The instant he stepped over the threshold, the smell of the place curled up into his nose. Lemon polish. Beeswax candles. Fresh flowers from the garden that the doggen brought in daily. If the Glade company ever did an air freshener like this, it would be called something like Meadow of Old Money.

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Ward Chapter Eleven Blay dropped his head with a curse as the weight room door eased shut. And of course, from that vantage point, all he could see was his cock. Which did not help.

Shifting his eyes back up, he stared across at the chin-up bar, and knew he had to do something. Sitting here half-drunk with a party in his pants was hardly a position he wanted to get caught in.

If a Brother like Rhage walked in on this? Blay would be hearing about it for the rest of his natural life. Besides, he was in his workout gear, surrounded by equipment, so he might as well get busy, pump some iron, and hope that Mr.

Happy sank into a depression from lack of attention. Good plan. When he glanced at the clock sometime later, he realized fifteen minutes had passed and he was no closer to constructive, repetitive motion, unless you counted breathing. His erection had a suggestion for that kind of goal. And his palm was immediately on board, going between his legs, finding that hard - Blay burst up from the seat and went for the door.

Enough with the bullshit - he was going to hit the loo in the locker room in the hope of cycling some of the alcohol out of his system.

Then he was going to get on a treadmill and sweat the rest of the booze out. After which it was time to head to bed - where, if he needed an outlet of the erotic variety, he was going to find it in the appropriate place. The first sign that his new plan might have taken him only farther into the weeds came as he pushed his way into locker-landia: the sound of running water meant someone was doing the soap-and-shampoo thing.

Which would have made him stop, turn around, and find another toilet ASAP. Instead, he went past the lockers and did his business. Of its own volition, his head cranked around in the direction of the showers. You need to leave, he told himself. As he turned off the faucet, the subtle squeak seemed loud as a scream, and he refused to look at himself in the mirrors.

Go back to the door. Just go back to the door. Just - The failure of his body to follow that simple command was not merely an exercise of physical rebellion. It was, tragically, his pattern. And he would regret it later. Qhuinn was facing into the showerhead he was standing under, one hand braced against the slick wall, his dark head bowed under the spray.

Water ran over his shoulders and down the acres of supple skin that covered his powerful back In the last year, the fighter had filled out quite a bit. Qhuinn had been big after his transition, and had gotten even larger during those first few months of intense eating. But it had been a while since Blay had seen the male without his clothes on Wheeling around, he left the locker room like he was shot out of a cannon, punching through the door, jumping out into the corridor.

Stopping short, he looked around. Oh, fantastic. Miles from the entrance to the tunnel. A second later, Doc Jane made an appearance right behind him, an open chart in her hand, her fingertip tracing down a page. Blay ducked through the first door he came to - And ran right into a wall of blackness. Patting around for a light switch, because he was too scattered to turn any bulbs on mentally, he found one, flipped it, and blinded himself.

Ah, a desk. He was in one of the mini-offices that satellited the classrooms, and that was good news. With the training program still suspended because of the raids, there was no one down here, and no one likely to think of a reason to be in this empty little room.

He could have some privacy for a while - and that was a blessing. Going behind the desk, he sat down in the cushy office chair and brought his legs up, stretching them across the flat top that should have had a computer, a plant, and a holder full of pens on it. Instead, it was barren, although not dust-covered.

Fritz would never stand for that even in an unused space. Rubbing at the sore spot on the front of his calf, it was clear that he was going to have one hell of a black-and-blue mark.

But at least the pain distracted him from what had driven him down here. As he tilted the chair back and closed his eyes, his brain returned to the locker room. Was the torture never going to end, he thought.

Considering his choices, he willed the lights off, closed his eyes, and ordered his brain to shut up and go to sleep. Now, this was a good plan, and it was also the perfect environment. Dark, a little cool, super-quiet in the way only facilities underground were.

Shimmying his body even deeper into the chair, he crossed his arms over his chest and got ready for the REM train to pull into his station. Qhuinn had looked so eminently fuckable like that, his slick, smooth body carved with muscle, his sex so thick and proud. All that water would have made him both slippery and hot Opening his eyes, he tried to clear any fantasies that involved sucking out of his mind.

