeping, slurping tongue began to probe, trying to squirm into Rhys’s opening.
Somewhere along the way, Rhys forgot to be disgusted. As Darius’s firm hands spread his cheeks and his tongue tried to insinuate itself inside him, Rhys began to relax. He moaned softly, getting louder the more energetically Darius licked and prodded. Darius grunted and grumbled against Rhys’s butt, making noises that didn’t sound at all like he wasn’t enjoying himself.
Then his finger replaced his tongue, pushing inside Rhys’s wet, semi-relaxed hole. Rhys cried out, more from surprise than any actual distress. The finger didn’t feel bad, just weird. And getting less weird all the time. It began to stroke in and out, and that definitely didn’t feel bad.
How could he be hard again this soon?
“Just take it, boy.” Darius’s breath brushed Rhys’s back. “Not gonna do any more than this tonight. Just get used to it. In a minute here, I want you to suck me off, just like I said you would. But don’t spit and don’t swallow. Now.”
Darius drew his finger out of Rhys’s twitching hole, and Rhys had to take a moment to shake off the pleasured daze before he could obey. In the time it took him to collect himself and begin to turn, Darius stepped up beside him and that intimidating cock touched his face. He opened his eyes and stared at it, mesmerized by the way the loose sheath of skin rolled under the strokes of Darius’s fist.
“Open your mouth,” Darius demanded. “Suck me.”
Could he even get his mouth around all that?
Salt and sweat and musk touched his tongue an instant after it hit his nostrils. Silky skin over rigid flesh slid between his lips and invaded his mouth. However bizarre the whole situation was, he knew he’d never forget that sensation. Sensory gratification conflicted with his rational mind, which told him this shouldn’t be happening. It was the wrong person, the wrong circumstance, the wrong cock, just plain wrong. But he’d dreamed about it, long ago, with Gabe, wondering how it would taste and feel. Now he knew.
Darius’s groans sounded good. The salty droplet of fluid that touched Rhys’s tongue tasted good. He even smelled good. Warm and rich. He filled Rhys’s senses, quieting all the reasons Rhys shouldn’t be doing this. His jaw began to ache before long, but he managed it with less difficulty than he’d anticipated when he’d seen the cock in question. Darius’s hand pumped up and down the lower portion of his shaft, bumping against Rhys’s lips as they stretched around his dick.
“That’s it, boy. Good. Go ahead, and suck on it. Use that sweet little mouth.”
Rhys flinched and tried to draw away, the words crude and vulgar in his ears, making him ashamed. Darius pulled him back, but he also fell silent for a moment, and Rhys wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.
He tried to suck. He tried to lick and move. He even stopped thinking about Darius’s words and just obeyed. Darius took his hands away, and Rhys began to use his own, stroking where his mouth couldn’t go without making himself gag.
“Give me your hand, boy.” Obeying, Rhys felt his hand drawn inexorably between Darius’s thighs as they shifted apart, and Darius’s fingers closed his own around the fragile, wrinkled lumps of Darius’s balls. They were large and heavy, and felt similar to his own but different, the hair springier and less wiry. Wonder shot through the surreal sense of disbelief that this was honestly happening, that Darius was making Rhys pleasure him.
“Good. Go ahead, and squeeze. Not too hard. Make it feel good.” Darius’s moans grew louder, and his cock grew harder, the head swelling until Rhys’s jaw began to cramp.
“Remember, don’t swallow.” Darius’s hand took over for Rhys again, pumping hard and fast as Rhys sucked. Against his tongue, along the underside of Darius’s cock, something moved, rushing up the length of it. A salty, bitter torrent of Darius’s semen hit his palate a moment later.
Rhys struggled for a moment not to spit it out. It wasn’t just that he had another man’s cum in his mouth—he’d imagined doing that, once upon a time, with Gabriel—but the idea that it was infected. A virus lived in that thick mass sitting on his tongue, the same virus that killed people with the Rot or made them into mindless cannibals.
He tried not to gag, but then Darius bent down, muttering, “Put it in my mouth,” before closing his lips over Rhys’s.
It wasn’t a kiss, and Rhys tried not to think of it as one, though Darius’s hand cupped the back of his head, refusing to let him pull away. Rhys spat the mess into Darius’s mouth and bent over the altar when Darius pushed him forward. Rough hands spread his cheeks again, and Darius’s tongue thrust into him.
Rhys groaned, lost between dismay and arousal, as he realized what Darius was doing. As he forced his semen into Rhys’s rear, his hand wrapped around Rhys’s dick.
Oh God.
It was nothing like the reluctant arousal that had ended in an unsatisfactory rush in his new underwear just minutes earlier. Jesus, no. This was better. The strokes of Darius’s hand made the tension in his balls reach deep into Rhys’s gut, pulling and straining and good, so very, very good. He hadn’t touched himself in years, not since Father Maurice had screamed at him about self-abuse and damnation when he saw stains on the sheets of Rhys’s bed. Not when he and Jacob had frequently barged in on Rhys in the showers, expecting to find him engaged in something sinful. With the pressure of Darius’s hand, though, the impending orgasm became not something to dread, but something to chase, to yearn and strive for.
