“But I do want us to be friends,” Elliot told him, back to being serious again. “I’d like for us to be friends. It’s really up to you, though, with your whole celibacy-as-part-of-your-training deal, whether or not we move beyond that friendship. I have to confess that I’m just not enough of a romantic to be more than friends with someone I can’t be intimate with.”
“I would never ask you to do that,” Stephen said.
“Says the man who’s apparently loved me for years without getting any,” Elliot pointed out. “At least not that I remember.”
“You were married.”
“Only at first.”
Stephen was, indeed, aware that Elliot’s divorce had gone through three long years ago. He shook his head. “I know. I just thought that …”
As he trailed off, Elliot lifted one eloquent eyebrow, waiting for him to continue. And as Stephen looked into his eyes, he knew that—with this man—the truth was always the way to go.
So instead of making it be about Elliot’s need for a little time and space after his heartbreak—which was true, but only to a point—Stephen admitted, “I thought I couldn’t allow myself to have a relationship like the one I wanted to have with you. I thought I had to deprive myself—to abstain from that part of life—to become more fully integrated. And yes, I was willing to make that sacrifice.”
“But now …?”
Stephen held Elliot’s gaze. He didn’t waver. “Just sitting next to you, I’m at fifty-six. It seems that I was wrong, and that getting closer to you will actually help me more fully integrate.” He swiftly added, “And when I say that, I don’t mean to sound as if I’m discounting how important the idea of having this relationship is to me, on every other level. Because it is. It’s massively important. Nearly as important as my training—and I know you understand what that means to me. You live and breathe this job, too.”
“I do understand,” Elliot said quietly.
“I view this as potentially the biggest win/win of my life,” Stephen told him, then added another truth. “The celibacy thing was wearing me out—which is … not very romantic, I know. But it’s true.”
Elliot smiled at that. “I appreciate your honesty. About all of this. More than you could possibly know.”
“I could know,” Stephen told him and held out his hand in a silent invitation.
Elliot looked down at it, and then up into Stephen’s eyes, his expression unreadable. “Point of no return. You know what happens when you touch me.” He made the sound of an explosion.
Stephen didn’t take back his hand. “Point of no return,” he agreed, past his heart, which was securely lodged in his throat.
Elliot smiled again—hot and fierce. And that heat was back in his eyes as, no longer hesitant, he took what Stephen offered, clasping their hands, intertwining their fingers.
The connection was immediate—and intense. Stephen was deep inside of Elliot’s incredibly complex mind, which was disorienting and dizzying, but somehow already familiar and wonderful—a rapid-fire barrage of both conscious and half-formed thoughts, of emotions and reactions and instincts and beautiful reason.
Sex was in there.
Elliot was thinking about it—Stephen knew it would have been kind of hard not to, considering. There were shreds of memories of his fantastic dream from Grandma’s house flying around, along with plenty of other images—and not all had come from Stephen’s dreams, which was both comforting and terrifying.
But mostly Elliot’s thoughts were bouncing from that first time they’d met—he remembered it clearly, and no doubt about it, their attraction had been immediate and mutual—to the way he’d stumbled upon Stephen in the exam room last night. Don’t make me come and find you … Stephen could see that Elliot understood, now, why Stephen had laughed the way he had. But back then? He’d honestly had no clue.
Elliot smiled, now, into Stephen’s eyes. So, here you are. Hello. That was easy enough this time.
I guess there has to be contact for the telepathy to work, Stephen hypothesized. What’s my integration level?
Elliot turned to look at the computer. Sixty. Damn, Skippy. That was fast.
Stephen moved his leg, just a little, so his thigh was pressed against Elliot’s. “You want to see what happens when I kiss you?”
His intention was to release Elliot’s hand so he could take off the man’s glasses, but Elliot beat him to it, setting them on the table as he turned to smile at Stephen.