Cursing, he gave that yoga thing a shot, where you relaxed the tension in each and every part of the body, starting with the perma-twist between his eyebrows, then the rigid ropes that ran from his shoulders up to the base of his skull. His chest was tight, too, his pecs contracted for no good reason, his biceps digging into his upper arms. Next, he was supposed to focus on his abs and then his butt and his thighs, his knees and calves Unfortunately, there was only one sure-fire way of getting rid of Mr.

It was no different from waking up at the fall of night with an erection - because God knew there was no emotional anything involved. And he was under the influence, right? So that was another pass. For a while, he continued to argue the pros and cons, but eventually his hand made the decision for him. For some reason, the idea of stripping from the waist down made him feel dirty, but his sense of propriety went into the shitter pretty fast when all he could do was squeeze.

Lifting his ass, he swept the shorts off The shirt came off next. Naked in the dark, sprawled out long from the chair and to the desktop, he gave himself over, spreading his thighs, pumping up and down.

The friction made his eyes roll back in his head, made him bite his lower lip - God, the sensations were so strong, flowing through his body - Fuck. Qhuinn was in his mind, Qhuinn was in his mouth Qhuinn was inside of him, the two of them moving together - This was wrong. He froze. Just stopped dead. Opening his eyes, he stared into the darkness. The sound of his breath punching in and out of his chest made him curse again.

So did his pounding need for an orgasm - which he refused to give in to. He was not going to take this any further - From out of nowhere, that image of Qhuinn arched under the falling spray slammed into his brain, taking over everything.

Against his higher reasoning, and his loyalty, and his sense of fairness Never again. Oh, God. This physical reaction might be outside of his control. His response to it was not. Reaching forward, he patted over the desk until he found his shirt; then he wadded it up and pressed the thing into the juncture of his thighs.

The rest of the mess he was in was not going to be so easy to clean up. Across town, on the eighteenth floor of the Commodore, Trez sat in a sleek steel-and-leather chair that faced a wall of windows overlooking the Hudson River. The noonday sun was shining down from a crystal clear, chrome-like sky, everything ten times brighter because of the fresh snow that had fallen overnight on the shores.

When there was no reply, he spun his chair around on its swival base. Sure enough, iAm had come in from his bedroom and was sitting on the couch, iPad on his lap, forefinger striping across the screen.

He would be reading the New York Times online edition, of course; he did that every morning when they got up. For, like, a split second. Recalcitrant brothers? This is bullshit. The eyes that met his were, as always, completely uncluttered of emotion and doubt and all the messy stuff that mere mortals struggled with. Then he flopped the red cover of the iPad down, each of the four sections landing like footsteps across the screen. He then put the thing aside, uncrossed his leg, and leaned forward to balance his elbows on his knees.

You are compromising the professional standards of - " "I run liquor and prostitutes. The answer is to not invite me to talk.

Too goddamn reasonable.


Lover at Last

Ward Chapter Eleven Blay dropped his head with a curse as the weight room door eased shut. And of course, from that vantage point, all he could see was his cock. Which did not help. Shifting his eyes back up, he stared across at the chin-up bar, and knew he had to do something. Sitting here half-drunk with a party in his pants was hardly a position he wanted to get caught in.


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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. Advertisement Had it been almost a year now? As the flame jumped up, the shower turned off.


Lover At Last (Book 11)

Ward Chapter Twenty-four As Zypher lay on hard concrete, his many years as a member of the Band of Bastards meant he was well familiar with the lack of accommodations he was currently enjoying: his ass was numb from the cold as well as the absence of a mattress beneath his heavy body. Likewise, his head was cushioned only by the rucksack he had used to bring his few belongings to their new HQ in this warehouse basement. Further, the thin, rough blanket that covered him was not long enough, leaving his socked feet exposed to the chilly, damp air. But he was in heaven. Absolute heaven. Coursing through his veins was the blood of that female, and oh, the sustenance.

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