25 Baz
25
Baz
I can’t leave the building fast enough.
Breaking out of those cold hallways into the bright heat of the day feels like resurrection.
I inhale instinctively, drawing breath deep into my lungs. The too-hot kiss of the sun on my skin is a blessing; the fluid movement of my legs and hips is a miracle. I’m acutely conscious of my body, its youthful flesh, its suppleness and smoothness, the elegant grace of my fingers.
I’m young for now, and I’m pathetically grateful for that.
“Take me home, Dorian,” I say, looking up at him. “I want to see my cat.”
We grab lunch on the way—big cheeseburgers with lots of fries because that doesn’t affect his health, and honestly I’d rather die of a heart attack in my sixties than live to be ninety. But I don’t tell Dorian that, and he doesn’t press me for my decision.
When we get to my house, Dorian carries the bag of food to the coffee table while I scoop Screwtape into my arms. He hisses and wriggles, and I almost let him go—but then he quiets suddenly. Lets me cuddle him to my chest and knead his little head with my knuckles. His fur is so silky I want to cry.
When I release him, he stalks away haughtily with a backward glance of pure disdain.
Dorian and I eat in silence, watching The Haunting of Hill House . In spite of how delicious the food tastes, I only eat half my burger and a few of my fries. My stomach keeps knotting up and twisting tighter. There are too many thoughts racing around inside my head.
Talking about death scared me, and it cemented my conviction that Dorian and I need to find some help. We can’t keep fighting off the skriken ourselves, not really understanding why they show up and what they want. Lloyd-Henry was useless, and I doubt Mrs. Dunwoody is willing to provide any more information now that she thinks I’m a devil worshiper. I don’t know… Maybe I am. I’ve been praying to some higher power at my altar, someone other than Brigid. Who knows what exactly I’ve been talking to.
Maybe I should walk right up to that old, abandoned building across from the Chandler, knock on the door, and see if I hear the weird voice inside my head.
And what about that guy, the one who looks like the character I designed? He can’t be real, because he looked filmy, incorporeal. He has to be a hallucination. Maybe I should see a therapist again.
And Dorian—sweet, tragic, terrible Dorian, who’s lounging on the couch beside me with his shoulder propped against mine and his legs kicked up over the armrest—what the hell am I going to do about Dorian?
Maybe I should just give in and see if I can paint him a new portrait.
But I vowed. I’ve promised on my dad’s grave so many times, and I can’t help the nagging fear that breaking the promise would wreck something inside me irreversibly—that the shattering of my vow would have karmic repercussions.
There’s no guarantee I could even manage to pull Dorian’s soul into a new picture. I’ve only done a soul transference once. I’ve had no practice, and while the process is simple in theory, I’m terrified to try it on someone I actually care about. What if I killed Dorian while I was trying to save him?
And if I did succeed, what would Dorian do with his second chance? Would I be freeing him up to continue careening through people’s lives, leaving addicts, convicts, and broken souls in his wake? I can’t see much good that he’s done with his decades. The kind of pleasure he gives people is fun, sure, but it doesn’t last, and some of it actually makes things worse for them afterward.
“I don’t think you’re watching this show at all,” drawls Dorian. “The coffin just fell over, and you didn’t even blink.”
“I’m thinking.”
He drops the remnant of his burger on its waxy paper wrapping and sits up, looking into my eyes. “About?”
“Things. And stuff.”
“Things and stuff.” A smile twitches on his lips.
“What if you just kept your current painting and tried to be really good?”
“What if I’m injured in an accident and the whole thing disintegrates?”
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. The back of my bandaged hand twinges.
“I know I dropped a lot on you today, and right after the incident with the skriken last night,” he says. “It’s partly because of our encounter with them that I’m so eager to resolve this. I need protection, Baz. From aging and from death. Don’t you want to have this available to you for as long as you like?” He gestures to himself with a sly smile.
“As long as I like?” I try to ignore the low-down flutter prompted by those words. “I’m not the sharing kind, remember. Won’t you get bored of me?”