“I very much do,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to Stephen’s mouth. But when Stephen leaned in, he backed off. Please just … Reassure me that this is more than an experiment for you. I mean, I get that it’s an experiment. And in the name of science, I support that, you know I do. I just need you to know that, for me, it’s a hell of a lot more, too. I know I joke, and I pretend, but … I wouldn’t do this with just anyone.
You can’t read it? Stephen asked in response, his heart back in his throat. What I’m feeling? God, he was feeling so much of it, too. Elation. Euphoria. Terror—in a good way. Heat.
But Elliot shook his head. I can sense you in my mind, which is very nice, and I can read the thoughts and images that you put there, but … It’s not like it was downstairs—when you seemed to be unconsciously projecting. This feels more organized and controlled. As if you’re … Are you guarding?
“Not intentionally,” Stephen spoke aloud as he closed his eyes and focused on finding and unclenching his mental shields. There was no longer a reason to hide himself, to hide anything that he was feeling—not from Elliot. And slowly, rustily, he felt himself start to unravel and then, in a rush, like dominoes in a row, his guard came undone.
“Holy crap!” Elliot’s grip tightened on his hand, and Stephen opened his eyes to find the other man laughing. Yeah, this is more like it. Yeah, this is … This works. This is … You … You’re … Whoa. You were serious …
Stephen didn’t try to organize any of what he was thinking and feeling—he just let it blast free, and he could tell that Elliot was doing the same.
Elliot’s joy was nearly tangible, and he was trying to figure out what should happen next—should he go ahead and kiss Stephen and follow wherever that led, or should he back away and give them both some time to adjust to this whole crazy idea?
Stephen took the question out of his hands.
Although, this time when he leaned forward to kiss Elliot, Elliot met him halfway.
And he tasted like coffee and sheer exhilaration as Stephen licked his way further into Elliot’s mouth, and Elliot pulled him close, closer, his hands against Stephen’s back, against his neck—his long, graceful, artist’s fingers in his hair.
It was better than any dream, better than he’d ever imagined, and he wanted … He needed …
He let Elliot push him back onto the sofa, his thigh between Stephen’s legs, his body pressed against him. And it felt so freaking great—not just what he was feeling, but what Elliot was feeling, as well. He not only felt Elliot’s hands—in his hair, on his neck, on his chest—but he felt every sensation Elliot was experiencing, too, their accelerated heartbeats now pounding in sync.
The implications of that left him breathless.
But then Elliot pulled out of their kiss to look down at him, breathing hard. He spoke aloud. “God, I’m afraid of messing this up. We’ve got this meeting with Dr. Bach in just a few hours, and part of me is saying—”
“Go for it,” Stephen filled in. He could feel Elliot’s erection against his leg, and he could feel his own against Elliot. Hot damn. “I know. But the other part—”
“Wants it to be perfect. I feel like I should, I don’t know, maybe make you dinner first?” He was touching Stephen’s hair again, and God, that felt so good …
“I didn’t know you liked to cook,” Stephen said, closing his eyes. There was nothing in any of Elliot’s memories about cooking, although the man did like good food—good restaurants. His favorite was a place in the South End and … To hell
with that. Kiss me again.
Elliot laughed as he did just that. I don’t like to cook—in fact, I hate it. I think part of me thinks this shouldn’t be so easy. I should have to suffer and, I don’t know, earn it. Earn you. You’re unbelievably delicious, by the way.
Stephen laughed as he kissed Elliot longer, deeper, one hand slipping up beneath the back of his T-shirt, his palm against the smooth warmth of the other man’s skin. He felt it and he felt it. God … You are, too.
Yeah, this is beyond great—to be able to feel what you’re feeling …
Stephen pushed himself up against Elliot, and they both groaned. And Elliot laughed. Oh my God. To hell with everything. He started unbuttoning Stephen’s shirt, even as Stephen yanked Elliot’s T-shirt up and over his head, as he kicked off his sandals and half-sat up to try to help Elliot by shaking his shirt down his arms.
