TWENTY-ONE
Benedict put a hand to his aching head, wincing at the light stabbing into his eyes. He’d forgotten to draw the blinds last night, clearly.
And had too much alcohol. He’d only been truly drunk a few times in his life—a solstice feast when he was twenty-one stood out in his mind—and hungover maybe once or twice. Vaguely, he remembered doing shots of God-knew-what with a purple alien who called himself Mugsly von Baron last night.
The name still bothered him, although he couldn’t twig on why it seemed so familiar.
Everything else about the night was a blur. Drinking, dancing, Mugs with his arm around him, broadly sketching out some kind of … alliance? Business partnership? Promises to help him with a certain problem.
And the whole time, Mig’s words ringing in his ears. It had felt so wrong to be there, to be wrapped up in someone else’s arms. The only person he wanted was Oz.
At some point, he’d bumbled home—he remembered nearly puking in the elevator, swaying in front of the door as he’d tried to unlock it. Stumbling inside, nearly crashing into some priceless antique vase that had been purchased with funds from his aunt’s criminal empire, no doubt. Illegal antiques. Money laundering. God.
He remembered shushing someone—someone had come home with him, hadn’t they? And …
He wasn’t on the sofa, he realized. Or in the guest bedroom, which was where he’d been sleeping, since Oz was in the big bed.
His heart clenched. Oz. He’d gotten drunk last night, then made so much noise, and he’d brought someone else home. Someone who wasn’t Oz.
And now he was sleeping where Oz was supposed to be resting and recuperating after taking a bullet that had been meant for Benedict.
Had he kicked Oz out, made him switch beds? He rubbed at his temples, trying desperately to remember, guilt mixing with nausea in the swirling sea of his stomach.
The sheets shifted beside him, and he closed his eyes. He knew he was going to have to face the music sooner or later, though, so he forced them back open and looked to his left.
Guilt surged anew as he took in Oz curled beside him under the sheets. Oz, holding a humanoid shape, with smooth skin, almost purple in the glow of the morning sun, dark, unruly hair spilling across his forehead. Eyes closed, lips parted just slightly.
Benedict shifted uncomfortably. If he’d just come home drunk and forced his way into the bed, simply passed out and they’d both just slept?—
Well, it wasn’t ideal, but there were worse things he could have done.
Worse things he probably had done, he realized as he shifted, feeling the sheets kiss his bare skin everywhere. He glanced over at Oz again, raking his gaze over the sleeping Vetruvian and deciding he was in a similar state of undress.
Had he?—
He worried his lip, letting his fangs sink in, like drawing blood might somehow absolve him of guilt or at least let him remember what he’d done.
While he was mentally self-flagellating, Oz stirred beside him, eyelids flickering, breathing deepening. Then he sighed and rolled onto his back, stretching his arms, and Benedict watched, entranced, as muscle rippled underneath that smooth, luminescent skin. Brown eyes flickered open, slowly focusing on the room, then landing on him.
Benedict flinched, preparing for anger or horror or …
Anything other than the gruff “good morning,” really.
“Good … morning?” he returned, glancing down as the Vetruvian rolled onto his side, hand landing on Benedict’s forearm.
Oz looked up at him from underneath his bangs. “Isn’t it?” he asked.
“I,” Benedict started, then looked around the room. Nothing suggested a struggle.
He inhaled deeply, sitting up straight and locking his spine. He could feel Oz’s curious gaze on him. Ignoring the Vetruvian, he turned to the side and tried to slip out of bed.
Oz caught his wrist. Gently, but it was enough to make him pause. “Benedict,” the other alien said softly.
Slowly, he turned back to Oz. His heart sank at his searching gaze—soft, yet worried. Guilt gnawed at Benedict.
He pulled his hand away. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have?—”
Oz hesitated, then grabbed his hand again, squeezing more insistently. “Last night,” he said slowly. “You asked if I wanted this.”
Benedict’s breath hitched, remembering Mig’s words to him at The Pub—before the hangover, before the drink.
Oz looked up at him imploringly, his brown eyes impossibly bright and warm. “The answer last night was yes .”
Benedict tried to jerk his arm away again. “And now?”
Oz exhaled softly, and a smile soared across his face. “Still yes,” he whispered.
Benedict felt like he was melting when Oz tugged on his wrist yet again; this time, he floated back to the bed, down into Oz’s arms. It felt … right. Warm. Fuzzy.
The kiss felt even more right as he turned his head and met Oz’s mouth. Then he pulled back, almost gagging as the dryness and stench of his own mouth assaulted him.
“I’m going to wash up first,” he told Oz, fleeing the bed once more. Oz’s disappointment turned to amusement almost instantly.
“Could I … join you?” the Vetruvian asked, sidling out from under the sheets to stand beside Benedict.
“I … of course.”
They were silent on their way to the bathroom, then silent through the act of brushing their teeth. Only when Benedict had replaced his toothbrush in the holder did Oz take his hand again, leading him to the shower stall.
“We’re both a little … ripe,” Oz explained as he leaned over, turning on the water. Benedict tried not to appreciate too much, but he kept glancing back at the Vetruvian.
Finally, he frowned. “Are you … changing shape right now?”
Oz glanced over his shoulder before stepping under the spray. “You keep looking away,” he murmured. “So I thought maybe I needed to … enhance …”
Benedict’s eyes widened. “No! Of course not—I’m looking away because I want you to have privacy, I don’t want to stare?—”
“Benedict,” Oz said gruffly, reaching up to grab his chin and clamp his mouth shut. “I want you to stare.”
