by Lyra Evans
With a grumble and a roll of his eyes, Oliver pulled off his shirt and walked over to the bed. Connor’s eyes flashed, and he patted the bed next to him with a wink. Oliver reluctantly climbed into bed, then lay stiff as a board next to Connor. He was touching as little of Connor as possible.
“I don’t think you quite understand,” Connor said, sitting up. He sidled closer to Oli, his body pressing against him. Skin to skin, Oliver felt hot, nearly feverish. Connor’s skin was smooth as silk and he seemed to be just as slippery. In an instant, Connor was no longer next to Oliver, but over him, caging him in with his arms. Oliver pressed himself into the bed, staring up, breathless, at Connor. “You’re going to have to touch much more than that.” He leaned in close, one hand drawing up the sheet from Oliver’s side to his neck. Connor stopped just before touching Oliver, his fingers hovering so close to Oliver’s jaw he could feel the heat of them. Then, with a softer look in his eyes, Connor asked, “Can I touch you?”
Oliver got momentarily lost in Connor’s blue eyes, like darkening skies at dusk, like a storm on the sea. There was more than the question there; there was worry, earnestness. But for what? Oliver exhaled a count of four.
“Yes,” he said, and it came out like a plea. Swallowing hard, trying to ground himself and regain control, Oliver added, “go ahead. Whatever it takes to convince your Wolves.”
A flicker of something in Connor’s eyes—it couldn’t be disappointment—and he pressed his hand to Oliver’s neck. Cupping the edge of his jaw, he slid his fingers into the base of Oliver’s hairline, tilting his head up. Oliver breathed out, a rush of tingles washing over him. He relaxed into Connor’s touch, letting him run his hands over Oliver’s body, his fingertips tracing searing ley-lines across Oliver’s flesh.
Connor sank lower, leaning into Oliver, his face pressed against Oliver’s. He breathed into Oliver’s ear, his lips pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to Oliver’s hairline, to his earlobe, to his jawline. Oliver arched into it, relishing the fire Connor set to his skin. He felt light and hot and as heavy as a stone in water. He was drowning and finally breathing for the first time. He reached up without thinking, his hands finding Connor’s body, tracing the curve of his back and the dip by his hips.
A hand slid around to Oliver’s back, pulling him closer, palm flat to his skin. And then, without knowing how, Oliver found himself on top, straddling Connor’s hips. Oli’s eyes flew open, his hand pressed to Connor’s chest to steady himself. His heart was racing, pounding a steady rhythm into his chest. It was so strong, he nearly thought he could feel it in his fingertips, but he was wrong. What he was feeling was Connor’s heart pounding beneath him.
Oliver caught Connor’s eye and kept it. Unable to look away, Oliver sank down onto Connor, hips grinding together. Hard as he had ever been, Oliver was only somewhat surprised to find Connor was too. He rubbed himself up and down Connor, pressing harder and harder. Connor’s smirk was wide, uneven, but his eyes were dark and half-lidded.
“Enjoying yourself?” he husked, and Oliver gritted his teeth together, jaw tight. Connor reached around Oliver, roving over his ass, and slid his hand between Oliver’s legs. Oliver moaned.
“It’s just—” he bit out, his face hot, “a bodily—reaction.” Connor sat up, pulling Oliver closer to himself until they were firmly pressed together. His lips to Oliver’s neck, he sucked softly at the skin there. Oliver screwed his eyes shut, trying to retrieve control, but he was fast losing it. “This is ridiculous,” he said.
“I agree,” Connor answered, his mouth exploring its way around Oli’s neck. “We should definitely not be wearing pants.”
Oliver groaned, bucking into Connor one last time before pushing Connor back down and lifting himself off the bed. Oliver stood at the edge of the bed with difficulty, his back to Connor. He was harder than he had ever been in his life, and every inch of him wanted to tear off the rest of his clothes and let Connor fuck him. He wanted it so badly it took almost a minute for him to force the wanton haze out of his mind and remember what he was there for.
Adjusting himself slightly to stand straighter, Oliver turned to look at Connor. Lying sprawled, disheveled, and panting, his eyes a molten blue full of desire, Connor looked the picture of sex. He was gorgeous and set Oliver’s body on fire and absolutely fucking dangerous.