His gaze narrows, intensifying, heating my very skin. “As if.”
Those two tiny words incite a quick, compulsive throb between my legs and a quiver of delight in my heart. But then images rise in my mind—papery skin and purple veins, yellowed teeth and wrinkled mouths.
“But I’ll get old,” I whisper. “You’ll keep existing, pretty and perfect, while I decay.”
Dorian reaches for me, pulling me close. I yield and tuck my head against his shoulder.
“This is one passion Lloyd-Henry and I share,” he says. “The idea that for the human race, the only goal worth pursuing is the eradication of the aging process. The elimination of natural death. It’s really the only thing that matters. Everything else is frivolous.”
“But you haven’t pursued that goal. You’ve spent most of your time indulging in all the pleasures you could find.”
“True. I suppose that’s because I know smarter people are working on the problem. Lloyd, for one, and some friends of his. I have a feeling that’s why he left in such a hurry last week. Gatsby must have had a breakthrough with whatever he’s doing up in North Carolina. If we can find a way to spare even one person from aging or dying, I’ll make sure you’re that person.”
“As part of my payment for doing your portrait?” I say glumly. “You’re adding immortality to the package now?”
“Well…yes.” His fingers toy with a lock of my hair.
“You went from wanting to commission me for ten grand, up to a hundred grand and a couple weeks of indulgence, and now you’re promising me boundless wealth, fame as an artist, and potential youth and immortality. Plus you kind of threw your whole self in there, too, as part of the deal.” I sigh. “Dorian, it was never a matter of money. And I don’t want a sexual partner who’s doing it out of some misplaced sense of obligation. You might be cool with prostituting yourself for this, but I won’t accept it.” I pull away from him, getting to my feet.
“That part isn’t about the portrait,” Dorian says softly. “I’m already a slut for you, Baz. I’ll be your willing whore either way, on my knees praying for a taste of you.”
I can’t breathe. I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I stand there, probably looking stupidly awkward, trying to form words.
“Normal people don’t say that kind of thing,” I manage at last.
“Since when am I normal people?”
“Fuck.” I run trembling fingers over my face.
Dorian rises and comes to me, encompassing my body with his, caging me in his arms. He nudges my nose with his own, and when I tip my face up, his lips seal over mine.
He smoked in the car on the way to my house, but for some reason, the cigarette taste, which I’d find disgusting with anyone else, doesn’t cling sourly to his tongue and the roof of his mouth like it does with most people. It’s a faint, smoky, addictive flavor mingled with the savory saltiness of the cheeseburger. Maybe his portrait absorbs that negative side effect of the smoking, too.
“I don’t understand this,” I whisper against the thin, soft skin of his lips. “I don’t know why I like you so much.”
He trails his mouth along my cheek, a delicate brush that sends a cascade of delicious shivers through my belly, between my legs.
“Baz,” he murmurs with a light kiss to the corner of my jaw. “I like you more than I’ve liked anyone in decades. Longer, in fact.” His breath hovers over the piercings along my ear. “Why is that, do you think?”
“I just said I don’t understand it myself.” I gasp a light laugh, winding my arms around his lean waist. “What brings two people together anyway? Beyond just the physical attraction?”
“Shared interests. A similar worldview.”
“We share some interests. Our worldviews couldn’t be more different.”
“Perhaps they’re more alike than you think.”
I vent a shuddering sigh while he sucks lightly at the pulse point on my neck. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“But you’re not going to be afraid right now or keep running in circles through that busy mind of yours,” Dorian murmurs against my collarbone, sliding the strap of my tank top off my shoulder. “No, sweetheart, you’re going to help me forget that my heart is a hollow, worn, leathery thing, like an old briefcase. You’re going to indulge yourself, because we have young, beautiful bodies, you and I, and we deserve to enjoy them.”
“They’re more precious because they won’t last.” I slide his shirt up the small of his back, baring the smooth heat of his skin.
He hums a noncommittal response, and I transfer my attention to the front of his shirt, releasing the buttons one by one.
“Why are crisp white dress shirts so damn sexy?” I whisper.
