Chapter Five #2
Shit. Bad thought. Very bad thought. Especially with Declan pressed against him, their hips tucked close.
He was high. They were both very high.
“Could be worse. Could feel like speed. Or coke.” Antonio kept his palm on the line of Declan’s spine, and Declan didn’t seem to mind, still leaning into Antonio’s shoulder. “Fucking hate coke.”
“Can’t handle coke,” Declan agreed, and Antonio could feel the brush of his teeth over thin cotton, the heat of his breath. “Or acid. Voids, at least it’s not like acid.”
“Yeah, not a big fan of anything that makes me see shit. Do that enough on my own.” Should’ve laughed, but the words came out ragged.
A building thrum of want. Cool skin under Antonio’s palm. Hard lines and sharp angles. Bones and teeth. Fucking murder punk.
The murder punk had his fingers curled into Antonio’s shoulder, the uncomfortable tingle of glamour in the touch. Antonio tried to focus on that, but he couldn’t. Not with Declan’s hips tucked close, and the sluagh would feel how this was hitting. Feel it and feel it. Fuck.
Thing was, he could feel Declan too. Need spilling like red ink into the wash of his emotions, heady and raw. It was so damned tempting.
Think. Think. Antonio’s hand kept stroking up and down Declan’s spine, and Christ but it felt good to touch him. They were both high. On each other, on what they’d done to themselves.
Why did bad ideas always feel incredible?
A joy ride in a stolen hot rod, top down and laughing.
Fuck, the sluagh fit against him so well. And if he just spread his fingers wide, he’d be able to touch the spots where flesh gave way to bone.
Was the skin there sensitive? Would Declan shiver?
No. Motherfucking Christ–sorry, Mary–he needed to stop. Declan wanted Antonio for power. For status. And, Antonio suspected, because maybe he needed someone at his back. Someone he knew wouldn’t run.
He wasn’t looking to, in his words, ‘mate.’
What would those teeth feel like, grazing his skin? Would Declan groan if Antonio ran his fingers up over the bones of his wings? Did he taste like smoke and flower petals?
“We’re both high,” he said, dragging his hand down from the temptation of Declan’s wings, though he kept holding on. “And I’m about to pin you to the nearest tree. How do people come down from this?”
Declan answered with a low, wanting groan that dragged down Antonio’s back like the fae’s nails didn’t, buried itself under his skin.
Marked him like ink.
Antonio wouldn’t forget this. Wouldn’t forget that sound, or what it felt like to have Declan’s lust beating against his self control, unearned eagerness.
Easiest thing in the world to slide his hand down to Declan’s ass, slip a knee between his thighs for him to grind against. And fuck, it’d be sexy.
Antonio could tip Declan’s chin back, kiss those ink-dark lips, see what those intense blue eyes looked like when they lit with pleasure.
“Wait it out,” Declan’s answer was as tight as his grip, and he tucked in closer, pressing his face to Antonio’s neck. “Or take said ride against the tree in question. It’s supposed to be less intense eventually. Perhaps twenty minutes.”
Wait it out. Or spend the next four-hundred-years being the bastard that’d abused Declan’s trust right at the start of things, leave Declan oath-bound to protect the fucker who’d used him when he’d made it clear he wasn’t interested.
Not fucking happening. Even if Declan was ridiculously hot. Not pretty like the fae Antonio had known. Stranger and wilder. A tempting nightmare with an Irish accent and claws he wouldn’t let Antonio feel.
“Right. Sure.” His voice came out a little more steady. His hand stayed on Declan’s back, still now, except the stroke of his thumb. “We can do that. Talk to me, Murderpunk. Why do you feel like smoke and ink and … purple? Is that a sluagh thing?”
“Purple?” And yeah, Declan’s smile was pressed to Antonio’s neck, so he could feel those lips curve upward.
“The… Ah. No. That’s my … soul. Aura. Magic.
It’s how the mind translates the specific thumbprint of a person’s being.
It can be a taste, a smell, a sensation.
Even an idea. I’m impressed at feeling purple. Hopefully, you don’t mind.”
“Petals,” he offered. “Purple petals. Like a flower.”
Antonio could breathe, so long as he focused on Declan’s words, instead of trying to translate what his fingers felt into images. Slim hips and a bare white back, traced with lines of gray like cracked porcelain, framed by wings of bone.
He was too old to learn new things about himself. He wasn’t into bones. Or fangs. Or fae.
But Declan wasn’t any fae. He’d come when Antonio needed him. Treated him as an equal. And he held his wings too close, too often. Unapologetic and shuttered, all at once. Sought more for his kind while taking less.