With just a few strokes, Rhys’s second climax spent itself against the altar. His strangled yell echoed off the stone walls of the chapel.
Trembling and panting, Rhys whimpered and rolled off his knees beside the altar to give them a break from the hard floor. He didn’t dare sit, for fear that what Darius had spat into him would seep back out, so he curled up on his side instead, his eyes closing as he tried to make sense of the world again.
Darius’s breath was only a little labored, and he seemed otherwise calm as he hitched up his fatigues and looked down at Rhys.
“Take your time, boy.”
Rhys couldn’t open his eyes to confront any of the images of the Lord or the apostles around the chapel looking down at him in his blasphemy and shame. He wanted to weep, or he wanted Darius to just touch him, to pet him or hug him or something so that he didn’t feel so horribly alone and confused in the aftermath.
But Darius kept his distance, because this wasn’t like that. They were only here because they had to be. Which made something that should have been intimate and amazing into something completely perverse and demeaning.
“You all right?”
At length, Rhys gathered his dignity and pushed himself up from the floor. He reached for his clothing, grimacing at the state of his jeans and underwear. He didn’t let himself look at the mess dripping down the side of the altar as he pulled his shirt on, feeling the bottom hem of it brush his bare thighs and spent cock. “Yeah.”
Darius leaned casually on the altar again, apparently unaware of Rhys’s struggles to make sense of his own clothing. “Keep that in as long as you can. Soon I’m gonna get you a butt plug that you’ll wear at night. It’ll keep the jizz inside your ass and help you get used to relaxing and letting something in there. We’re gonna work on that in the morning. Maybe sooner if I wake up with a hard-on. A Jug’s got stamina all the time, not just in combat. That’s good news for keeping you alive, but you can expect to get a workout.”
Rhys nodded, trying and failing to envision what exactly a butt plug was. His knees were weak, and he still felt wrung out by the force of his orgasm and wretchedly intrigued by the whole perverted scheme.
God help him, he wanted to do it again, and for reasons that had nothing to do with survival.
“Which room’s yours?”
Rhys braced himself to pull on his sticky briefs. “Upstairs.”
Darius snatched them from his hands with a grimace of distaste. “Don’t be nasty, boy. You ain’t got nothing I’m not gonna see again. Might as well get used to it. You can wash these and hang them up in the bathroom to dry overnight, and you’ve got a change of clothes if they’re still damp when you wake up.”
“But what about . . .?” He looked at the door, unsure where the rest of Darius’s team was now.
“They’re probably all hitting their bunks by now. If they’re not, well, you don’t have anything they ain’t seen, either. No questions. Just go.”
As they made it through most of the monastery without encountering anyone, Rhys relaxed, but just before he reached his room, Jacob stepped out of a bedroom that wasn’t his. He opened his mouth to say something—no doubt scathing—but then he saw Darius come up behind Rhys.
His eyes traveled up and down Rhys’s half-nude body and hardened, his expression twisting.
“There a problem?” Darius’s hand landed on Rhys’s shoulder. The gesture felt almost . . . protective.
“No.” Jacob forced a smile. “I just wanted to thank you for giving me—giving us both, of course—a chance to live.”
“Well, don’t make sense to waste lives if we can save ’em.” Darius shrugged as if he hadn’t argued against the idea. “If you want to help us fight revs, you’re welcome on the team.”
Rhys stared at Jacob in disbelief. “You—you took the offer? You?”
Jacob, who had echoed all Father Maurice’s condemnations of Rhys. Jacob, who had helped Father Maurice torment and punish Rhys for infractions real and trumped-up. Jacob, who had assured Rhys that he was going to hell for being a faggot and that Jacob would be happy to help him on his way there.
Why had he accepted? Who had attempted to infect him?
“Well, maybe you’ll have better luck murdering me next time.” Jacob managed a tragic look and let them pass. Rhys glanced over his shoulder, at least a little satisfied to see Jacob walking with an uncomfortable-looking gait.
Darius followed Rhys to his room, and by the time Rhys returned from washing his clothing in the bathroom, he’d moved a mattress from one of the narrow beds in another of the monks’ empty chambers into Rhys’s room. There was barely enough space for both of them.
Rhys gave the suddenly even more cramped quarters a dubious look, prompting Darius to explain. “You’re staying where I can keep an eye on you and where you’re available when I want you. The next few weeks, that’s your first job. Be ready anytime, and don’t give any lip.”
Dear Lord, was his cock actually twitching to life again? Rhys ducked his head and dug into his backpack, hoping Darius wouldn’t notice.
He hesitated, though, once he had the fresh pair of underwear in hand, looking at Darius for permission.
Darius shook his head. “You’ll just be taking ’em off in the morning. Go to bed.”
Blushing miserably, Rhys climbed into his bed, rolling to face the wall. The crack of his butt felt strangely slippery, and he tried not to think about it. He lay there listening to Darius settle in, wishing the man would say something encouraging.