He saw what Elliot saw—the clearly defined muscles of his chest and abs. He knew he was attractive, but through Elliot’s eyes, he was a god. It was almost embarrassing.
It is embarrassing. Elliot was viewing himself through Stephen’s filter, too, as Stephen kissed him again, pulling the other man’s head down toward his mouth with one hand while he went for his belt with the other. I’m just not that hot.
Yes, you are, Stephen thought back at him, as he continued to kiss the hell out of him and unfasten his buckle.
No, really, I’m not.
Stephen wasn’t wearing a belt, and he felt Elliot pop open the metal button of his jeans, felt his fingers against Stephen’s zipper, trying to force it down—no easy task, considering how tightly his arousal was pressing against it. And he let go of Elliot for just long enough to help him get that zipper down, to push both his pants and his shorts just far enough down his thighs to free himself from their confines. He stopped kissing the man long enough to tell him, “This is what you do to me. You—and only you,” as he took Elliot’s hand and wrapped those elegant fingers, hard, around himself.
The sensation nearly blew off the top of his head—it had been so long since he’d been touched by anyone, let alone someone for whom he had such deep feelings. He’d wondered over the past years, every now and then, if his body would remember how to do this, should he ever decide to return to a life where he embraced rather than shut out his sexuality.
But Elliot’s deft touch, stroking him—not roughly but by no means gentle—made him moan, and God, he wanted …
Elliot knew exactly what he wanted, because Elliot was inside of his head, the same way he was inside of Elliot’s, the same way he knew what Elliot wanted—which was to let Stephen come, just fast and furious, with almost no finesse, and no reciprocation.
Come on …
Elliot stroked him faster now, harder, as Stephen reached for the other man, wanting at least to give as good as he was getting, but Elliot slid out of his grasp, slipped down between Stephen’s legs, off the couch, and onto the floor, pushing Stephen’s jeans down farther. And Stephen sat up to try to tell him that wasn’t what he wanted, except God, then it was as the other man took him into his mouth.
And that was that. It was over. Stephen surrendered, lying back against the cushions of the sofa, his fingers in Elliot’s hair, allowing himself, for the first time in close to forever, to just feel.
But it wasn’t just the sensation of the warmth and wetness of Elliot’s mouth, or the softness of his lips, the insistent pressure of his tongue. It was the pleasure Elliot was feeling, too. The happiness. The optimism. The joy …
The love.
Stephen’s wasn’t the only one whose world had changed in a heartbeat. Elliot’s had, too. And the way Elliot saw it, the promise of the future was hanging out there for them both, gleaming and beautiful and bright.
Come on, Stephen, just let go …
And Stephen came in a rush that was so intense, it made him cry out. It raced and roared through him and tore him apart, yet despite the sensation of shattering into a million pieces, Elliot was right there with him; connected. Always connected.
I’m here, right here, I’ve got you … Breathe, just breathe—you’re okay.
Stephen felt Elliot move, carefully touching him the entire time, so as not to break their bond. He felt the sofa cushion compress as Elliot sat back beside him, and when he opened his eyes, Elliot was right there, smiling at him.
He spoke aloud. “You okay?”
I’m not hiding anything from you, Stephen told him. I’m never going to hide anything from you. “I’m very much okay.”
Elliot pulled the computer closer. “You’re … Only at sixty-one. Funny, I’d thought we’d gotten you up to a hundred with that.”
Sixty-one’s not an only.
“No, I know that,” Elliot said. He didn’t form the full thought, but it was clear that he thought it was interesting. That maybe it wasn’t so much the sex that had elevated Stephen’s integration levels, as it was the intimate connection—and that had begun long before their clothes had started coming off. He felt Stephen’s awareness following his thoughts, and added, “And that’s not to say it’s not the sex.” He glanced back at Stephen. “I feel the need to point out, that in order to be scientifically accurate—to get a true comparison to your history of celibacy—we really should get it on, nonstop, for the next fifteen years.”