Antonio wanted to kiss him almost as desperately as he wanted to fuck him.
Focus. Just focus.
“A flower?” Declan asked, his grip easing, and the feeling of hunger starting to fade. “How surprisingly pretty. Can you smell it? Maybe we can try to figure out which one.”
“Think you maybe bonded the wrong kinda queer.” He shrugged, though only with the shoulder that Declan wasn’t occupying. “Best I can do is ‘it smells sorta sweet and flowery.’ I could probably draw you a picture.”
Stupid, to be feeling regret. Just, once they finished coming down, Declan would be thinking clearly. Antonio would go back to being unfuckable. And Declan would still be Declan. Sharp angles and sharper teeth, piercing eyes and that low, measured rasp.
He’d get used to it. He had four hundred years to get used to it.
“A picture would be good. We can look it up. Would you like to know what you feel like?”
Declan leaned heavily against him, his emotions practically purring through Antonio’s. Contentment. Relief. The sense of an old hunger, finally fed. At least Antonio could offer that. His soul or his presence, whatever it was Declan was getting out of this.
“Me? It’s not a fae thing?” He laughed and that helped. Eased the tension. “Let me guess. Stale pizza, exhaust, and feijoada.”
“Not exactly. You taste of leather, properly done. Rust. Sun baked earth.” Taste. Like Declan was savoring Antonio, letting him linger on his tongue. “I think they’re rather fitting, for all that we’ve only known one another a day.”
Think. Think. That hadn’t been a come on. Just Antonio, twisting it into what he wanted to hear instead of listening. What Declan had actually said was rust.
Iron.
Declan, who couldn’t get away from him, thought he tasted like iron. Shit. And there it was, at the edge of Antonio’s awareness, nearly buried.
Pain. He was hurting him.
“Rust? I’m– Fuck. I’m hurting you.” He eased his grip on Declan, though he couldn’t make himself let go.
“Not your soul. The necklace.” Declan didn’t pull away entirely, though he did shift his weight with a sigh. “I maintain that a bit of a headache is worth it.”
The tight panic eased a bit. He wasn’t hurting Declan just by existing. That was good. Instead, he was just an inconsiderate ass.
“Idiot. How long were you gonna wait before you told me?”
Declan’s answer came on a low, rasping laugh. “I may have been preoccupied with the implications of my wings against tree bark.”
Yeah, Antonio wasn’t going to let himself think about that.
Instead, he focused on dragging his hand from Declan’s back and tugged at the necklace he’d been pressing the fae against. Christ, he really was an asshole.
Easy enough to swing it around, so it dangled down his back.
Easy to run his fingers through Declan’s hair, after.
He could feel Declan’s relief. Feel, too, that mental purr again, as Declan leaned back into his touch. He reminded Antonio of a lean and rangy streetcat, well fed for the first time in too long. And maybe, yeah, he kept petting. Because maybe Declan kept leaning in.
“Better? Or do you need me to take it off?”
“It’s better. Still there, but better. Though, I don’t believe Faerie will allow you through the veil if you wear it.
” The amusement lingered in Declan’s voice, rich and dark, like that purr.
“I’d like my restraint officially noted.
Not a single suggestive quip at your ask on item removal was made. ”
“It’s officially noted that you’re an ass. I can drop it off when I grab my shit. I mean, I’m guessing we go to Faerie, now.”
A sick twist of dread ran through him as he said it, the contentment of holding a purring Declan torn away by fear. He’d made his choice. Given his soul. There was no backing out now.
“You built yourself an impressive iron fortress. And I do not think either of us would fare well if forced to part ways just now.” Declan still leaned in, even as his contentment turned to something that tasted more like regret.
“More urgently, Calloway cannot walk into my family’s home the way he can anywhere in this world.
Faerie tonight and tomorrow morning, then we sketch out a workable arrangement?
You’ve no more restrictions than I do on going back and forth between the worlds.
An agreement of tonight and the morning isn’t a binding oath. ”
The words were so measured, so careful. Weird from the same man who’d pretty much thrown himself against Antonio, talking about club candy and coke. Everything about Declan threw him off balance. That concern, the way he listened, most of all.
Antonio hadn’t expected a fae to hear him.
Even his family didn’t hear him. They’d decided a long time ago that Antonio couldn’t be trusted.
They all believed they knew what he needed better than he did.
And maybe they were right. After all, Antonio had fucked up every opportunity given to him. Still, it grated.
“Sure. But I do need to swing by my place. Hollow can’t do the Faerie thing. At least, I can’t. I’ll need a change of clothes.”