“I think that’s enough,” Oliver said, forcing the words from his mouth. Even he could smell Connor on him now. It was intoxicating. “What next?”
Chapter 9
Oli stood alone in the bedroom, the door to the hall now closed. Connor had left him some privacy, finally, to bathe and change. He hadn’t been entirely enthusiastic about leaving Oliver alone, but he seemed somewhat shaken by what they’d done on the bed too. Oliver wasn’t sure why, really, given it was Connor’s instructions that led them there.
But when Connor left the room, his blond hair a mess, his clothing wrinkled and pulling in places, he seemed distinctly off-kilter. The look in his dusky blue eyes was one Oliver couldn’t fully decipher. If he hadn’t known better, he might have called it fear.
Oliver cast a glance at the bed behind him, the comforter gathered and rumpled, the pillows uneven where they’d laid on them. His heart hadn’t yet found a normal beat again, his cock still hard and straining against his pants. But he couldn’t think about that now. He had to get to work.
Stepping into the bathroom, Oliver took a moment to decide his plan of action. There was a massive soaker tub to one side, set into stonework and complete with a manufactured waterfall shower in the corner. Oliver turned it on, filling the tub while the waterfall began to trickle to turn the water. An array of bath products was set up next to the basin, and Oliver studied them.
The bottles were all glass and each filled with different coloured liquids and beads. A quick stock of them told him they were all magically enhanced products meant for a particularly thorough cleanse. There were two bottles with other purposes mind. One of them was mixed with a salve that would ease tension and relax muscles. The last was a sense-heightening potion. The magic of it, glinting gold and silver in the low light of the bathroom, reflected back at Oliver.
After a moment’s thought, calculating the chances that the magics involved might interact badly, he poured in a little bit of each bottle into the churning bathwater. A myriad of scents rose up from the water, evoking images of dense forests in spring, with peat moss and wet wood. Better to overwhelm the Wolves with smells than to run the risk of them smelling something they shouldn’t.
Turning back to the counter, Oliver noticed something else. A tiny vial with an eyedropper sat on the granite surface. It looked clear at first glance, but in the light it shone iridescent with layers of blue, purple, green, and gold. Oliver opened it and took a whiff only to put it down again. His head swam, his heart racing again. It was Connor. The vial was essence of him, at best Oliver could tell. It was the distillation of his being, his allure, his pheromones.
Panting hard, Oliver looked from the vial to the bath and back again.
“Oh, fuck it,” he said, picking up the eyedropper and dripping a few droplets into the bathwater. “This case is going to kill me.”
He placed the eyedropper back on the counter, then walked back out into the bedroom. Now the water was running, it muffled the sound of what he needed to do. And the smells of the bath, he hoped, would be enough to cover the smell of his magic.
Standing in the centre of the room, Oliver closed his eyes and rooted around in his senses for magical signatures. If this was Connor’s main bedroom, where he spent his nights, it would carry a residual signature of the murder.
If he’s the killer, anyway.
Oliver pushed aside the doubts, the guilt at what he was doing, and focused on the task. He spread his fingers and began to mutter quiet spells, incantations to draw the weakest signatures to light. And he managed. Just not as planned.
Instead of violence or blood, instead of the snapping of a moment, the ending
of a life, Oliver felt the opposite. He was assaulted with the heat of a life sustained, of passion and fire ever growing. At once his senses burned with the blaze of Connor’s magical signature. Laughter undercut by sorrow, by grief not quickly thrown off. Salt and chocolate on the tongue, with burnt caramel just slightly bitter. A rush of adrenaline, the flipping of excitement in the belly, and hot lips against his throat. Green wood on a fire, a slow burn, and roasting chestnuts. Music played in the soul, the shiver that comes from finding a new song to love.
All these things overwhelmed Oliver, pulling him deeper into Connor, into the heart of who he was. But none of them was a match for the sensations he got at Eloise Carmichael’s crime scene.
With a sigh, Oliver cast the standard forensic spells he was taught at the Academy. First he cast for blood, tailoring the spell to Eloise Carmichael. No trace.