Stephen laughed. And he pushed himself up off of the couch as he kicked his jeans and shorts off from where they’d settled around his ankles. Even though he’d broken their connection, he could see the heat in Elliot’s eyes as the other man looked up at him.
“Then what are we waiting for?” Stephen asked.
And although he could’ve moved Elliot purely with his mind, he instead picked the other man up in a fireman’s hold, and, laughing, carried him to his bed.
FIFTEEN
Nika awoke with a gasp, immediately aware that she was no longer strapped down.
She was out of bed and on her feet before she realized that wasn’t the only thing that had changed. Her bed was no longer a hospital bed, and she was no longer in that workhouse-infirmary-style room with all of those other girls.
In fact, she was in what looked to be a very fancy hotel room, and she was quite alone.
She could hear herself breathing—raggedly and almost as if she were crying—as she hurried over to the door.
But it was securely locked, with the hinges on the outside.
She hadn’t expected to be able to just walk away, except maybe she had, because now she was crying because, God, she wanted to go home!
Okay. Okay. Think.
Why had they moved her? What were they going to do to her now?
She had no idea how she’d gotten here. She’d finally fallen asleep and …
As Nika tried to stanch her tears, she looked down at her arm and saw that the port that the man with the scars had implanted there had been replaced by something far more modern looking. There was some kind of drug attached to it now. It looked like the insulin pump her mother’s friend Misha had had. She was afraid to poke at it, for fear it would trigger some kind of sedative—and she wanted to stay awake as long as she possibly could.
Her skin around this new port had been neatly stitched.
She was, she realized, completely clean—even her hair had been washed. Her soiled hospital gown had been swapped for a long white nightgown of the softest cotton. As she peed in the pristine bathroom, though, she realized that her panties were gone—which was both drafty and creepy. She didn’t want to think about the scar-faced man seeing her naked—or worse that man named Devon Caine, who’d helped to kidnap her.
But it was unlikely either of them had been responsible for her new de-grimed condition. She looked at her stitches again as she flushed and washed her hands. Yeah, it was likely a real nurse or doctor had been involved.
There was no phone in the bathroom—or in the main room, on the bedside table, either. Nika hurried over to the curtains and drew them back to reveal a carefully sealed plate-glass
window—there was no way to open it, and she doubted she could break it.
Besides, even if she did, she was up on a very high floor. God, the street was tiny below, the cars like toys, the people walking on the sidewalks even smaller.
She looked out at the horizon and … Wherever she was, the window overlooked a part of the city that she didn’t recognize. Of course, for all she knew, she wasn’t even in Boston anymore.
She leaned against the glass, trying not to cry again, as she attempted to get a glimpse of the type of building she was in. It was all steel and glass—again, nothing she recognized.
There was a CoffeeBoy way down below, on the corner across the street, but that didn’t mean a thing. She could’ve been in any skyscraper in any city in America and there probably would’ve been a CoffeeBoy on a nearby corner. A Burger Deelite was next door to the C-Boy on the street below, and her stomach rumbled—until she realized there was a tray with food—still hot and delicious-smelling—on the desk there, near the window.
She lifted the metal covers to find a bowl of creamy New England fish chowder, a rather wan-looking salad, a thick cut of steak and french fries, complete with a miniature bottle of catsup and tiny salt and pepper shakers.
She had no idea how long this was going to last, or whether she’d ever get food again, so she dug in, turning to face that window, thinking about the other, somewhat distant skyscrapers she could see, and wondering if anyone would care—let alone see and be able to read it—if she wrote a big SOS on the glass.
Probably not.
Still, Nika opened the catsup and got to work.
“So how old were you, when you were recruited?” Shane asked.
Mac glanced over at him as she drove. They’d made it out of OI, past the gate, and were halfway to the hospital before he’d so much as cleared his throat.
“I guess it was too much to hope that we could make it all the way there without forcing the small talk,” she said, meeting his eyes only briefly before she turned her attention back to the road.
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