The Hell Yo - lanyon Josh. Страница 14

dug fake pine garland out of the dusty cardboard boxes and draped it artistically over the

faux fireplace.

We worked for long, companionable minutes. No mention of his case load, no mention

of my straying off the reservation. The music filled in the silence.

“Rufus Wainwright?” he inquired when the song “What Are You Doing New Year’s

Eve” whispered through the canyon of bookshelves.

“Yeah.”

He grunted disapprovingly.

“Hey, you think you’d want to go to this wedding?” I asked casually. “I could use the

moral support.”

He didn’t speak for a moment. I couldn’t see his profile; the upper half of his body was

in shadow.

I qualified hastily, “I mean, as a regular guest. As a friend of Lisa’s.” Meaning not as my

personal guest, meaning his cover would not be compromised.

“Uh, sure,” he said vaguely. “I could do that.” He glanced back at me. “How does this

look?”

“Great.”

He tossed me the extension cord. “Try plugging that in.”

I found the wall socket behind the tall mahogany counter which had once served as the

hotel’s front desk. I guided the prongs into the wall socket and felt a weird rippling jolt wash

through my body. The cord dropped out of my hand, though I don’t think I consciously

moved my fingers.

“Shit! It shocked me.” I sat back on my heels, heart pounding way too fast, thinking,

shit, shit, shit. Not good …

“Are you okay?” Jake jumped from the ladder, came around the counter, squatting

down, face tense.

I waited for my heart to start skipping and stuttering. It continued to gallop away,

trying to outrun the threat.

“Okay, baby?”

I took an experimental breath, nodded.

He rested a callused hand against my cheek, tilting my face so that our eyes met.

“Sure?”

“I think so.” From his expression, he was thinking what I was, that any minute the

electrical shock would send my own funky heartbeat out of sync.

“Why don’t you sit back?”

I lowered myself the rest of the way and leaned gingerly against the base of the desk. I

took another careful breath. My heart began to slow. I decided that I was okay, just startled.

My hand still tingled. I flexed it.

“You’re lucky you dropped the cord. That doesn’t always happen.”

I nodded. Lucky I dropped the cord. Not so lucky I got shocked. I thought of that

pentagram on my front step.

Jake eyed me like there was a defect in the manufacturing. I gave him a lopsided grin.

“Take it easy.”

I nodded. “Sorry. I sort of scared myself.”

“No shit.” He frowned. “What did you do?”

“Nothing. It wasn’t anything I did. Nothing anybody did. The wiring’s old, that’s all.”

His mouth twitched.

I clarified, “The building’s. Not mine.”

That night the fucking felt like making love. So slow and so sweet. We spent a long

time stroking, petting, kissing. Hands threading hair, bringing faces closer, the taste of lips

and tongues, gentle bites and soft breaths and languid sips. The friendly bump of noses, the

flickering of eye lashes, the slow, quiet exchange of breaths. A little cocoon of sensual

delight – and maybe something more.

But at last we began to thrust against each other, pleasure knotting into hunger and

passion and the need that always felt close to anxiety. I wrapped my arms around his broad,

muscular back, arching against him, feeling the hard probe of his dick against my belly. No

questions here, the answers being self-evident.

Jake muttered against my ear, “My God, I…”

“Me too.”

I scooted back, smiling despite my tiredness, knees splayed, fingertips grazing the flat

hard planes of his chest, reaching for him again.

Instead he pushed me back without roughness into the pillows. “Nah. Just relax.”

Nah? “But…”

“Just…shut up…” He leaned over me, found my mouth, kissing away the sting of that.

“And…relax.” His lips trailed softly down my naked flesh, pressing tiny melting kisses on my

chin, my throat, collar bone, breast bone, belly, the sensitive joining of groin and inner

thigh. I shivered. He’d never…was he going to…?

“Very pretty, Adrien,” he whispered. “Every inch of you.” And he kissed the head of

my cock, which, embarrassingly, seemed to be reaching up for that very thing.

I laughed shakily, the laugh dying in the back of my throat as his wet, hot mouth

closed around me. My hands fluttered to my sides, half protest – though what the hell was

there to protest in this? – half supplication, clenching in the duvet.

Jake’s tongue traced the slit, tasting. I caught a ragged breath, amazed, afraid to say a

word that might break whatever magic spell this was. His lips tightened around my shaft,

and I stopped myself from bucking up. I felt him smile, felt his fingers cup my balls and

squeeze.

I did arch then, gasping, “Jake!”

“Right here. What’d you need?”

Oh, I didn’t want him talking . Couldn’t bear to be teased. Couldn’t bear for that febrile

slide down my dick to stop.

I moaned and was promptly enveloped in that slick, sucking heat. That sweet pulse of

pleasure as his mouth dragged on my length, drawing me in deeper. The pressure of his

tongue on the sensitive underside of the head of my cock. He took me all the way in, sucking

hard, and my hands moved to his shoulders, squeezing, urging.

But Jake took his time, like we had all night, gentle and relentless, and in the end the

intensity of feeling was so powerful it brought tears to my eyes. Coming was an exquisite

shock of release, with me pushing up hard into the grip of lips and mouth, pumping out what

felt like my life’s blood in hard, long strokes.

I rested my forearm over my face so he wouldn’t know, but Jake drew me into his

arms, found my mouth. He tasted like me and like himself.

All I wanted to do was sleep, but I forced myself to mumble the words, “What about

you, Jake?”

“I’m good. Go to sleep,” he said, settling us more comfortably. He rested his face in the

curve of my neck and lay very still.

Chapter Six

Morning had broken – apparently over Gabriel Savant’s aching head.

Unshaven, eyes red-rimmed, he wore expensive, wrinkled trousers and silk shirt. He