by Clare London
And then a fourth man materialized in the room.
Chapter 5
Materialized?
Afterward, Scot tried to find a better word for the man’s sudden appearance, but he couldn’t. He hadn’t seen him approach, hadn’t heard footsteps. But he was immediately there, and Scot’s whole body shuddered in shock. He stepped back, his legs knocking against the stool: it teetered on one leg, then rattled back upright. Breath caught in his chest like it’d been squeezed. Something—someone?—whistled in his ear, and a wave of nausea overcame him. It was as if the air rushed suddenly into a gap, seeking to fill it; as if the temperature of the room shook with confusion, torn between rising suddenly or plunging down to an icy cold.
Scot struggled to recover equilibrium. Was he sick? Hallucinating? The background of the room faded as the focus changed, shrinking in around the people, not the fixtures. In that moment, there was no kitchen at all; no ground underneath them; no food cooking; no dirty, cooling water in the sink.
There was just the man at the door.
Oliver let out a soft whimper.
And then things settled, just as suddenly as they’d been shaken up. Scot sucked in another deep breath, steadied himself with a hand on the stool, and examined the newcomer. A tall, slender young man in pale jeans and a dark tee shirt: sharp, sapphire blue eyes and wide, sensual lips. A smooth, clean-shaven face and a wide-eyed gaze that made him look quite innocent, when he wasn’t. But how did Scot know that? They’d never met before.
Have we?
His hair was as dark as Scot’s but with highlights of many other colors, the shades of autumn, the glint of water, the brush of fox fur. It fell to his shoulders, tucked on one side behind his ear, licking at his slim, bared neck.
“Scot?” Those bright eyes were fixed on Scot, open with concern, wide with interest. And Scot felt his instinctive response as if he’d known this man forever, as if he were a treasured brother, a loyal friend. His lover, whose touch he welcomed.
But he wasn’t, was he? For God’s sake! Scot threw out a hand to warn the guy against moving nearer. “Who the hell are you?”
“Maxwell,” the other man said, as if puzzled at Scot’s question. “Connor Maxwell.”
He was not as strong as Vincent, nor as startlingly attractive as Oliver. Yet the others turned their full attention to him as if fascinated. Their bodies tensed, and they flushed as if blood coursed more fiercely in their veins. From excitement or fear? All Scot knew was he could feel it as well, dammit! His own skin prickled with too much heat. Connor gazed at him unswervingly, concentrated totally on Scot’s face. He reached out for Scot’s arm, his palm opened up as if trying to soothe him.
=don’t pull away=
“Maxwell?” Oliver coughed exaggeratedly, but Connor didn’t look over at the counter.
Scot did, though. Vincent smiled, his eyes on Connor, with an expression of pure, unadulterated pleasure. “Maxwell. Welcome.” His hand stroked Oliver’s thigh aimlessly. “It is good to see you in the flesh.”
Oliver gave a low, soft chuckle. “Just as we like it, right?” But when Connor still didn’t acknowledge him, he pouted and turned a sharp gaze on Scot. Again, the hostility… Scot shivered at the unbidden memory of his dream.
Oliver slipped a hand around Vincent’s waist and tugged the taller man closer. He opened his legs around Vincent’s hips and arched his back. His cock rubbed up over Vincent’s belly, the muscles in the cheeks of his ass clenching up where Scot could see them. His bright eyes clouded for a moment with desire. In reply, Vincent leaned forward, his dark head dipping over the blond one, his shoulders tightening as he gripped Oliver’s hips.
Scot was confused and angry. Shocked, too, if he were honest, even though their making out excited him. Were the two guys going to do each other, right there in the kitchen? In front of him?
Beside him, Connor let out a slow, heavy breath.
“Maxwell,” Oliver murmured, his tone as sweet as a lover’s, even though he was rubbing his cock lasciviously against another man’s groin. “Come and see what Vincent’s cooking up for breakfast.”
Scot rolled his eyes at such a blatant, corny come-hither. He could see the glistening trail of pre-come from the tip of Oliver’s dick; the nest of dark blond hair between the young man’s legs. Vincent’s hips pumped lazily in and out of the haven of Oliver’s groin, as if they were already fucking.