Benedict gawped at him, then let him lead him into the shower stall. The water was almost hot enough to burn, but Benedict’s skin was already tingling from Oz’s fingers as they traced his jawline, over his shoulders, down his arms.
He met Oz’s soft gaze, which was searching and serious now. “I’m going to be clear,” the Vetruvian said. “I want this. I want you .”
Benedict could only swallow and nod. It wasn’t often he’d been in a situation where being so bald about one’s desire was … acceptable.
Or even appreciated. He lifted a hand to cup Oz’s cheek. “I’m glad to hear it,” he rasped when he could make his voice work again.
Oz leaned up on his tiptoes for a kiss instead of answering. Their mouths—much fresher now—met again, and Benedict let his eyes slip shut as a wave of sensation crashed over him. He wrapped his arms around Oz and squeezed, like a boa constrictor around its prey.
They broke the kiss, Oz gasping as Benedict’s hands roamed his low back. “God, I’ve wanted you,” he whispered into the Vetruvian’s ear.
“Since I first saw you,” Oz agreed, one of his hands coming up to rake through Benedict’s hair, tugging lightly when it traced over an ear.
“Why did it take us so long?” Benedict rested his forehead against Oz’s, revelling in how right it felt.
“We both had our heads up our own asses?” Oz suggested, and Benedict snorted.
“I’d rather have something else up my ass.” Benedict blushed as he said the words, heat flaring not only in his cheeks.
Oz’s face turned scarlet, and he glanced away. “I could do something about that.”
Benedict turned himself around, bracing his hands against the marble wall of the shower stall. “If you wouldn’t mind …?”
He was used to quick and dirty encounters in the communal baths, trysts where you were as quiet and discreet as you could possibly be while getting buggered.
So it took him by surprise when Oz simply stroked his backside, slow and sensual, letting sensation tingle up his spine. Part of him wanted to tell the Vetruvian to hurry up, but he also didn’t want to rush this.
He wanted to take his time. Wanted to enjoy it—luxuriate in it.
What the hell was happening to him? He had to wonder. His vows had never felt further away, and this didn’t feel sinful at all. All the other times, he’d been ashamed. He’d felt dirty and wrong, but here, with Oz, he couldn’t summon any guilt or regret, no feeling of dread or shame. All of those filthy feelings washed away down the drain, leaving him pure and clean.
Even with Oz’s hands on him, a soapy finger sliding between his cheeks, slipping toward his center. Ringing his hole, then dipping inside him.
He expected the flare of muscle stretching, but there was nothing, only the sudden sensation of being fuller than he had been. He twisted so he could look at Oz and nearly melted. The Vetruvian had such a look of concentration on his face, his tongue peeking out between his lips. Like Benedict was the only thing in the universe that mattered, like this task was the only task before him.
A second finger slid in alongside the first. There was still no flare, even though Benedict knew it had been a long time since his last … encounter.
“Are you shapeshifting?” His voice was loud, like an accusation.
“Yes.” Oz glanced up. “Is that a problem?”
Benedict’s knees went weak, and he shook his head. “No,” he replied, his voice going thick on him, “not at all.”
In fact, it was the hottest thing he’d ever heard in his life. He imagined Oz shifting shapes inside him, changing so that he could touch every spot just right ?—
The perfect lover was a shapeshifter, he was sure. He was even more sure when Oz slid in a third finger and started to stretch him wider. He’d always loved the process of being opened up—even welcomed the burn—but clandestine trysts rarely allowed one the luxury of time.
His breath caught as Oz probed deeper, finding the sensitive glands that Benedict knew nestled in his depths, waiting, aching for someone to touch them. Benedict had known that pleasure only a few times, and it had been something he’d never been able to replicate on his own. It was something he could only find with a lover—and none had been nearly so skilled as Oz seemed to be.
Shapeshifter , he reminded himself. Oz could mold himself to Benedict’s tastes, probably fulfill his every desire. He sank his teeth into his lip as blood rushed into his cock, lifting it and making it harder with every passing second.
He jerked his hips forward involuntarily as Oz rubbed a sensitive spot inside him. His breath caught in his throat, and his arms, his legs were suddenly unsteady, like he might turn to jelly himself.
He let his eyes flutter shut as Oz stretched him further. “Yes,” he breathed finally, his claws popping out and raking across the smooth marble, unable to find purchase. An arm wrapped around him from behind, holding him up.
How was he this far gone already? He’d known this activity was pleasurable, but it had never felt quite like this before.
“Yes,” he repeated, rocking his hips into Oz’s ministrations as the Vetruvian’s other hand found his cock, wrapping around it and tugging, ignoring—or perhaps enjoying—the bite of his barbs.
“Do you want me to bring you off like this?” Oz asked, something hesitant, almost shy, in his voice.
Benedict imagined it—letting Oz finish him like this, then turning about and returning the favor. Turning off the shower spray, making their way back to bed, rolling in the sheets, tangled in each other, for hours, maybe even for days?—
This was only the start. They both wanted this, so they could take their time, take each other again and again and?—
His ears twitched at the shrill sound of the phone ringing in the other room. Reality came crashing back in. He had things to do. People to see. A business to save, a mobster to fend off, people who were depending on him. Not just Oz, but Mig and Sassa and Shakes and everyone else who had ever “worked” for his aunt?—
His ears twitched again as he heard the machine pickup, Mugs’s voice projecting into the penthouse.
“No,” he told Oz, realizing the Vetruvian had paused, apparently waiting for his answer.
“No?” His heart nearly broke over how upset Oz sounded, and those arms slithered away from him.
Empty, he straightened up and turned around to face the Vetruvian. He took Oz’s hands and squeezed. “I want to finish with you,” he said. “I want you inside me.”