Host Club on the Pleasure Planet (On the Pleasure Planet)

TWENTY

There was a crash, and Oz jerked awake. He took a moment to adjust to reality—he was still in the penthouse, still in Benedict’s bed. Not in his own shoddy apartment in the slums. Still recuperating from being shot.

There was another crash, followed by what sounded like someone banging into a wall. “Ow, shit” came a whispered voice.

Someone was breaking into Benedict’s penthouse. Oz took a deep breath, trying to decide what to do next. Did he stay put, lie quiet, and hope the thieves missed the bedroom? Did he try to hide? Or did he get up and … try to defend the place?

“Watch it!”

“Shhh! You’re making too much noise—he’s probably sleeping!”

With another determined inhale, Oz turned himself to goo and slipped from the bed. He slithered across the floor, slid under the door, and sloshed down the hallway, pausing only at the edge of the living room.

The lights were all down; he couldn’t see much in the murk, but neither could the robbers, apparently. They were still bumbling around, nearly knocking over vases and busts and whatever else was in La Chef’s former home.

Oz watched them, letting his vision adjust to the shadows, tracking the dark shapes around the room.

Dark shapes that were coming dangerously close to?—

Sploosh.

Oz shuddered at the distinct feeling of being pulled apart, of having some of his cells in one place and the rest in another. It was, he imagined, like pulling a muscle.

“Oh, what the!”

“That’s weird. Why’s there a puddle here?” The speaker leaned down as they were talking, and it took Oz a second or two to register the voice belonged to Benedict.

Benedict, who was now sniffing him.

Stars above. Oz wondered if he could simply ooze through the floorboards and out into the street, never to return.

Benedict stuck a finger in him. Or. Well. Tested the puddle or splashed his paw or whatever, and Oz simply short-circuited at the sensation. He lost his grip on the shift and started to transmogrify, dragging his molecules from the other would-be robber’s foot as he resolidified.

He sighed, and Benedict jumped back, and the third party—whoever it was—laughed.

“Benedict,” Oz managed, his voice strangely high and floaty.

“Oz? What’re you doing out here?”

Someone clicked on a light. Benedict had his hands on his hips and an expression that might have been angry if he wasn’t so clearly drunk. “You’re supposed to be in bed!”

Oz shook his himself out of his stupor, trying to forget the tremors Benedict’s mere touch had set off. “Why are you breaking into your own house?”

“Breaking in?” Benedict looked confused. “We’re not breaking in?—”

“Then why are you sneaking around in the dark?”

Benedict looked utterly bamboozled, and the other “robber” laughed again, drawing Oz’s attention to him.

“You,” Oz snapped, and Mugs gave him what was likely supposed to be a winning grin, but it oozed across Oz’s skin. “The hell are you doing here?”

“Oh, am I not allowed to pay a visit to my dear friend Benny?” He slung an arm around Benedict’s shoulders, and Oz couldn’t even help the way he bristled.

Mugs’s eyes lit up with something like delight, and Oz belatedly realized he’d made a mistake.

Mugs was also a Vetruvian—another shapeshifter—and he was reading Oz like an open book. Oz hadn’t even thought to guard himself against it.

Benedict struggled out from under Mugs’s arm. “We’re not friends,” he said. “I barely know you.”

“Ah, but we will be friends,” Mugs insisted. “Especially now that you know my crews bring the good stuff, yeah? You buy from me, I buy from you—friends scratch each other’s backs, hm?”

“What did you do, von Baron.” Oz had never hated the man more in his life. He’d always thought von Baron was a bit of a slimeball, but he could live with that. Now, though, seeing him here, watching him touch Benedict, claim they were friends and business partners and stars knew what else?—

Oz couldn’t stand it. “Get out,” he sniped, drawing an amused look from the other Vetruvian.

Did … did Benedict have a thing for shapeshifters? The thought struck Oz cold, something nasty twisting in his stomach. It was suddenly hard to breathe.

He didn’t want to be part of a thing . He’d thought maybe, just maybe, Benedict …

Ah, who the hell was he kidding? He was just a stupid slave, and that was all he’d ever been to Benedict. All he’d ever be to anyone.

“Go,” Benedict said to Mugs, giving him a push toward the door. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

Oz blinked, registering just how much Benedict was slurring. He was beyond drunk.

