Black Dagger Brotherhood 11 - Lover at Last

liiiiiittle too tempting. Nodding to John, who was also measuring the dear boy for a shroud, Qhuinn went to walk off.
    “What about your change?” the man called out.
    “I’m deaf, too. I can’t hear you.”
    The guy yelled more loudly, “I’ll just keep it then, yeah?”
    “Sounds good,” Qhuinn shouted over his shoulder.
    Idiot was stage-five stupid. Straight up.
    Stepping through the security bar, Qhuinn thought it was a miracle that humans like that got through the day and night at all. And the motherfucker had managed to get his pants on right and operate a cash register.
    Would miracles never cease.
    As he pushed his way outside, the cold slapped him around, the wind blowing at his hair, snowflakes getting in his nose—
    Qhuinn stopped.
    Looked left. Looked right.
    “What the…where’s my Hummer?”
    In his peripheral vision, John’s hands started flying around like he was wondering the same thing. And then the guy pointed down to the freshly fallen snow…and the deep treads of four monster tires that made a fat circle and headed out of the parking lot.
    “Goddamn motherfucking
shit
!” Qhuinn gritted.
    And he thought Mr. Observant was the stupid one?

TWO
    B ack at the Brotherhood’s mansion, Blaylock sat on the edge of his bed, his naked body flushed, a sheen of sweat across his chest and shoulders. Between his legs his cock was spent, and his hips were loose from all kinds of bump and grind. At the other end of the spectrum, his breath was squeezed, his flesh requiring just a little more oxygen than his lungs could provide.
    So naturally he reached for the pack of Dunhill Reds he kept on his side table.
    The sounds of his lover showering in the bath across the way, along with the spicy scent of hand-milled soap, were achingly familiar.
    Had it been almost a year now?
    Taking out one of the cigarettes, he picked up the vintage Van Cleef & Arpels lighter Sax had given him for his birthday. The thing was made of gold and marked with the firm’s trademark Mystery Set rubies, a 1940s lovely that never failed to please the eye—or do the job.
    As the flame jumped up, the shower turned off.
    Blay leaned into the lick of fire, inhaled, and flicked the top back down. As always, the slightest hint of lighter fluid lingered, the sweetness mingling with the smoke that he exhaled—
    Qhuinn hated smoking.
    Had never approved of it.
    Which, considering the number of outrageous things the guy made a regular habit out of, seemed downright offensive.
    Sex with countless strangers in club bathrooms? Threesomes with males and females? Piercings? Tattoos in various places?
    And this guy didn’t “approve” of smoking. Like it was a vile habit no one in his right mind would bother with.
    In the bathroom, the hair dryer he and Sax shared went on, and Blay could imagine that blond hair he had just grabbed onto and pulled back hard flowing in the artificial breeze, catching the light, shining with highlights that were natural.
    Saxton was beautiful, all smooth skin and sinewy body and perfect taste.
    God, the clothes in that wardrobe of his. Amazing. Like the Great Gatsby had jumped out of the pages of the novel, gone down to Fifth Avenue, and bought out whole blocks of haute couture.
    Qhuinn was never like that. He wore Hanes T-shirts and fatigues or leathers, and still sported the same biker jacket he’d had from just after his transition. No Ferragamos or Ballys for him; New Rocks with soles the size of truck tires. Hair? Brushed if it was lucky. Cologne? Gunpowder and orgasms.
    Hell, in all the years Blay had known the guy—and it had been since birth practically—he’d never seen Qhuinn in a suit.
    One had to wonder if the guy knew that tuxedos could be owned, not just rented.
    If Saxton was the picture-perfect aristocrat, Qhuinn was a straight-up thug—
    “Here. Tap your ashes in this.”
    Blay jerked his head up. Saxton was naked, perfectly coiffed and scented with Cool Water—and holding out the heavy Baccarat ashtray he’d bought as a summer solstice gift. It was also from the forties, and weighed as much as a bowling ball.
    Blay complied, taking the thing and balancing it in the palm of his hand. “Are you off to work?”
    Like that wasn’t obvious?
    “Indeed.”
    Saxton turned away and flashed a spectacular ass as he went to the closet. Technically, the guy was supposed to be living next door in oneof the vacant guest rooms, but over time his clothes had migrated in here.
    He didn’t