Shadow Line (The Guardians #3)

1. Dane

Chapter one

Dane

Blaise Farrow got the angle wrong and the pressure exactly right. He corrected inside a breath, head tilting down and tongue slipping between my lips. It was a practiced move. I leaned in as my pulse jumped.

He still tasted faintly of the gin and tonic he’d nursed on Salem Street. The bar was louder than I’d wanted, a narrow place wedged between a wine shop and a closed bakery. The windows were fogged with body heat and the bass of a Robyn remix thumping just low enough to talk over.

Farrow had messaged me on an app. I said yes. He found me at the end of the bar within three minutes, exactly where his message said he’d look, and slid onto the stool beside me with easy confidence.

He’d taken the better sightline to the door. Most people didn’t think about it. Later, when a glass broke at the far end of the bar, his eyes moved to the sound a half-second before mine. Could have been a coincidence. I ordered him another drink.

The radiator in my apartment hissed and ticked, pipes knocking somewhere inside the wall. Outside, cold November rain pattered against the window, and a streetlamp bled gold through the fogged glass. The low light outlined Farrow’s broad shoulders and caught the gold chain at his throat.

He pulled back and studied my face.

“Too much?” he murmured, voice husky.

“Never.”

He smiled, a twitch at the corner of his mouth, and dove back in.

Farrow was objectively beautiful. Tall, blond, going darker at the roots, with an off-season tan that meant either money for a Caribbean getaway or pure vanity. He was built like a gym regular and wore a soft grey henley that clung to his chest.

When he laughed, he laughed easily, head tipped back and throat exposed. He was trouble.

I knew what I looked like next to him. With dark hair and a black overshirt, I dressed to be forgotten. He dressed to be stared at. He came home with me anyway.

His hand cupped the small of my back, thumb brushing the waistband of my jeans. He pressed me closer, hips angling into mine as the curve of his thigh rubbed against my groin.

I arched into him. He answered with a low moan, lips parting to swallow mine in a heavy, wet kiss. Tongues. Teeth. The heat built between us.

“Christ, you kiss like you’re not sure about this,” he murmured against my mouth. “Relax, baby. I’ve got nowhere to be until morning.”

He pushed the overshirt off my shoulders. His hand slid under my t-shirt, fingertips tracing the ridge of my spine, pulling me flush against his chest. I reached between us and squeezed. He was hard. He guided me back until the edge of the couch caught the back of my thighs.

I sank onto the worn leather as he knelt between my thighs. He slid his palms up to my belt and worked it open. He pushed my legs wide, and my breath hitched. Farrow dipped his head, teeth grazing my fly as the zipper came down.

“Look at you,” he whispered, licking the outline of my cock through my black boxer briefs. “All that quiet, and underneath—“ He smiled and didn’t finish.

I raised my hips as he tugged my jeans to the floor. My underwear went next. He flicked his tongue at the head of my cock.

Something hot and bright raced up the length of my spine. I groaned, head tipping back, hands reaching for his hair, still damp from the rain. He caught each gasp and broken intake of breath, parting his lips and shifting his angle of attack.

The couch creaked. His tongue traced circles, and then his lips closed, teeth grazing, never slowing, never hesitating. He pushed against my thighs, spreading me wider.

My eyes rolled back. He wrapped his fingers around the base of my cock and stroked. I made a sound, half plea and half demand.

I was seconds from the edge when he pulled back. His lips were swollen and slick.

“Wait,” his voice was rough, “you’re too fucking gorgeous. You aren’t getting away without getting fucked.”

He rose to his feet as he unbuckled his belt. The henley came first, over his head, revealing a chest dusted with dark blond hair that tapered to a line down his stomach. The jeans were next, kicked aside.

He stood before me in nothing but a pair of fire-engine-red briefs that strained against his hard cock. I couldn’t resist taking inventory and caught a small white surgical scar low on his ribs. He held his weight evenly balanced on both feet, hands relaxed but ready.

“You’re sure?” he asked. “I can stop, and I won’t be weird about it. I’ll just walk myself home and have long, sad thoughts about your ass.”

I huffed something that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I want you inside me. Now.”

He nodded once and headed for my bathroom. He turned on the faucet and slid open a drawer. Then he returned with a small bottle in one hand and a foil packet in the other.

He knew where they were.

“Lie back, gorgeous.” He was back, and he was naked.

I stretched out on the couch, tugging off my t-shirt. He sat, pulled one of my legs over his lap, and uncapped the bottle. Clear gel glistened on his fingertips.

“This’ll be cold for about a second, but in the end you’ll forgive me.”

The chill of it sent a tremor through me, but it warmed quickly as his finger circled, testing. He watched my face the entire time, reading me with quiet precision.

