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And that was before she started to move.
When he was finished with that first phantasmagasm, she gave him a minute to catch his breath, then started to roll her hips up and back. He gasped. The muscles inside of her gripped and released his cock, the alternating pressure getting his balls tight and ready once again.
He so totally and completely understood Qhuinn's drive to get naked now. This was incredible, especially when John let his body follow hers and they moved together. Even as the rhythm grew faster and faster, becoming urgent, he knew exactly what was happening and where every part of both of them was, from her palms on his chest to the weight of her on top of him to the friction of the sex to the way his breath was tearing in and out of his throat.
His body went rigid from head to toe as he came again, her name leaving his lips as it had when he fantasized about her-only more urgent.
And then it was done.
Xhex lifted herself free of him and his c**k fell down onto his belly. Compared to the hot cocoon of her body, the soft cotton of the shirt he was wearing was like sandpaper, and the air temperature was freezing cold. The bed moved as she lay down beside him, and he turned to face her in the dark. He was breathing hard, but he yearned to kiss her in the break before they did that again.
John reached out and felt her stiffen as his palm landed on the far side of her neck, but she didn't pull away. God, her skin was soft...oh, so soft. Although the muscles that ran up from her shoulders were like steel, what covered them was satin smooth.
John was slow as he lifted his upper body off the bed and leaned over her, slipping his touch up to her cheek, cradling her face gently, finding her lips with his thumb.
He didn't want to f**k this up. She had done most of the work, and done it spectacularly. More than that, she had given him the gift of sex and had shown him that in spite of what had been done to him, he was still male, still capable of enjoying what his body had been born to do. If he was going to be the one making their first kiss happen, he was determined to get it right.
Dropping his head-
"That's not what this is about." Xhex pushed him back, got off the bed, and went into the bathroom.
The door shut, and John's c**k shriveled up on his shirt as he heard water come on: She was washing him off her, getting rid of what his body had given her. With hands that shook, he stuffed himself back into his jeans, trying to ignore the wetness and the erotic scent.
When Xhex came out, she got her jacket, and went over to open the door. As light from the hall streamed in, she was a black shadow standing tall and strong.
"It's daylight outside, in case you haven't checked your watch." She paused. "And I appreciate your being discreet about my...situation."
The door closed behind her silently.
So that was the why behind the hookup. She'd given him the sex to thank him for keeping her secret.
Christ, how could he have thought it was more?
Fully clothed. No kissing. And he was pretty sure he was the only one who came: Her breathing hadn't changed, she hadn't cried out, there had been no sagging relief for her after it was done. Not that he knew anything about females and orgasms, but that was what happened to him when he had the release.
Not a pity f**k. A gratitude one.
John rubbed his face. He was so stupid. Thinking that it meant anything.
So very, very stupid.
Tohr woke up with a stomach that had been spray-painted in the color pain. The agony was so bad that in his dead-to-the-world, postfeeding sleep, he'd wrapped his arms around his belly and hunched into himself.
Unfurling from the tuck and shiver, he wondered if there had been something wrong with the blood-
The grumble that rose up was loud enough to rival a garbage disposal.
The pain...was hunger? He looked down at the concave pit between his hips. Rubbed at the hard, flat surface. Listened to another roar.
His body was demanding food, massive quantities of sustenance.
He glanced at the clock. Ten a.m. John hadn't come by with Last Meal.
Tohr sat up without using his arms and made it into the bathroom on legs that felt curiously steady. He used the toilet, but not to throw up, then washed his face, and realized he had no clothes to wear.
Slipping a terry-cloth robe on, he left his bedroom for the first time since he'd walked into it.
The lights along the hall of statues made him blink like he'd been spotlit on a stage, and he needed a minute to adjust to...everything.
Stretching up and down the corridor, the marble males in their various poses were just as he remembered them, so strong and graceful and static, and for no good reason, he remembered Darius buying them one by one, building up the collection. Back when D had been in acquisition mode, he'd sent Fritz to auctions at Sotheby's and Christie's in New York, and when each of the masterpieces had been delivered in its crate with all the shredded stuffing and those cloth wraps, the brother had had an unveiling party.
D had loved art.
Tohr frowned. Wellsie and his unborn child would always be his first and foremost loss. But he had more dead to avenge, didn't he. The lessers had taken not only his family, but his best friend.
Anger stirred deep in his gut...triggering another hunger. For war.
With a focus and determination that was both foreign and familiar, Tohr headed down toward the grand staircase and paused as he got to the mostly closed doors of the study. He sensed Wrath behind them, but he didn't really want to interact with anyone.
At least, he didn't think so.
Why then hadn't he just called down to the kitchen for an order of food?
Tohr peered in through the slit that was between the doors.
Wrath was asleep at his desk, his long, glossy black hair fanning out over paperwork, one forearm curled under his head as a pillow. In his free hand, he still gripped the magnifying glass he had to use if he wanted to try to read anything.
Tohr stepped into the room. Looking around, he saw the mantelpiece over the fireplace and could just picture Zsadist lounging against it, his scarred face serious, his eyes flashing black. Phury had always been close to him, usually parking it in the pale blue chaise by the window. V and Butch had tended to take that spindly-ass couch. Rhage chose different locales depending on his mood...
Tohr frowned as what was next to Wrath's desk registered.
The ugly, ratty, avocado green armchair, with patches worn on its leather cushions...was Tohr's chair. The one his Wellsie had insisted be thrown out because it was a mess. The one he'd put in the office down in the training center.
"We moved it here so John would come back to the mansion."
Tohr's head whipped around. Wrath was lifting himself off his arm, his voice as groggy as his face appeared.
The king spoke slowly, as if he didn't want to spook his visitor. "After...what happened, John wouldn't leave the office. He refused to sleep anywhere but that chair. What a mess...He was acting out in training. Getting into fights. Eventually, I put my foot down, moved that stinker in here, and things got better." Wrath turned to the chair. "He used to like to sit there and watch me work. After his transition and the raids over the summer, he's been out fighting at night and crashing during the day, so he hasn't been here as much. I kind of miss him."
Tohr winced. He'd done such a head job on that poor kid. Sure, he'd been incapable of doing anything else, but John had suffered a lot.
Suffered still.
Tohr was ashamed of himself as he thought of his waking up in that bed each morning and every afternoon, John bringing that tray in and sitting while the food was eaten-then staying, as if the kid knew that he was throwing up most of whatever had been served as soon as he was alone.
John had had to deal with Wellsie's death by himself. Go through his transition by himself. Cross however many first times by himself.
Tohr sat down on V and Butch's couch. The thing felt surprisingly sturdy, more so than he remembered. Putting his palms on the cushions, he pushed.
"It was reinforced while you were gone," Wrath said quietly.
There was a long period of quiet, the question Wrath wanted to ask hovering in the air as loud as the echo of clanging bells in a private chapel.
Tohr cleared his throat. The only person he could have talked to about what was on his mind was Darius, but the brother was dead and gone. Wrath was the next person he was closest to though...
"It was..." Tohr crossed his arms over his chest. "It went okay. She stood behind me."
Wrath nodded slowly. "Good idea."
"Hers."
"Selena's tight. Kind."