Finally, the murmur came in the dark, awkward and sounding a bit forced. “You did good tonight, Rhys. You’ll be okay.”
As comfort went it was lacking, but at least it was something. At least it gave him an indication that Darius hadn’t dismissed him entirely from his thoughts.
A reddish glow flickered against the wall, and Rhys realized it was the still-glowing embers from the fires they’d built to burn the bodies. That inevitably led to thoughts of his sister and nephew, which really weren’t any better.
Grief and confusion, humiliation, torment, and fear of the future all joined forces to overwhelm him.
Hoping desperately that Darius was asleep, he finally let himself cry.
Darius awoke to an unaccustomed sense of remorse. He’d lain awake listening to Rhys sniffle long into the night, and despite his irritation with Xolani for pushing this whole fucking situation, he couldn’t help but feel for the kid. Considering what Rhys had been through, he’d actually been fairly levelheaded about it all.
At least when he wasn’t attacking people.
Darius had tried to get an explanation out of Titus about that incident, but the other guy—the one who’d barged into the conversation and introduced himself as Jacob Houtman—had started on a tirade about Rhys. How he’d gone crazy, how he’d always been trouble, making life difficult for the survivors who had sought refuge at the monastery, how he’d tried to create problems for his sister and begrudged her the smallest bit of happiness when she’d married Houtman. He’d even insinuated that Rhys had been jealous and felt an unnatural attraction to his sister.
Darius was reasonably certain now that at least that last insinuation was bullshit.
He wasn’t sure how much he could trust Houtman. He gave the smarmy impression of a bad used-car salesman, of someone who was a lousy liar but too full of himself to realize no one was buying it. Titus had taken an instant dislike to Houtman, and Titus had damn good judgment when you could pry two words out of him about anything. Darius wasn’t sure what to make of a man Houtman’s age marrying a girl who’d been only sixteen, but it wasn’t as though the polite strictures of society that had kept those sorts of arrangements in the realm of the forbidden—or at least the deeply frowned upon—existed anymore.
If rumor out of the clean zone was to be believed, any fertile pairing was encouraged, with much greater age differentials disregarded. Besides, Darius couldn’t exactly point fingers when he was fucking a nineteen-year-old kid at the ripe age of forty-three.
No matter if he trusted Houtman or not, the question of whether Rhys was stable, much less a troublemaker, was a significant one. In contrast to the bravery he’d exhibited trying to save his sister and her baby, there were moments when he was stubborn and sullen, snapping at Darius and Xolani, though mostly that came across as bravado. Still, Darius couldn’t afford to bring someone into the unit who would disrupt operations. Delta Company had rid itself years ago—often messily—of anyone too egotistical, power hungry, or unstable to be trusted with the strength of the Alpha strain. If Rhys was prone to flying off the handle and attacking people, they’d be better off killing him than taking the chance of him creating chaos in the ranks.
Was there a good reason for Rhys’s behavior? Yesterday he’d lost the last of his family and come close to death himself. He might have been provoked by Houtman, and even if not, he might simply have been reacting to the grief and trauma. His mood could be swinging like a weather vane in high wind, and he might settle down once he had a chance to process it all.
Or he could just be a troublemaker, like
Houtman said. Then again, Xolani seemed to think he was worth saving, and Darius trusted her judgment in general, even when he disagreed with her on the specifics. There was a reason she was his second-in-command.
At any rate, the least Darius could do was not be such a bastard with the kid. He didn’t know how to interact with civilians anymore. He’d grown too used to the restrictions of the search-and-rescue effort. They sent the uninfected people they found on to Colorado Springs for quarantine and reintegration and never saw them again. There was no sense getting to know the survivors, even if Darius and his people could get close enough to try without jeopardizing them.
Jugs weren’t welcome on the other side of the trenches and razor wire surrounding the clean zone any more than revenants were.
He knew that some companies of Jugs weren’t sending all the people they recovered to join the civilian population. He also knew some had taken advantage of their strength against the vulnerable survivors. He didn’t want to be like them, and he certainly didn’t want to discover the point at which a person who was physically more powerful began to believe they were, in fact, superior, that they had the right to take what they wanted from those who were weaker. So Darius kept his distance, made his people keep theirs, and sent the civvies on their way.
But Rhys was different. He’d never be welcomed inside the perimeter, either. He wasn’t a civvie, not anymore, and quarantine was useless. He would be one of Darius’s people. Maybe. There really was no telling what the odds were that this scheme of Xolani’s would fail. Sex with uninfected people was known to transmit the Alpha strain—Bailey was proof of that—but no one had tried it with someone who had already been exposed to Beta and Gamma. Anything could happen, and Darius might still have to put a bullet in Rhys’s brain before all was said and done.
Which reminded Darius why he was annoyed with Xolani. How was he supposed to do what he needed to do if he let himself get a soft spot for the kid?
How was he supposed to do what he needed to do if he didn’t?
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