Close Quarter Read online

  Warm water washed the scent of rum, fruit, and coconut from his skin. Perhaps he should have brought the American back here to see if the man was truly willing to lick his body free of the drinks so carelessly spilled there. He’d certainly had a talented enough tongue.

  Silas wrapped his hand about his cock and stroked. How would it look to see the American’s proud mouth stretched around his shaft? To feel his tongue running over his glans, have those hands on his ass as Silas slid in and out between those lips? Gods, how he wanted to find out. His soap-slicked hand was a poor substitute for the velvet heat of a willing mouth. Still, sweet tension slid into Silas’s belly and balls.

  He leaned back against the wall of the shower and imagined what the American’s moans would sound like when he slid his entire length down that throat. Warmth like the heat of the summer sun radiated out from his core, down his arms and legs, and his shaft hardened even more. He certainly could envision tangling his fingers in the American’s soft hair. Holding that auburn head still while he shot his load down the man’s throat.

  Silas’s balls tightened, and he came hard into his hand, gasping a low moan of his own.

  Water cascaded against him for a bit before he straightened and set about washing himself off. The afterglow of orgasm relaxed him but didn’t free his mind from thoughts of the American. He still envisioned those grass-green eyes looking up, that mouth quirked into a smile, a dribble of spunk sliding down the man’s chin. Though Silas’s cock flagged, liquid sunlight pooled in his belly. He needed more.

  Silas shut the water off abruptly. No, what he needed was to stop thinking about that man. The soulless would take no pity on him, give him no quarter. It was only his sword and his wits against eight.

  He stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel, and paced out of the bathroom. Mooning over some damn human wouldn’t keep him sharp. Fooling about with one always drained him of elemental power. He couldn’t afford that right now.

  It cost quite a bit to hold on to a glamour so close to another when passions were high. It wasn’t an issue on land, where he could reach about and draw his element in. Sex in the middle of a field, for instance. But floating on water, he was cut off from his source.

  He stared out the windows at the ocean.

  Only he wasn’t drained at all. The encounter had been brief but intense enough that he should’ve depleted some energy. Instead, he brimmed with power, as if he’d drawn it right out of the ground.

  He now held more than he’d carried aboard.

  That wasn’t right.

  Silas sank into a chair close to the bed. Yes, land was close by, but it was harder to draw an element through another and took enough concentration that it wasn’t worth the effort. The energy must have come from somewhere, though.

  The American?

  No. Impossible. Humans only had the most rudimentary elemental abilities and held only the smallest amount of the power themselves. The auburn-haired man, while quite delicious, was most certainly human. Had he been fae or half-fae, Silas still couldn’t have tapped into his energy—not without losing his soul.

  No creature had the ability to act as an elemental reservoir for a fae. Such beings were myths, something from the oldest of their tales.

  Unless, of course, they weren’t. Every myth had some basis in reality, after all. That thought chilled.

  Silas tapped the armrest of his chair. He needed to find out more about the American and put his sudden notion to rest. Before the sun set and the soulless came out to feed.

  After a shower and a change of clothes, Rhys found the waiter whose tray he’d knocked over. The man was still in the lounge but stationed behind the bar instead of serving tables. From the waiter’s initial expression, he remembered Rhys quite clearly, but that smoothed over into a professional smile. “Can I help you, sir?”

  Eastern European accent. His name tag read Vasil Kutsera. “I hope so. The man who was here, the one I dumped the tray onto. Do you know his name?”

  The frown returned. “We’re not allowed to give out a guest’s personal information to other passengers, sir.”

  “But I heard you say it. I just don’t remember.”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  Exasperation made Rhys lean over the bar. “Look, I tried to give him my card, but he left before I could.”

  The waiter remained unfazed. “I was there, sir. He chose not to take it.”

  Goddamn it. Rhys reached into the pocket of his suit coat, pulled out a folded fifty-dollar bill, and placed it on the counter. He slid it toward the waiter. “Would this help?”

  The waiter stared at the money, his whole body suddenly tense. “What do you take me for?”