Second was for echoes of the magic of Nimueh’s Court. Each Court had its own magical signature, and anyone who’d travelled to Nimueh’s Court in the last twenty-four hours would carry residual elements of it. But there was nothing, not the slightest twinkling of garnet, not the bright shine of diamond. Nothing.
Finally, Oliver swallowed the growing discomfort in his stomach and cast for bodily fluids. Any kind of fluid residue would alight like fireflies in the room if someone had been in there in the last month. With a start, Oliver dropped the spell once he saw the results.
There were no shining lights at all, no sign of bodily fluids one might expect to find in a bedroom. Nothing. Confused, Oliver cast again, making sure to removed the filters for species and blood type. He searched for any kind of trace, Werewolf, Fae, and Wizard alike. But there was nothing still. No trace of anything.
Oliver thought back to the way Connor leaned into him a the club, the way he crowded Oliver against the wall, the way he made Oliver melt into him on the bed. There was no way Connor wasn’t sleeping around. The photos on his company site, the way he flirted, played on desires—Connor was practiced in it. He knew what he was doing. It was second nature to him. Wasn’t it?
Unless he wiped it all.
It was unusual but possible. An Alpha of Logan’s Court might have the resources to procure himself the magic it would take to wipe a room clean of those traces. Oliver had only ever heard rumours of Wizards and Witches of the High Court with tools like that. But Connor was powerful and wealthy. He might be able to manage it. And with the threat of an inter-kingdom war hanging over his head, Oliver was sure he had the motivation necessary.
But you don’t really believe he killed Eloise.
Setting his jaw, Oliver looked quickly around for a garbage bin of some kind. The only one he found was in the bathroom and it was empty. Mind racing, the bathtub near full, Oliver was running out of time. He raced back to the bedroom and pulled open the other door. What he thought was a closet, well—wasn’t.
Instead of clothing, the small room was filled with an array of toys and bindings. There were jars and tubes of lubricants, creams, and a number of edible treats stored among other more inventive items. Most of the items involved were unidentifiable to Oliver, but he was relatively certain none of them were meant to be used for murder. Below the shelves of toys were sets of costumes and furs.
With a glance over his shoulder at the door, Oliver cast a spell to identify bodily fluids again. This time, a few lit up, but they were all the same colour and very faint. The only traces on these items seemed to belong to Connor himself.
“Find anything interesting?”
Oliver swung around, slamming the door behind him. Every muscle in his body tensed, bracing for an attack that didn’t come. Connor stood behind him, leaning against the doorframe to the hall, an amused smile on his lips.
“I was just—” Oliver began, his mind suddenly blank. “Looking for a towel.”
Connor’s expression didn’t change, but he had. His clothing was straightened, crisp, and his blond locks were artfully brushed to the side. He had a set of towels in his hands, which he held up for Oliver.
Face hot, Oliver stepped toward him and took the towels. They were navy blue, plush, and quite warm.
“Fresh from the laundry,” Connor said. He didn’t immediately let got of the towels when Oliver took them.
“Thanks,” Oliver said, turning back to the bathroom. “Just what I needed. The bath is ready now, I think…” He stepped into the bathroom, pulling the door behind him.
Before it closed, Connor said, “Just as well. That closet’s more of a fifth date adventure, I think.”
Oliver froze, his reflection red-cheeked and embarrassed, then closed the door. He was an absolute idiot.
Sagging against the bathroom door, Oliver dropped the towels on the countertop and dragged his fingers through his unkempt, dark brown hair. Of course Connor caught him looking in the sex closet instead of doing his job. He hadn’t wanted to be caught trying to find evidence of a crime, but getting caught rifling through a suspects pleasure stash was somehow worse.
“Fucking amazing,” Oliver muttered, glaring down at his own pants. His erection remained, painfully hard beneath the straining fabric. Gritting his teeth, Oliver pulled them off and stepped into the bath. He knocked off the water but left the waterfall on. As he stepped in, the bubbling oils and salts he’d put in began their work.
The smell of the bath was relaxing and invigorating, but the feel of the water against his skin was the best part. As soon as he sank into it, submerged to the neck, the potions took their full effect. A warm, light tingling spread across his entire body, gently stripping away the dirt and contaminants from the world outside.
