Close Quarter Page 4

  Quarter.

  Quarter-fae weren’t supposed to exist. A myth—ancient legend that spanned back millennia, longer than humans had recorded history. The impossible explanation Silas kept avoiding, yet here Rhys was, draped in verdant power.

  “Silas?” Rhys took him by the elbow and dragged him down a side path to a bench and sat next to him. “I didn’t hurt you, bringing you here?”

  Hurt? Laughter bubbled up, followed by language. “Oh Gods, no. A place like this could never harm me.” He looked at Rhys again. “It was just a bit much to take in at once.”

  The glow, Silas realized, was the sheer amount of energy Rhys drew into himself. No, not drew in. Circulated through. Renewed.

  The air around them smelled of honey and tasted like the crisp edge of a spring morning.

  “Do you enjoy gardens like this?” Silas ran his fingers down Rhys’s jawline. Touching him felt no different from before, though now he saw his reserve of element lick off his skin and fall into Rhys. More poured back, fresh and new.

  “Yeah. All this life. It’s pretty amazing.” Rhys slid closer, hip to hip. “I like gardens. Parks. Used to sit in Central Park and read for hours. Got more of a buzz from that than I did running, you know?”

  “I do know, yes.”

  Even in the garden, deep fear found Silas. Ancient fae legends spoke of wars waged over a single Quarter. He understood those stories now. They—other fae—would want Rhys if they knew. And what of his own intentions? Did he have any true affection for Rhys, or was it the desire to possess a Quarter?

  Games of lust and pleasure were one thing, but to entrap another? Never. But he wouldn’t let any other fae claim Rhys, so what did that make him?

  Rhys touched Silas’s thigh, moved his hand upward. “How much time do you have left?” His fingers brushed against fabric made taut by Silas’s hard cock.

  Silas’s heart hammered as need coiled like a snake around his core. Blood pulsed in his fingertips. He took a sharp breath and looked up at the glass roof. “Until true dark. Another hour?”

  “Plenty of time, then.” Rhys stood and straddled Silas’s legs. He pulled Silas’s mouth to his and opened it with his tongue, taking what he wanted, demanding a response.

  Energy whipped through Silas and set every nerve alight. A craving awakened in him, a need for more than the fulfillment of lust.

  Gods. He’d fucked in the middle of ancient forests, and none of those times had left him aching like this. Rhys was merely kissing him.

  Who possessed whom?

  Silas trailed his fingers down Rhys’s throat and found the knot of the tie he’d so carefully fixed. He worked it free and set about unbuttoning Rhys’s shirt. He wanted flesh under his hands. Warmth. When he found Rhys’s nipple, he rolled it between his fingers.

  Rhys broke their kiss and gasped.

  Silas looked up at him. “Sensitive?”

  “I’ll show you sensitive.” Rhys’s voice was low and rough. He slid off Silas’s lap and pushed his legs apart. Belt. Button. Zipper. A shift of fabric, then his cock was in Rhys’s hand. “An hour, huh?”

  The roughness and authority in Rhys left Silas breathless. He wasn’t used to being the passive partner. Didn’t have much choice in the matter at the moment.

  Rhys flicked his tongue over the top of Silas’s cock and branded a wet path over Silas’s crown. Slowly Rhys circled the head. Little touches, no more than a tease. Each time that silky tongue caressed Silas’s glans, tension curled into Silas.

  He hissed and tangled his hands in Rhys’s hair. He tried to urge that mouth forward and failed. He was strong. Resistant. “Damn it, Rhys. Don’t.”

  The incredible velvet heat vanished, replaced by the chill of damp air. “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t go so slow!”

  “Oh, okay.” He grinned and started again at an even more leisurely pace. Rhys’s hot tongue—tasting here, touching there—wound Silas like a watch until he was ready to snap. Rhys lingered at the tip of Silas’s cock and dipped his tongue into the slit. When Rhys withdrew, cool air followed, releasing enough pressure to keep Silas balanced on the precipice, steps from ecstasy. Again and again.

  Silas gave in to the guttural moan in his throat. Every moment was agonizing. Wonderful. He’d do anything in the world to keep Rhys.

  Rhys stopped again. “I want you to scream, Silas.”