The hosts weren’t supposed to get drunk. They were supposed to be served mocktails, maybe with a drink or two, so they could keep their wits about them as they seduced the patrons into spending more money.

How the hell did Benedict the monk end up getting drunk?

He shot a look at Mugs, who just grinned and said, “All right, all right, but don’t forget our deal, hm?”

Benedict waved a paw, and Mugs glided toward the door. He paused there, twisting back and giving Oz finger guns and a big wink. “You owe me too,” he said, and before Oz could protest or ask him why the hell he’d ever owe someone like Mugs, the other Vetruvian was gone.

Oz stared for what felt like a full minute, then turned to Benedict. The felid was swaying on his feet, and Oz sighed.

“Let’s get you to bed,” he said softly, taking one of Benedict’s hands and trying not to put too much emphasis on the fact he was touching Benedict. Had taken his hand, and Benedict had wrapped his hand around him, almost crushing his fingers in his grasp.

Benedict was drunk. That was all.

He led the felid down the hall, head still swimming with confusion, with lust, with some kind of giddy joy that Benedict was touching him?—

The felid jerked to a stop suddenly, and they simply stood there for a moment, breathing.

Finally, Oz turned to his boss. He opened his mouth to ask a question, but Benedict whispered, “Tell me you want this too,” then leaned forward and took full advantage of Oz’s parted lips.

For a monk, Benedict sure knew how to kiss. Oz couldn’t form any other thought as Benedict’s mouth moved against his, hot and demanding, leaving Oz no room to rally, simply retreating further and further from the moment, gasping around the kiss as he all but melted into Benedict’s arms. He could feel his stability sliding; he might very well turn to jelly in the middle of the hall.

Benedict pulled back, panting lightly against Oz’s cheek, and Oz tried to summon something from the depths of his brain—words, a response, even a physical one—but all he could muster was a reminder to keep breathing.

“Oh,” Benedict said softly above him. “Oh no.”

He jerked his head up and stared at the crushed look on the felid’s face, and panic seared through him at the way guilt made Benedict’s features crumple. “Oz, I’m?—”

Whatever paralysis had held him burned away, and he reached up, clapping his hands to either of the felid’s cheeks, holding him steady as he dragged him in for another kiss. He closed his eyes and hoped he was doing it correctly; he didn’t have much experience himself, just a few fumbling practice kisses with one of the servers at The Pub when he was young and precocious. Mig had been far too protective to let anyone take advantage of him like that.

But he couldn’t let Benedict pull away, couldn’t let him apologize for kissing Oz—not when Oz had been waiting for it, dreaming about it, aching for it for weeks now. He needed to let Benedict know this was okay—this was what he wanted.

What he needed, what he’d always needed, and he couldn’t let it slip away now that Benedict was offering. Not even when Benedict was drunk, and he should have been doing the responsible thing and putting him to bed with a glass of water.

If he did that, he’d never have another chance. He already knew that; the look on Benedict’s face had told him as much.

So he kissed his boss for all he was worth, hoped to hell that desperation and zeal made up for his lack of experience—or maybe that Benedict was simply too drunk to notice.

The kiss went on and on, stretching into eternity, and Oz tilted up on his tiptoes, trying to deepen it even more?—

Benedict tore away, gasping for breath, and Oz felt panic rise in his chest again. He’d done it wrong, been overzealous, scared Benedict off?—

The felid’s eyes were hooded and their glow seemed all the brighter for the purple stain splashed across his cheeks. “Bedroom,” he growled, and Oz shuddered with the sound. “Now.”

“Yes,” Oz exhaled, then turned back around, prepared to march them down the hall, to the bedroom. Benedict was still clutching his hand, and his knees gave out instead.

“Oh,” Benedict said as Oz tumbled to the floor.

“It’s fine,” Oz insisted, trying to pull himself—literally—back together. “I just?—”

“Do I make your knees go weak?” Benedict growled again, and Oz shuddered, that gravelly voice raking up and down his spine, making him sing with sensation.

“Maybe,” he squeaked. Then he was off the floor, draped in Benedict’s muscular arms—arms he’d been fantasizing about for weeks now.

This had to be a dream, right? Just his overactive imagination at work again, and any second now, he was going to wake up?—

“We’re going to have so much fun,” Benedict whispered in his ear, and it was all Oz could do to hang on to him as he was carried down the hall, to the bedroom.