Oliver hummed softly, letting his head fall back against the stone basin’s edge and breathing in the aroma of the bubbles. After a moment, he spread his legs, letting his muscles relax, then jumped slightly and gasped.
Eyes wide, his mouth open, Oliver fought the urge to moan. The potions he’d used were far more thorough than he even thought. The tingling had spread between his legs and to his ass, cleaning literally every inch of him in ways he couldn’t quite have anticipated. A soft, steady probing taunted him, easing his body toward pleasure and away from the intense yearning he felt just outside the bathroom.
Hands curled around the edges of the bath, Oliver threw his head back again. He felt the bubbles envelope him, tingling around the shaft of his cock, spiraling upward and around. He shut his eyes, giving in to the feeling. A soft moan escaped him, and suddenly he was picturing Connor in the bath with him, his hands around Oliver’s shaft, pulling up and down, gently, insistently.
Then Connor was beneath Oliver, his hips bucking up into Oliver, his cock pushing inside—and Oliver opened his eyes to try and push away the fantasy.
Breathing hard, the bubbles of the bath still drawing him onward to climax, Oliver forced his mouth shut and tried not to thrust into the water. But the bath potions were determined, it seemed. The sensations intensified, like an ember turning to flame, and Oliver was thrown over the edge.
He came with a cry, without having touched himself at all, and sank back against the bathtub again. Finally, the bubbles stopped tingling, and the bath’s heat eased. The waterfall trickled quietly, the scents of the potion settling around him.
Oliver, eyes shut and chest heaving, felt as though he was fighting a war against a thousand enemies. And as he sunk beneath the water, soaking his hair and pushing out the outside world, he realized there was a good chance he’d already lost.
Chapter 10
When Oliver finally got out of the tub, he had no idea how long he’d been in there or what time it was. He stood on the mat by the tub, dripping heavily and holding the towel Connor had given him. Everything smelled of Connor now, but he wasn’t sure why he still noticed. Wizards didn’t have a sense of smell strong enough to maintain awareness of scents.
Fingers running over the fabric of the towel, every tiny loop of thread felt distinct against his skin. He wrapped it around his body and nearly gasped, the rush of wi
nd against him was so vivid. Oliver stood motionless, afraid to move and elicit more unusual sensations. Then he remembered.
He’d included some of the sense-sharpening potion in the bath. He hadn’t thought it would be this powerful or literal. Taking slow, calming breaths, he tried to acclimatize himself to this new state of being, but it was difficult. Every little motion felt magnified, every sound echoed in his head, and every smell was nearly suffocating. Was this was it was like being a Werewolf all the time? Constantly overwhelmed with the power of your own senses?
Gritting his teeth, Oliver wiped himself down quickly, soaking in the excess water in his hair as best he could. Setting the towel on the rack by the bath, he turned to dress only to find something missing. His discarded clothing was all missing.
He searched the bathroom several times, but it was only so large. He didn’t remember the door opening while he was in the bath, but then, he’d been a bit distracted. Had Connor come in to steal his clothes? Worse, had Connor witnessed Oliver in the thrall of his bath potions?
Oliver pressed his ear to the door, listening intently for signs someone was in the bedroom. The door felt rough against his ear, the stain barely containing the grain of the wood. But he heard nothing to indicate there was a person on the other side.
Taking a deep breath, Oliver opened the door a crack and peered out. After a moment, he swung it open fully. There was no one in the room, but there were clothes set out on the bed. Padding over to them, Oliver took stock of what was there.
Connor had apparently decided on his outfit for the evening. Oli supposed the clothes he’d worn from home weren’t acceptable for a high-class club like the Hunt. But the pieces Connor had laid out weren’t quite Oliver’s style. A pair of sleek, iridescent black pants, a deep purple raw silk button-up shirt, a black leather belt with heavy silver buckle, and a pair of fine, polished black boots. Connor had even taken the liberty of laying out underwear and socks, both of which were cotton so soft and fine they felt like silk. Oliver held up the boxer briefs Connor had chosen. They were black with a thick waistband and had the logo of Pierce Entertainment printed on the back.