  Brazen. But gods, he liked that. “I don’t tend to.” He stroked Rhys’s cheeks with his thumbs. “But you’re welcome to try to make me.”

  “I’m sorry. I misspoke.” Rhys tugged Silas’s pants down and around his legs. “I’m going to make you scream.” He pulled Silas’s hips forward, almost pulled Silas from the bench entirely when he slid his hands under his ass.

  Rhys took Silas in again. Being surrounded by that unbelievable soft mouth was far better than he’d imagined. The reality of Rhys was going to kill him.

  Rhys licked down Silas’s shaft, nipping as he went. He mouthed Silas’s sac and swirled his tongue around Silas’s balls before taking each one between his hot lips.

  Elemental energy wrapped Silas’s body and pushed into every fiber of his being. He bit the inside of his mouth to keep from moaning too loudly. Release from this exquisite torture hovered just beyond his reach.

  Rhys paused and chuckled low. “Having issues, Silas? Too much for you?” He mouthed the base of Silas’s cock. Too gently.

  Silas groaned in frustration.

  Rhys was everywhere. Nipping at the head, stroking his shaft, licking or gently scraping teeth across Silas’s sensitive flesh. Never fully engulfing Silas’s cock. Silas hovered on the edge, but every time he crept close to release, Rhys backed down. Changed the rhythm. Then started over.

  Lightning lived in Silas’s veins and he felt like glass about to shatter. Only the final blow, the one to break him to pieces, never came.

  Had there not been so much damn energy flying through him, Silas would’ve lost his glamour ages ago. But Rhys was a focus, a well and Silas drowned in power.

  Damn that mouth and those hands. “Gods, Rhys. Will you please suck me already?”

  Rhys laughed. Then finally—finally—Rhys’s sweet, hot mouth took him in. At first Rhys worked his way up and down achingly slowly, but then faster and deeper.

  Silas cupped a hand around the back of Rhys’s neck and urged the tempo to increase. The coil inside Silas wound tighter and every nerve ached.

  At last Rhys complied, shifting and loosening his throat and giving over control. Now Silas set the rhythm, the depth. “All of me.”

  The vibrations from Rhys’s moan pulsed through Silas’s cock.

  He tightened his grip in Rhys’s hair and savored the sight of those lips splayed wide around the root of his cock.

  His. All his. Damn anyone else.

  Rhys shifted his hands. They still cupped Silas’s ass, but one finger slipped into his crack and pressed against his anus. Oh fuck! Fire burned down every nerve as Silas fell off the edge. He threw back his head and screamed as he came in Rhys’s mouth.

  Fae cum didn’t taste of pixie sticks; that was for sure. But Rhys enjoyed it anyway, nearly as much as he’d relished the raw cry of ecstasy that had come from Silas. He gave the fae’s softening cock another kiss before looking up.

  Silas had his eyes closed, his head tipped back. He took a breath and spoke. “O di!”

  Latin? He thought he’d heard Silas speak another piece earlier. He rested his arms on Silas’s thighs. “I said I would make you scream.”

  Silas looked down, then grabbed the sides of Rhys’s shirt and jacket and hauled him up and kissed him. Hard.

  He’d forgotten how strong Silas was. Rhys wasn’t a slight man, not after slinging clay, stone, and metal around a studio, but Silas pulled him off the floor with ease.

  And God, could he kiss. He had vague memories of the colored fairy books as a kid, the glossed-over sensuality of the good folk. None ever mentioned male fairies seducing men or sucking coc
k.

  Truth was better than fiction.

  Silas finished attacking his mouth and slid him onto the bench. “Let me put myself back together.” He stood and tugged up his underwear and pants.

  Fae, it seemed, preferred boxers. Or at least this one did. Rhys licked his lips, tasting Silas. Oh, part of him rebelled against the notion of Silas being anything other than human. Impossible, the logical side of his brain said.

  Damn logic. Silas was the picture of a fantasy brought to life—tall, slim but with enough muscle to give a sense of his strength. He wanted to carve the man into marble—a modern-day David. He didn’t even like the classical forms. Abstract was more his thing. But if he could get Silas into his studio, he’d do it.

  Rhys never took any of his lovers there. Art was his alone. But for Silas, he’d share. Rhys cleared his throat. “What are your plans in New York?”