  “I—”

  “Do you think me some country bumpkin?” He gripped the edge of the bar. “Poor former Soviet who’d break any rule at the sight of the almighty dollar?”

  Rhys felt his face grow hot. “It’s not that. I just thought—”

  “You thought I could be bought.” The waiter took a breath. “I speak four languages. Have two engineering degrees. I’m not a fool. Keep your damn money.”

  “I just wanted to know his name.” The words came out as a whisper.

  “My name,” said a deep voice, far too close to Rhys’s ear, “is Silas Quint.”

  Rhys felt a hand press into the small of his back as the dark-haired man stepped next to him. It took him a moment to remember to breathe.

  “Rhys Matherton.” It was the only thing he could say to the man who stood too close, the man Rhys wanted to stand even closer. If Rhys’s name brought any recognition, Silas didn’t show it.

  Rhys wasn’t sure whether he should be relieved or disappointed, but damn, the guy was hot. He had changed too, from dark gray to a black pinstripe suit that looked as if it had been tailored straight onto his trim form. A tie that swirled with the muted colors of sun and fire.

  Silas nodded to the waiter. “Vasil.”

  “May I get you something, Mr. Quint?”

  “More of that scotch I never had the chance to drink would be lovely.” He slipped the fifty-dollar bill out from under Rhys’s fingers. “Mr. Matherton has been so kind as to offer to pay for it.”

  The waiter, Rhys noted, was trying very hard not to laugh. “And for you, Mr. Matherton?”

  “Nothing.”

  “He’ll have the same,” Silas said.

  The waiter paused for a moment, then nodded. “Two scotches. Right away.”

  Rhys cleared his throat. “I don’t really like scotch.”

  “You will after tonight.” The smile that came after those words was wicked.

  Rhys noted that Silas had yet to remove his hand from Rhys’s back. Mostly because he felt Silas’s thumb drawing little circles through his coat and shirt. He might as well have been naked, such was the effect.

  God, this man was like a drug.

  The waiter returned and placed two scotches in front of Silas. Only then did the hand at Rhys’s back drop away. Silas took one glass and handed the other to him. “Cheers.”

  Rhys knew enough to swirl the glass slightly and sniff before sipping. The burnished liquid smelled of wood and sin. He drank and then waited for the burn, but it didn’t come. This scotch slid down his tongue and vanished. He stared at the glass. “What is this?”

  “A very good, very expensive single malt scotch,” Silas said. “Someday I might even teach you to drink it properly.”

  Rhys felt the room sway, hoped it was the boat, knew it wasn’t. “Someday” implied more than he wished to think about at the moment. He was more than a little surprised by the words that came out of his mouth. “I’d like that.”

  “Yes,” Silas said. “I’m sure you would.”

  Would everything this man said set him on fire? He took a deep breath, then another sip of the scotch, and spoke. “Would you let me apologize for dumping a tray of drinks on you?”

  A dark laugh. “You already have. I rather enjoyed that.”

&nbs
p; The mere thought of that encounter in the hall threatened to tent his pants. Rhys took another shaky sip of scotch.

  Silas lifted his glass. “And now you’ve compensated me for my ruined scotch. I’d say that sets things aright.”

  An even playing field. Rhys licked his lips. “Now what?” The question came out as a whisper. He both hoped and feared the answer.

  Silas set down his drink. Took Rhys’s from his hand. “You take a break from the scotch while I fix your tie.”

  Fix his tie? Before Rhys could protest, Silas had loosened the knot below his throat and started tugging at it. In short order, he had it undone completely and set about retying it.

  “You don’t wear a suit often, do you?”

  “No.” How was it that no one else in the bar noticed what was happening? No one even looked their way. “Not that often.”

  “It shows.” Silas straightened his collar and smoothed down the front of his jacket. “Better.”

  Except for his hard-on. If only Silas would run his hand over that. Rhys had to admit his neck felt less constricted.

  Why was Silas doing this? What did he want? “Who are you?”

  A flash of teeth. Amusement in that deep voice. “Have you forgotten my name already?”