Connor Maxwell turned away from Scot as if to go and join the two other men.
“No,” Scot said, startling himself. It had just slipped out: he hadn’t meant to get involved. After all, these guys were outrageous, the place was weird, and he needed to get out of here and back to his room. Didn’t he?
Connor stopped dead, immediately. Without turning his head, he reached back a hand and caught Scot’s wrist.
Scot looked down. Connor’s hand was slim but the grip was strong. What was even more astonishing was that Scot didn’t make any move to pull out of that grip. None at all. He knew without any doubt, that was the last thing he wanted.
Oliver gave a small gasp of disappointment, and Scot’s attention was drawn to them once more. Vincent leaned even farther in, and curled his hand around Oliver’s cock. He started stroking, slowly but firmly. Scot was fascinated, despite himself, to watch their public display. Or was he just avoiding meeting Connor’s gaze again?
“Watch me,” Vincent murmured. He was looking at Oliver, but Scot reckoned he was talking to him. And Scot did watch. He saw the muscles across Vincent’s back tightening and relaxing as he pumped Oliver: he saw the waist of Vincent’s loose pants shift with the movements, exposing the top of one of his taut buttocks. His skin glistened with the reflection of the morning light through the kitchen window.
“We can both watch.” Connor’s voice at Scot’s ear startled him again. He was acting like some kind of jittery rabbit! But he found himself instinctively leaning back into the other man. Connor’s hair brushed the sensitive skin of his neck: Connor’s arm tugged him into the side of his body, holding him gently but firmly. Scot could smell the citrus again: it must be Connor’s cologne. It made him feel dizzy.
=together=
Scot tensed against Connor.
“Yes,” Connor whispered. He sounded excited. “You can hear me, all the time, can’t you? I never found anyone like that. All this time, waiting, thinking it was just me, I was—”
“Maxwell!” Oliver’s cry was plaintive. He’d dropped a hand to the counter, bracing himself on it. His hips thrust up and down as Vincent jerked him off. The view was partly obscured by Vincent’s body but Scot still felt his mouth dry up. When Connor nudged him from behind, he took a few uncertain steps forward. He kept walking until he was an arm’s length away from Vincent’s back. Connor stayed with him, still holding his arm, still breathing encouragement into his neck. Oliver was moaning, his legs flailing around Vincent’s hips, his bare skin pale and smooth. Scot could see a thin trail of sweat running down Vincent’s spine, the moisture glinting as he ground against Oliver’s groin. The sounds the men made were low, urgent and arousing.
“It’s the stuff of your imagination. Your dreams,” Connor murmured. “Isn’t it?”
Scot frowned. Connor’s body was wiry but there was no discomfort in the way it pressed against him. The smell of him was both familiar and excitingly different. Scot wondered what it would feel like, skin to skin. Connor’s skin.
Connor chuckled. His hand tightened on Scot’s arm. “You see?”
Vincent groaned softly.
Jerry. He leaped into Scot’s mind suddenly.
“Your lover?” Connor was whispering again. Scot was struggling to recognize whether the words were aloud or in his head. “His moods are dark. Needy. It’s good for him here. For you both.”
Scot swallowed hard, trying to loosen his throat. In front of him, Oliver sat abruptly upright on the counter, his chest pressed forward against Vincent’s, their mouths meeting in a harsh, open-mouthed kiss. Oliver�
�s hand slid around to Vincent’s back and down under the waistband of his pants. The loose fabric slipped down even farther. Scot stared at the emerging crack of Vincent’s sculpted ass: watched Oliver’s fingers sneak down the crease. They rubbed their groins against each other, so close their dicks must have been touching. Bringing each other off.
How could he ignore it, the show right there in front of him?
“But you’re different, Scot,” Connor crooned to him. “More than that. Sweet. A delight.”
Scot let out a croak that was half shock, half derisive laugh. He didn’t think anyone had ever said such things to him. No, strike that—he knew they fucking hadn’t. “Not me.”
Connor sighed. His warm breath trickled down Scot’s skin like liquid.
=all for you=
“Touch them. Oliver and Vincent, they want us to join them. Put your hands on them, Scot, caress them. Don’t you want to?”