  Silas sat. “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

  He had to be kidding. “You must have some idea. I mean, you don’t just get on a cruise and not think about—”

  Silas smiled, whether from amusement or sadness, Rhys couldn’t tell. “I live day to day.”

  “Carpe diem, huh? Is that just you or all fae?”

  “Just me.” Silas brushed his hand against Rhys’s cheek. “Do you know the rest of the saying?”

  There was more? “No.”

  “It’s the last line of an ode by Horace. ‘Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero.’ Seize the day, trust as little as possible in the future.”

  That was definitely Latin. It rolled off Silas’s tongue as if he’d been born to it. “That’s how you live life?” Would he lose Silas as soon as they docked in New York? “No thoughts of tomorrow?”

  Silas fell silent. His gaze drifted upward to the darkening sky beyond the glass ceiling. “Oh, I have thoughts. I only consider them after I’ve seen the sun rise.”

  Fear rippled through Rhys. “You think you’re going to die. Every night.”

  “No,” Silas said, “but I know one of these nights, I will.”

  Compelled to be on this boat. Sent, he’d said. Dangerous business. “Why? What are you, some sort of fairy special agent?”

  “Fae.” Silas took Rhys’s hand, drew it up to his mouth, and nipped at the ends of his fingers. “I work for the Messengers,” he said between nibbles.

  The sensation traveled straight to Rhys’s balls. He tried to focus on Silas’s words, rather than the wet and silky mouth around his index finger. “Messengers?”

  “Hmm-mmm.” Silas mouthed his ring finger.

  Wrong question, apparently. He tried another. “What do you do?”

  Silas stopped sucking on his fingers but didn’t let go. “Whatever they wish me to do.” He stood, still holding Rhys’s hand. “I’ve run out of time.”

  Almost a whisper, that last bit. Rhys rose and kissed Silas’s knuckles. “Will I… You…” Desperation threatened to close his throat. “I want to see you tomorrow.”

  Silence hung between them, longer—much longer than Rhys liked—until Silas exhaled. His slight smile offered a glint of hope. “You move me, Rhys, in wild and wonderful ways. That’s very rare. If the Fates grant, you’ll see me again.”

  “I don’t like leaving my life up to fate.” Rhys kissed Silas’s hand again and inhaled the spicy scent of his flesh. “What can I do to help you?”

  Silas looked up at the glass roof. Creases marred his forehead. “You said there was a bar here? In this garden?”

  Rhys pointed through the palm trees. “Far end.”

  “If you wish to help me, remain there until I return.” Silas released Rhys’s hand. Traced a finger down his throat. “Please.”

  Though the garden was warm and moist, Rhys felt a chill work down his back. “How long? What if you don’t come back?”

  “Until first light.”

  A stone formed in Rhys’s stomach. Business during the dark hours. Something that could kill Silas.

  “God, are you hunting—”

  Silas pressed two fingers against his lips, cutting off the final word.

  “Stay here until first light.” A sharp expression accented the long lines of Silas’s face. It wasn’t desire, though. Rhys had seen that often enough tonight to know. “I will come for you.”

  The fierceness of those words made Rhys’s cheeks warm. Silas removed his fingers.

  “Promise?” He whispered the word.

  “On my honor.” Silas stepped back. “Don’t leave the garden.”

  “You damn well better explain all this.”

  Silas took another step away. “Over coffee.” He placed his hand over his heart. “Another pledge.”

  “I’ll hold you to that, if I have to tie you down to get the truth.”

  A flash of teeth. “I have something to look forward to, then.”

  “Your pal Horace would be horrified. Looking forward.”

  Silas laughed. “Probably. He could be such an ass sometimes.”

  Rhys froze. Did Silas just say—

  Another wicked grin from Silas. “Tomorrow,” he said. Then he turned and strode down the path and disappeared from sight.

  Gone.

  Damn, he hated the emptiness that took hold and fought the instinct to follow Silas.

  Bar. He could use a drink. Rhys set about buttoning his shirt, retying his tie. The fall of his jacket covered his partial erection for the most part.

  The Tropics Bar was quite the happening place, it turned out. Most of the tables were occupied. All the discreet nooks under the palms were taken, not surprisingly, by couples.

