Black Dagger Brotherhood 11 - Lover at Last

went for the alcohol. Twisting off the white cap, he leaned over the sink, braced himself and—
    The sound that came out from his locked teeth was part growl, part groan. And as his vision checkerboarded, he closed his eyes and leaned his hip into the lip of the sink.
    Inhaling hard, his sinuses stung from the smell, but there was no putting the cap back on yet: his fine motor skills were no doubt shot.
    Taking a walk to clear his head, he went back into the bedroom and gave his body a chance to recalibrate. As the pain stayed with him, like he had a dog attached to his arm that was trying to eat him alive, he cursed many times.
    And ended up downstairs. Where the liquor was.
    Never one for imbibing, he investigated the canvas bag of bottles that Zypher had brought with them from the warehouse. The soldier enjoyed a drink from time to time, and although Xcor did not approve, he had long ago learned that one had to make certain allowances when it came to aggressive, restless fighters.
    And on a night like tonight, he found himself grateful.
    Whiskey? Gin? Vodka?
    What did it matter.
    He picked one randomly, split the seal on the cap, and tilted his head back. Opening his throat, he poured whatever it was down, swallowing in spite of the fact that his esophagus burned like it was afire.
    Xcor continued to drink as he went back upstairs. Further drinking as he paced around some more and waited for the effects to kick in.
    Even more drinking.
    He wasn’t sure how long it took, but eventually he was back in the bright light of the bathroom, drawing a two-foot length of black line through the head of a thin needle. Facing the broad, rectangular mirror over the sinks, he was grateful that the
lesser’s
blade had found his left arm. It meant that, as a right-handed male, he could handle this on his own. Had it been the other side? He would have had to get help.
    The booze helped greatly. He barely flinched as he pierced his own skin and made a neat knot with the help of his teeth.
    Indeed, alcohol was a curious substance, he thought as he began to make a row of stitches. The numbness that had come upon him made him feel as though he had been submerged in warm water, his body loosening, the pain still making an appearance, but the volume on the agony turned way down.
    Slow. Precise. Even.
    When he got to the top of his shoulder, he made another knot; then he snipped the needle free, put everything back where he’d found it, and started the shower.
    Stripping his leathers down his legs, he kicked off his combat boots and stepped beneath the spray.
    This time, the groan was from relief: As the warm water blanketed his sore shoulders, stiff back, and tight thigh muscles, the sense of comfort was nearly as overwhelming as the agony had been.
    And for once, he allowed himself to give in to it. Probably because he was drunk.
    Easing against the tile wall, the water hit him right in the face, but in a gentle way, like rain, before it traveled down the front of his body, going over his chest and his hard belly, past his hips and his sex—
    From out of nowhere, he saw his Chosen leaning over him, her eyes glowing green in the moonlight, the tree overhead seeming to shelter them both.
    She was feeding him, her slender, pale wrist at his mouth, his throat swallowing rhythmically.
    In the midst of his alcohol-induced haze, the sexual need came upon him, seeming to unfold in his pelvis like an open hand.
    He became hard.
    Opening his eyes—not that he’d been aware of shutting them—he stared down at himself. The brilliant light over the sinks had been dimmed by the opaque curtain that kept the water from gettingloose in the bathroom, but there was more than enough illumination to go by.
    He wished it had been completely dark…for it brought him no joy to see the arousal, that length standing out so stupid and proud from his body.
    He could not fathom what it was thinking: If the likes of whores had to be paid extra to accommodate his impulses, he was hard-pressed to imagine that lovely Chosen doing aught but run screaming in the opposite direction—
    Abruptly, that struck him as depressing, especially as the throbbing between his legs grew stronger. In truth, his body was such a sad instrument, so pathetic in this desire—remaining unaware that it was unwanted by all.
    In particular, by the one it desired.
    Turning around, he tilted his head back and pushed his hands through his hair. Time to stop thinking and get clean. The