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“One day, sooner rather than later, I’ll tell you all about my mother’s friend — a wise woman who told me I should keep a canary. I’m fairly certain she had the sight, saw visions; I think she could do what you do.”
“She said you should keep a canary?” Paul frowned a bit. Then he took a breath as the awareness hit him. “Oh, fuck. The canary. Muriel’s… Abigail’s, I mean. Well, mine now. Ours? Ours now."
“Mmhm.” Alastair’s hand crept up his back and urged him down, short nails slowly raking against Paul’s skin. “Ours. And I’m as astonished as you are. But for now, you deserve pleasure.”
Coming to rest on his side and gazing at Alastair’s profile with unbridled joy, Paul said, “Of course I do. But it’ll be morning for me, soon. Do you have any idea what I actually have to do to keep all of this going? How early I get up?”
“You’ll have a lot to teach me. But I’ll help you rise before the sun, no problems there.”
“That is an awful joke, that is.” But Paul rewarded him with kisses, first on his cheek. Then he littered another on the edge of his jaw.
The next evening, Alastair said he wished to take a walk with Paul and they waited until after closing to go.
They were careful not to look too enamored as they wandered outside The Queen Anne, then down the promenade, then finally to the water’s edge. As it was late, there were not droves of people about, but there were enough to remind them they weren’t alone.
Twenty minutes passed in a companionable silence of the sort Alastair had rarely experienced. He found the quiet didn’t agitate him at all. He enjoyed watching Paul draped in the light of the stars and moon, and fancied that he was indeed some bewitching entity who was forced to live among men. When they’d wandered far enough from any casual bystanders and Alastair was sure they wouldn’t be seen — he always trusted his own assessments of such things — he halted Paul with a soft touch on his wrist, and smiled.
As he pressed a gentle kiss to Paul’s mouth, he took Sykes’ old knife from his pocket. He wanted to be rid of it; he didn’t want it anywhere near this new life.
Dreamily, abstracted by the kiss, Paul asked, “What’ve you got?” He pulled his face away, barely. He hadn’t looked between them yet.
“Just some rubbish.”
At that, Paul did look down. “A knife?” He looked back up.
Alastair raised his eyebrows eloquently, meeting Paul’s eyes without a hint of guilt or nerves. “Yes.”
Paul knew whose it was immediately. “You’re not the sort to keep trophies, then,” he said.
His seer, his spirit, dripping with silver under the moon, was quick. “Hm…” He took a couple of large steps back so he could throw the knife as hard and far as possible, even with the wind blowing. “Wouldn’t say that.”
Paul watched as the knife sailed away from them. The metal shined gently against the sky and sea’s blacks, blues, and indigos. “You… can’t be. Interested in mementos. If you’re throwing it out into the tide.” The knife disappeared before he finished the sentence.
Alastair turned to him. Smiling, he cupped Paul’s breeze-cooled cheek with his palm. He wore no gloves tonight, so Paul’s skin was soft under his touch. “I didn’t need the knife. I’ve got my prize right here.”
About the Author
Camille is a thalassophile who sadly spent too long residing in Chicago, where there’s just a very large lake and no sea. An enquiring and possibly over-educated mind, she’s been described as “the politest contrarian.” Though everyone believes she’s tall, she’s not. Likewise, she doesn’t dress in all-black.
Mafia Brute
MILA FINELLI
Chapter One
THEO
I had the most horrible fear that I was in love.
As I relaxed on my stomach, slathered in sunblock and moisturizer, sketching designs in the sun, I wasn’t sure. How much of this dizzying feeling came from the warm Mediterranean waters and the glorious food? This molto magnifico yacht?
And how much have I been dazzled by the sexiest man alive?
It made no sense. I’ve only been seeing Nikolai—cazzo, even his name is sexy—for a few weeks, not to mention that I swore off relationships ages ago. When you’ve been lied to again and again, you learn to keep things casual. If I were a clothing label, it would read: High heat. Remove promptly.
And even if I were willing to take a risk, it was clear Nic was not out as a gay man. I’ve been someone’s dirty little secret once and I’ll never do it again. Ever.
I adjusted my tiny white swimsuit, one of my own designs. I looked amazing in it, the fabric clinging to all the right places, the color highlighting my olive skin. Nic couldn’t keep his hands to himself whenever I wore it.