  The burble of a water fountain underscored the playing of a jazz pianist. The air smelled sweet, sensual, but not as vibrant as it had when Silas had been in his arms. Or in his mouth.

  Rhys took a seat at the bar. He even knew the waiter who stepped over to serve him.

  “Mr. Matherton.”

  What was the man’s name? A cloth thrown over the waiter’s shoulder obscured his name tag, damn it all. Names were important, Silas had said. “Remember them.”

  “Vasil.”

  The waiter nodded. “May I get something for you?”

  The beer list was disappointingly short. “I’d been thinking about a beer.” Rhys tapped the list. “But I’m open to suggestions.”

  Vasil looked at the menu. “Too warm in here for most of those.” He looked up. “But you don’t strike me as a fruit cocktail man.”

  “Yeah, I’m more of a beer or Jack kind of guy.”

  “Whiskey Manhattan, then.”

  Rhys nodded and handed his key card over. He had no idea what was in that drink, but the least he could do was trust the waiter he’d treated so poorly earlier.

  The drink came in a martini glass, with a cherry and a twirl of orange peel. But it had the sting of Jack and something sweet and bitter. “It’s good.”

  The waiter nodded again and shifted to move down the bar.

  “Vasil,” Rhys said. “I’m sorry. About earlier.”

  The waiter paused. “Think nothing of it.” Light words. “That was quite a tip Mr. Quint had you leave for two scotches.” He moved on.

  Rhys chuckled to himself. Punishment. Payment. Silas had so many layers to him. Amusement dropped away. Silas. He looked back at the waiter. Did he know? No, of course not. Silas had said there were no other fae aboard this ship.

  Fae. Rhys took a sip of his drink and then exhaled. If he’d understood their last exchange, Silas wasn’t just inhuman; he was old. Really old. Rhys had no idea when Horace had lived, but he knew when Rome fell.

  Rhys slid off the bar stool. Three unoccupied chairs sat near what seemed to be a bookcase. He took one. He needed some space, some time to think.

  What had he gotten himself into?

  Chapter Five

  Silas didn’t bother to keep his sword sheathed in the Aether. One benefit of Rhys having gone down on him—he had more than enough power to keep a glamour around the blade. Crafted items were h
arder to hide from mortal eyes. This particular blade—a Roman gladius—had been forged from silver and diamond by a phoenix in her own fire. His sword was one of the very few objects that could damage the soulless. Only the Messengers’ own swords were more dangerous. To glamour such a work was difficult, even when his feet touched earth.

  Rhys’s power in Silas’s blood made the act as easy as breathing.

  Not that the blade mattered one whit at the moment. If there were soulless on the ocean liner, Silas couldn’t find them. They must be here, for the Messengers were never wrong.

  Silas sauntered down the grand staircase that led into the most elegant of the ship’s many lounges. The soulless were vain and drawn to crowds, to the elemental energy humans possessed, and to their souls. The more humans in one location, the greater those little flares of elements burned. The soulless would seek the taste of energy and follow it until they found their prize.

  Fae were even more tempting to the soulless, with their great stores of energy and immortal bodies. Had Silas not wrapped a glamour about himself to tamp down his flare of energy, they would’ve come for him first. He didn’t want to give away the advantage of surprise by drawing them to him. Later, perhaps, he’d use that trick.

  Only a few of the eight would emerge tonight, to scout and report. Usually the younger ones were put to that task. The first night of the hunt was always the easiest. Once the elders emerged, things would get more interesting.

  If only he could find the cursed beings. If they weren’t going to bother to prey, he could’ve spent the night with Rhys.

  Just the thought of Rhys sent a spike of desire straight through him. That fire of lust was followed by a cold slice of fear. Quarter-fae. Rhys shone like the moon on a cloudless night. No soulless could resist that. With the amount of energy and a touch of fae blood, he’d last the soulless quite some time. Years, perhaps, before they turned him into a husk.

  A different fire ignited in Silas. He’d kill every last soulless before that happened, or die trying. That pain he’d never allow Rhys to feel. Thank the gods Rhys had stayed in the garden. That mass of life was brighter than even a quarter-fae. It would keep him safe.