“I’m… Jerry will be waiting for me.” Scot’s palms itched but he kept them close to his sides. He thought his voice sounded strangled. Alien. Insincere. “I’ve gotta go.”
Connor laughed. “He’s just a diversion for you. The only one you’ve ever known. Important for the moment, but no more than that. Your first steps out, I’d say.”
Scot felt his gut clench. “You would, would you?”
Connor nodded.
“No,” Scot said. He felt the motion of Connor’s head, nudging against the nape of his neck. He wrenched Connor’s hand away from his arm. Then he stepped to the side, away from Oliver and Vincent’s passion, away from Connor’s possession. And turned to face them all.
Possession…?
“Who the hell do you think you are? You don’t know me. You don’t know Jerry.” He knew he sounded harsh, but that was just what he wanted. “And I don’t have to justify or explain anything to you, or any of the other men in this… this weird fucking motel.”
Connor stared at him. He looked shocked. “Scot, you don’t underst—”
“Forget it.” Scot started backing away toward the door. For some reason, although he was furious and disturbed, he found it difficult to tear his gaze away from Connor’s fabulous eyes: the pools of open darkness, the flickering iris colors in the early morning light, the fascination and the need he saw there.
“No,” he said again, and this time, his voice was very firm. “Do what the hell you like in your sex games, but leave me… us… out of it!”
Over at the counter, Vincent shuddered. Scot’s eyes were drawn irresistibly to the couple, even as he reached the exit. He grasped the frame of the open doorway, panting. Oliver’s hand was under the fabric of Vincent’s pants, kneading at the bigger man’s ass. Vincent thrust against Oliver’s clinging limbs, his body graceful but the movements becoming faster and more shallow. Oliver’s fingers tightened on Vincent’s hip: even from a distance, Scot saw the nails digging in. It was enough to tip them both over the edge. Vincent grunted again and bent double as he climaxed over Oliver. The blond man writhed on the counter top, legs spread wide, his knees gripping Vincent’s broad torso, wailing as the pressure on his shaft obviously increased.
“I make my own decisions,” Scot said, rather too loudly.
Oliver shook against Vincent, making sounds like soft sobs. Perhaps that’s what they truly were.
“Not anyone else’s,” Scot repeated. “And no one makes mine for me, either.”
“Scot!” Connor looked aghast. “Wait—”
“Stay with us,” Oliver said hoarsely, but he was looking over Vincent’s shoulder at Connor, not Scot. As Scot stared back at him, Oliver twisted Vincent’s head toward him and kissed him harshly, his gaze still on Connor. But he knew Scot was watching. There was a flicker of malicious mischief in his eyes.
Scot could see Oliver’s tongue pushing into Vincent’s mouth. His heart was beating way too fast for comfort. He wanted to be back in his room. He wanted to be away from here.
“Please, Scot.” Connor didn’t seem to know what else to say.
“I say, if he wants to go…” came Oliver’s breathless voice.
“He doesn’t know,” Connor said. “He doesn’t realize!”
“I’m out of here,” Scot growled, and ran from the kitchen.
***
He took a wrong turn outside the kitchen and nearly turned back on himself into the main building. But then he found the corridor to the bedrooms and stumbled down the uneven path. He paused once, just to try and settle his emotions, and found he was outside the locked gate they’d seen when they arrived. The memory of Connor Maxwell’s gaze still unnerved him—the way the man had wanted something from Scot, expected something. What a fucking nerve!
Scot tried to breathe more steadily. There was so much disturbance in his life at the moment, maybe it was no wonder things were in turmoil. Running away, the trouble with the car, the astonishingly fierce fuck he had with Jerry, that sexually intense scene in the kitchen with the other men…
And back to Connor. Where the hell had he come from? Who was he? Why did he act like some weird guru? Scot leaned on the gate and was startled when it creaked open a few inches. He wanted to know what was beyond that gate, what this run-down place thought important enough to hide away behind a wall. He took a tentative step over the threshold.
It was a courtyard: not large or luxurious, but fully enclosed by high stone walls. Considering its location, Scot reckoned no one could look into it from any part of the motel or the bedrooms. There was no roof so it was open to the elements, but despite that, it felt like an oasis in the middle of the dry, steamy heat.
