And then there was a gasping inhale.
Followed by panting.
Moving slowly, Blay stepped out of the slacks and glanced over his shoulder. Qhuinn had lost the linked-hands routine. Now he’d planted his palms and was leaning forward, his blue and green eyes fixated and hot, his fangs descended, his lips peeled back. He looked bloodthirsty—in a good way. In the best way.
Blay stretched himself, undulating his body from ass to nape, and then he turned around.
His own arousal stuck straight out from his pelvis, and he decided that it needed a little attention. Sweeping his hand down his pecs, he paused to play with one of his nipples and then continued down over the ridges of his abs.
“Touch it for me,” Qhuinn said in a guttural voice. “That’s right . . . stroke it—oh, fuck.”
“You like this?” Blay moved his palm up and down on his thick shaft. “You want this?”
“Yes . . .” Qhuinn started to get up, the chair squeaking. “I need—”
Blay turned back around and ran his free hand down his ass. “Or do you want this?”
“I want everything. All of it,” came the growled response.
With another arch, Blay bent over one of the tables. “Then why don’t you come and get it.”
Fuck the desk.
Qhuinn wasn’t going to waste time going around it; he went over the bitch, jumping up and pushing off into the air. He covered the five feet between where he had been and where he needed to be in one stride, and he managed to out his arousal on the way.
Blay was arched and looking over his shoulder, and he knew what was going to hit him: He grabbed on to the corners of the table and braced himself, his shoulder muscles flexing up, the ones that fanned out along his spine rippling under his smooth skin.
Spitting into his hand, Qhuinn did a pass on his erection, and then he went in, going deep. Beneath him, Blay’s head rose up and he called out, the desperate sound making every inch of Qhuinn’s skin prickle with awareness—except then his hearing was lost as the sensation of constriction and heat overrode everything.
The movement was instinctual and compulsive, the pumping rhythm stronger than he wanted it to be. There was no stopping it, though—
“Harder,” Blay groaned. “Hard-er . . .”
Qhuinn gripped the tight waist over Blay’s hip bones and sank his fingers into the taut flesh. “How much harder,” he grunted.
Blay’s arms butterflied as he held himself against the onslaught, the front of Qhuinn’s pelvis slapping into the back of that spectacular ass, the climax coming so soon—not that there was a reason to fight it—
The orgasm tackled Qhuinn from behind, shoving his torso over Blay’s back, his hips jerking and locking into place. The ejaculations were sharp points of pleasure, so acute they were sweetly painful.
And he didn’t stop. Reaching around, he pushed Blay’s hand out of the way and took over the stroking as he kept pumping, countering the forward penetration with the pull down on the shaft, the retraction of his cock with the palm moving out to the head. It required coordination.
But he’d had so much practice, hadn’t he.
Blay came next, hot jets covering Qhuinn’s hand and palm, everything slicking up. In both places. There was no stopping either of them, and Qhuinn loved being on this erotic plane with his male, the two of them riding the waves of pleasure, the intensity of the experience uniting them.
Until Qhuinn pulled out. And rolled his mate over.
Usually, Blay was an elegant, lithe mover. Not right now. He landed face-up in a boneless flop, his blue eyes glassy, his mouth parted in a pant, his color high from the exertion. Grabbing one of his mate’s thighs, Qhuinn curled up the knee and angled himself back in.
This time, he went slow.
“Look at me, Blay,” he whispered.
When those beautiful peepers managed to focus, Qhuinn brought his glossy hand to his mouth. One by one, he licked his fingers, drawing them in, savoring them, extending his tongue and running it up his palm.
Blay moaned and came hard, ejaculating all over his own abdominals.
Which gave a male something to clean up, didn’t it.
But that was going to have to wait while he—
“Oh, God,” Qhuinn grunted as he found another release of his own, his head falling back, his eyes squeezing shut, his body doing what it did best.
Which was showing his true love exactly what the male meant to him, and how beautiful Blay was.
Daddy?”
As Z opened the door to his bedroom suite, the little voice brought a smile to his face, even though the night had been full of things that were far from happy. Yes, Balz had survived. And yes, the house had been patched up. But for so many reasons, Z’s soul was tossed and turned, an ocean that was raging.
And yet that one word, spoken in that voice?
Zsadist lowered himself down to his knees, even though he wasn’t yet over the threshold of his family’s private space. Suddenly, though, he didn’t care who might see him in this moment when he was so vulnerable.
Besides, he knew nothing else but what was coming across the antique rug at him.
Darling Nalla, sweet, darling Nalla, who was toddling and babbling and living her very best life, was walking toward him, her arms outstretched, her legs chugging along, her healthy body tilting from side to side. The very best part? She was beaming at him.
As if they had been separated by a century, instead of a mere hour or two.
He still couldn’t believe it. He still couldn’t believe that he and his shellan had created this miracle together—and just as wondrous was the fact that in spite of every ugliness inside of him, in spite of the filth that lurked beneath his skin, even with the slave bands that were tattooed around his neck and on his wrists, and his hideous scar . . .
“Daddy! Love you, Daddy!”
With total abandonment, Nalla threw herself at him, knowing he would catch her, secure in the faith that he would always protect her, ever keep her safe. As his huge arms went around her small, warm body, he was gentle with the pressure.
“Daddy!” In response to his embrace, her arms wrapped around his neck and squeezed tight, her soft cheek against the side of his face. “You’re back!”
Every time she saw him, she spoke in exclamations, as if his return to their suite, her bedroom, the house, the dining room, the playroom, was the single most exciting thing that had ever happened in her entire life. He kept expecting her to get over this, bracing himself for the time she got used to him or maybe didn’t love him with such distraction . . . but it didn’t seem to be happening.
He wasn’t aware of having shut his eyes until his lids opened.
Across the room, Bella was leaning back against the bureau, her arms linked over her chest, her face cast in a dreamy way.
Like the sight of him with their daughter was her favorite thing in the world.
And instantly, his seas calmed, the churning waves easing.
Z stood up, transferring Nalla’s weight into the crook of his arm. Kicking the door shut, he went over to his shellan. As he approached, she lifted her lips, and as soon as he was in range, he dropped his mouth to hers.
With a shudder, he remembered Balthazar flipping off the side of the house and falling down to the ground. Then he saw the male’s extremities twitching, the gloves patting at the snow, the soft shoes that had found those crevices in between the stones kicking at the base of legs that otherwise did not move.