  Rhys swallowed. He eyed the glass on the bar counter but knew not to pick it up yet. Silas had been right. He did need a break from the scotch. The man was far more potent than alcohol.

  Silas pressed close and spoke into Rhys’s ear. “My name?”

  Rhys shuddered at the command. “Silas.” He doubted he’d ever forget. He certainly would remember the hand at his hip, Silas’s fingers stroking his side beneath his suit coat, the quick nip of teeth against his ear.

  Not a person in the place was watching them.

  Rhys dropped his voice. “You’re the most attractive man I’ve ever met. Stunning. I mean, every head in this place should get whiplash when you walk by.”

  Something shifted in Silas’s expression. There was still a sense of amusement, but his smile slipped away. “I should be flattered.”

  “The thing is,” Rhys said, “no one notices. Hell, you take off my tie, then feel me up, and not one person even looks this way.”

  “It is rather odd, isn’t it?”

  The whole thing was damn strange. The tone of Silas’s response sent a trickle of fear down Rhys. “You know it’s happening.”

  Silas said nothing, just picked up his scotch and sipped.

  Well, theories begged to be tested. Rhys snatched the scotch out of Silas’s hand and set it down on the bar counter. Then he took Silas’s face in his hands and kissed him.

  Rhys doubted he would ever get enough of this man’s mouth on his, or their tongues twining about each other.

  Not a tropical night this time, but some pine forest in the height of summer, a hint of warm rock and damp earth. Rhys felt Silas’s finger brush his throat; then the other man pulled away.

  “You’re exceedingly brash.”

  “You seem to enjoy it,” Rhys said. “And I was right. Not a person in this room saw that.”

  Down the bar, Vasil chatted with other patrons. A few people glanced their way, but it was as if he and Silas didn’t exist, rather than people pointedly not watching two men make out.

  “So, who are you?”

  Silas’s amused smile returned. “You keep asking the wrong questions.”

  Damn it. Rhys picked up his scotch. “Then what the hell are the right questions?”

  The other man chuckled. “I do like you, Rhys. That’s a very dangerous thing for the both of us.” Silas retrieved his own drink. “Would you care to join me for dinner?”

  Dinner? “Why do I have the feeling you’ve already assumed I’d say yes?”

  “Because I have. Because you will.” Silas cupped his hand under Rhys’s chin. “Because if you ask the right questions, you might get the answers you so desire.”

  Silas’s grip was strong and his fingers warm. Rhys resisted the urge to lower his chin and lick them.

  “Yes, I’ll go to dinner with you.”

  Chapter Three

  Silas stroked the side of Rhys’s jaw with his thumb before letting Rhys go. The American was dangerous, indeed. He saw straight though Silas’s glamour. More interesting, Rhys saw Silas’s true appearance and he wasn’t overwhelmed by it. Driven to lust, yes—that was easy enough to see. But he maintained control of himself.

  Not exactly a human trait. But Rhys was human. Silas pushed aside his growing doubts. Rhys had to be human, despite the soft flow of energy that came with his kiss.

  A bold move. Unexpected. Enticing. Silas still tasted him, even through the scotch. Apparently Rhys was the kind of man who gave as well as received. Silas’s cock stiffened at that thought.

  It had also been a test to gauge what was happening to the room about them. Smart move.

  Bedding Rhys might be very interesting.

  “Shall we, then?” Silas gestured toward the lounge entrance.

  Rhys hesitated. “The scotch?”

  “So you like it after all?” Silas guessed the answer but was rewarded by a touch of color in Rhys’s cheeks.

  “Yeah. I do.” Rhys paused and leaned close. “You make everything taste better.”

  Even bolder.

  Silas brushed his fingers against Rhys’s throat and stole a quick taste of his lips. “We’ll have to put that to the test sometime.”

  Oh, that flustered Rhys. Silas was tempted to skip dinner altogether, take Rhys to his cabin, and put that mouth to work. But the sunlight outside cast long shadows. He didn’t need a clock to tell him night was approaching. After so many years, he felt sunset in his bones.

  Rhys would be in danger then, if what Silas suspected was true. If such a thing could be true.