A cluster of tall palm trees against the far wall cast shade over that corner of the yard. It dappled over the sandy floor and a couple of plain stone benches beneath the trees. The bare surface of the stone looked alive, like waves of water trickled over it. And to the right of the benches, set near the center of the courtyard, was a submerged, circular pool. It would probably fit up to six bathers, if they all settled around the outside. A small brick wall ran around its circumference, about eighteen inches high, and steps ran down inside the wall, presumably for people to enter and sit. From the courtyard entrance, Scot couldn’t see more than the top two of them, nor if there was any water in the pool.
Scot ran a hand across his sweaty brow and sighed. He suspected the pool was dried up and no longer in use. Be great if it were. He wanted to wander in and take a look, see what it was really like. Maybe it had a tap to turn on and fill it up, some kind of seasonal control…
No way. This place didn’t have any season except for the hot one.
He sighed again, though there was no one to hear him. Breakfast was no nearer, of course—no wonder he was so off kilter. He’d check in on Jerry, and maybe they could find some food elsewhere, then decide what to do about the car and everything. He ambled back up the passageway, wondering why he felt so reluctant to get going. He’d been desperate to get away from the kitchen, but now his feet almost dragged.
Jerry was sitting on the bed in their room. Of course he was! Where else could he go? He turned to face Scot from the other side of the mattress, startled, but with a half smile creasing his face. He’d put on a thin sleeveless vest, and some shorts that Scot never even knew he owned, let alone had packed. They were more modest than Oliver’s outrageous fashion statement, but the sight of Jerry’s muscled thighs was still very stimulating. Scot couldn’t help his gaze drifting down below Jerry’s belly.
Easy.
“Hi.” He cleared his throat. “Why’d you run off like that?”
Jerry stared, his smile frozen. A flush slowly suffused his face. “Had to get out of there, you know?”
“Yeah. I know. Things were turning a bit bizarre, right?”
“Yes. I mean, of course. Yes, that.” But Jerry looked confused.
Scot paused: bit his lip. “I met the other guy.”
“The other guy?”
“Connor Maxwell. The Maxwell of the motel’s name, I guess.” Jerry wa
s still staring at him, and Scot’s irritation rose rapidly. “Place is full of good-looking guys.” He recalled Connor’s hand on his, the man’s body close against his back. What was the feeling nagging inside him? Desire? Regret? Guilt? His next words came out in a rush. “I probably should have asked him about that pool in the courtyard. It’d be a great place to take a dip while we wait for the car to get fixed.”
Jerry folded his arms tightly against his chest and didn’t answer.
Scot didn’t know what the hell was going on. He knew he spoke too quickly, too harshly, but the silence needed filling somehow. “What’s up with you this morning? Messing about in the kitchen with Vincent. Running scared like that.” He should stop—he didn’t know exactly what he was trying to say.
Jerry’s eyes had darkened swiftly with the anger that Scot knew well. “What the fuck are you saying? That I can’t cope with a guy like Vincent? Or that I’ve got something going on with him?”
No, Scot hadn’t been saying that. Had I? But he looked at the sharp light in Jerry’s eyes and considered again how little he knew about his runaway lover. “No, nothing like that.”
Jerry wasn’t listening. “He’s helping us. And he’s good to look at. Can’t I look at another guy?”
Scot couldn’t get a reply out quickly enough. Jerry often had that confusing effect on him. “I didn’t mean—”
Jerry broke over Scot’s words, his voice a little too loud. “We never made any promises, did we? To be exclusive. To be together for ever. I mean, it’s you I want, Scot, you I’m here with. But who can say what’ll happen in the future? We’re free agents now, free of the family and all that shit. It’s the beginning of the rest of our life. And there’s a hell of lot going on out there we’ll want to try.”
You’ll want to try, you mean. Scot swallowed down his shock. It was true, they hadn’t made any commitment like that. And he wasn’t sure he’d want to, either. Besides there never being any time or opportunity, they just weren’t that kind of guys. Were they? But to hear it said aloud like that, almost cruel…