“Tell me if I hurt you. I need a verbal. The strong, silent thing is hot, but it’s not useful now.”

“You’ll know.”

A light grin. “I bet I will.”

His finger slipped inside, curling slightly, finding the spot on the first pass. My hips jerked.

“Again.”

He complied, adding a second finger, opening me with patience. His other hand moved up to my chest, the pad of his thumb finding a nipple and dragging across it slowly. I bit the inside of my lip to stifle any sound.

“No, no. None of that.” His voice dropped, coaxing. “I want to hear you, Dane. I came all the way to the North End in the rain. Let me hear you.”

“You followed me here because I said yes.”

He laughed and curled his fingers again. I lost my next breath. I arched my back off the couch, and the sounds I’d been holding back tumbled out, ragged and loud.

“There he is,” Farrow murmured. “Thank you.”

He leaned over and kissed me again, swallowing the rest of my sounds, while his fingers pushed deeper. Finally, he pulled them out and tore open the foil packet. He rolled the condom down the length of his cock, his eyes never leaving me.

“Ready?”

I nodded.

He positioned himself between my legs, one hand guiding his cock. The pressure stopped my breath for a moment, a low ache building as he pushed forward, head slipping past my ring. I gripped his shoulders, fingernails digging in.

“Breathe,” he whispered, his blond hair falling against my face. “I’ve got you. Breathe for me.”

I exhaled, forcing my muscles to relax. He stroked my thigh. When he pushed deeper, I opened up under him.

“Fuck, Dane.” His voice had gone uneven, and I caught a small flicker of satisfaction in the tone. I’d made his control waver.

He filled me completely and held there. Sweat beaded at his hairline and ran down his throat, catching in the hollow above his collarbone. I traced the path with my fingertips, and his eyes closed for a half-second.

“Move,” I said.

He withdrew slowly, then pushed back in. He settled into a slow, consistent pace. The pleasure of it spread outward into my body, and somewhere in the next few thrusts, my concentration flickered, subtle dissociation taking my head into the clouds.

“There?”

“Fuck,” I breathed. “Yes. There.”

“Yeah. I see you.”

He didn’t lean into his rhythm the way he could have. He didn’t increase his pace.

“Farrow.”

“Mm.”

“Stop being polite.”

A laugh rolled out of him, and he picked up his pace. His hands tightened on my hips. He reached between us and took my cock in his hand, and within three strokes he had the rhythm of his palm syncing with his hips.

“Come on,” he rasped against my ear. “Come on. I want to watch.”

Everything that had been holding me together let go at once. The orgasm crashed through me in waves, and he stayed with it, mouth at my throat, hand still working. He came a few strokes after I did, forehead pressed hard against my shoulder.

When the vibrations wracking his body calmed, he flicked his tongue against my chest, tasting my cum, unselfconscious about it. Finally, he rose, leaning his weight against the couch so he could look down at me. His chest heaved, and his eyes shone.

I swallowed. My heart was still racing.

“Well,” he offered a slow, lazy smile, “that was worth the rain.”

I let him brush a thumb along my swollen lower lip. “You did well yourself.”

“I know.”

He padded across the floor in nothing but skin, picked up his henley and draped it across the chair by the door.

He opened the duffel he’d brought with him to the bar and pulled out a pair of sweats. Then he came back to the couch barefoot and looked at me with his hands on his hips, as if he were deciding what to do with me next.

I tugged my t-shirt on and nodded at the bedroom door. I stood, and he followed me there.

I lay back on the bed. Farrow settled in beside me, shoulder to mine, our legs weaving together under the blanket. His hand rested against my hip, fingers splayed.

The rain softened to a whisper. A siren rose somewhere south, swelled, and then faded. Down the hall, a neighbor’s TV bled through the wall, the muted rhythm of a Bruins game, with occasional faint roars from the crowd.

He rested his cheek on my chest and closed his eyes. “This works,” he said.

“It’s more than I expected.”

He laughed. “Babe, I exceed expectations every time. It’s a known trait.”

I pulled him tighter.

“Dane,” he whispered, voice thick, almost succumbing to sleep.

I hummed.

“Try not to overthink it. I can hear your brain working from here.”

“I’ll try.”

He sighed, a soft exhale of contentment. His jaw relaxed and his breathing evened.

I closed my eyes. For once, I didn’t run the room—didn’t trace the door, the window, and the angle from the bed to them—I exhaled into his touch and his warmth.

Sleep approached, collapsing the night around us.

Lying there in the dark, with my eyes closed, I thought about the bathroom. He’d found everything there instantly. He didn’t need to open a second drawer.

We’d matched three hours ago.

I’d moved into this apartment three weeks ago.

And no one but my boss, Eamon, had my new address.