  “As for the scotch, bring it along.” Silas raised his glass and set off for the restaurant he’d chosen. Rhys fell in step next to him.

  It was a short walk from the lounge to one of the smaller and more upscale dining establishments on the ship. Soft light, golden accents, and crisp white walls gave the room a Greco-Roman revival feel, though most Roman eateries had never had marble quite this polished.

  Silas gave his name to the maître d’, and they were seen to the table he’d reserved a scant hour and a half ago.

  That had been the first item he’d attended to after his shower. The second had been to track down the manager of the lounge for Rhys’s business card. His third stop had been the ship’s library to access the Internet. The American came with an interesting personal history.

  Rhys slid into the seat across from him.

  A waitress took their order. Seafood Feuillantine for him, Chateaubriand steak for Rhys.

  Once she’d left, Rhys looked around. “Wow.”

  Silas hazarded a comment about Rhys’s past. “Surely you’ve been in elegant restaurants before? When your mother was on tour?”

  That caused a reaction. Muscles tensed. Voice thick with accusation. “You knew who I was.”

  He was going to bolt.

  “Rhys, don’t.” Silas put as much command into his voice as he dared, though he doubted it would work on Rhys. He added an honest, “Please.”

  It was the latter, he suspected, that stayed Rhys. He still trembled, but he remained in his seat.

  “After I showered, I returned and asked the manager for your card. Then I looked you up.”

  Some of the tension in Rhys vanished. “After you showered?”

  “When we…conversed…in the hall, you were a perfect stranger to me.”

  Rhys shifted in his chair. More anger abated, but not all. “I’ve been in the news for two weeks.”

  “I don’t pay much attention to the news. Haven’t for years.”

  “I’m not sure I believe that.” Rhys sipped the scotch. “And I’m not sure I believe you about the business card. That waiter didn’t want to give me your name.”

  “His name is Vasil.”

  Rhys
stared at him.

  “Names are important, Rhys. Notice them. Remember them.” Silas lay his left hand on the table, palm up. He didn’t know if Rhys would understand the gesture, the invitation. “The manager, Benjamin, gave me your card because he saw you offer it to me.”

  It didn’t mollify Rhys. “So did the waiter.”

  He was too wrapped up in his indignation to see the difference. “Vasil saw you offer your information to me. He didn’t see the reverse. I left nothing for you.”

  That must have sunk in, because Rhys slumped back against his chair. “Oh.”

  Silas let the silence hang, content to wait. A moment later, Rhys nodded. “I should’ve left a message for you.”

  “Might have been wiser than bribery.” He did so enjoy watching Rhys blush.

  “Yeah.” Rhys’s gaze focused, traveled up, then along the table to where Silas’s hand lay. He brought his own hand up and slid it into Silas’s grasp. Warm flesh on flesh, a tiny trickle of elemental energy.

  Rhys’s pulse still beat wildly, but the tension was gone. Silas gave the hand a gentle squeeze.

  Rhys cleared his throat. “Silas? What are you doing to me?”

  He answered with the truth. “Nothing.”

  “Then what are you doing to everyone else?”

  He couldn’t help but smile. “Merely showing them what they wish to see.”

  Rhys laughed. “What are you, then? Some sort of magician?”

  “No, not a magician.” He picked up his glass and drained the last of his scotch. Set it back down. “I’m one of the fae.”

  Once more, Rhys went taut with shock. “Fae. You mean like a fairy?”

  “Well, I don’t have wings. Nor do I fly about trailing pixie dust.” Silas stroked his thumb over the top of Rhys’s hand. “And I am a bit longer than five inches.”

  Color drained from Rhys’s cheeks. “You’re serious.”

  “Very.”

  Rhys opened his mouth to speak again, disbelief clearly etched on his face. Fortunately the food arrived, providing Silas with a respite from questions.

  He did have to give up Rhys’s hand to eat. Pity, that. He missed the touch of Rhys’s skin. Best to leave him be, for a time. From having watched the man this past hour or so, he knew Rhys needed to work things through in his mind.