“You should see me in a wet T-shirt,” he says with a lazy grin. His hands travel up my front, under my tank top, palming my breasts.
I finish with his buttons, and when he shifts back to remove his shirt, I shuck off my top and bra.
Dorian hooks his fingers into the belt loops of my shorts and hauls my hips against his. “This skin,” he croons, sweeping his palm along the curve of my waist. “So soft. Smooth. Perfect. I could sink my teeth into you, sweetheart.”
I let my body drift against his. “You’re so tall.”
Biting his lip through a grin, he bends, and our mouths meet. I reach up to brush my fingers through his hair, and something about the motion tugs at the burned skin on the back of my hand. I release a little yelp of pain into Dorian’s mouth.
He pulls back immediately. “What?”
“My stupid hands. Don’t worry about it.”
He cups one of them in his own, inspecting the bandages. “I should have warned you about the spatter from the flamethrower. Given you gloves, or—”
“You can’t protect me from everything.”
“Who says I want to?” A sly challenge flashes in his eyes, but it’s one of those moments when I can see through his coy resistance, right down to the truth underneath.
“I’m the muse and the artist, baby.” I give him a savage smile. “You can’t help it.”
Hunger flares in his eyes, and with one fluid motion, he picks me up, hitching my legs around his waist, and carries me to the bedroom despite my squealed protest.
He bends me over the edge of the bed, yanks my shorts down without bothering to unzip them, and runs his fingers right through my soaked slit. I curl my fingers into the blankets, screeching a little at the pain across my hands, but the discomfort is threaded with a sharp pulse of pleasure.
I hear Dorian drop to his knees behind me, and then—his tongue. The broad flat of it sweeps over my folds, then through them, stroking with quick insistence, over and over until I’m yelping, quivering. I’ve never been this acutely sensitized before, never felt as if every line of my veins was incandescent with dark fire. Dorian’s tongue is a slick lash, a delicate whip flicking my clit. He pries my ass cheeks wider, a sound of pure enjoyment humming through his throat and lips as he savors me.
“This is mine.” He plants a damp kiss on my ass cheek. “No one else gets to taste you. No one else gets to do this—” A zipper grinds, and I hear a rustle of fabric as his pants drop.
He drags the thick head of his cock along my wetness before nestling into me, sinking in deep. I whimper, and he strokes my back reassuringly. Why does it feel so good just having him rub my skin like that? And the thick fullness of him seated in me wipes every other thought from my head, and I’m left floating in a blissful oblivion where only the sensations of this moment exist. Nothing before or after, no decisions or dilemmas, just Dorian’s body buried in mine. Dorian Gray, inside me, surging deep, finding the perfect angle by instinct or practice.
He slides out, rubs the head of his dick all over me again, and then slips back inside.
Some guys think the clit is the only pleasure spot—if they know about it at all—but I like it when a guy tends to the whole area, and Dorian keeps teasing the outside as well as diving inside. There’s so much intense stimulation I’m two seconds away from shrieking. I need something to hold on to, so I grab one of the pillows and drag it against my upper chest.
“Exquisite woman,” Dorian says raggedly. “Beautiful outside and fucking magical inside. And damn me if you don’t have a lovely soul to match.”
His thighs slam against mine, and he bends over me, sweeping my hair aside and planting a kiss right at the base of my neck. A tingling thrill circles outward from that spot of sweet pressure.
“I don’t deserve to be fucking you,” he whispers.
“To hell with that,” I gasp. “If you stop, I swear I’ll get my biggest kitchen knife and stab you.”
“Knife-play? Kinky.” He places another kiss on my spine.
Then he resumes the torture, glazing his cock head with my wetness and plunging in again, over and over. The longer he fucks me, the more my mind softens, blurring into a void of blissful sensation where everything feels amazing and I’m climbing incrementally toward a cataclysm I’m dreading and yearning for.
“Please,” I whimper against the pillow I’m gripping. “Please…”
“Please what, Baz?” Dorian’s palm slides over my bare back, caressing every plane of my shoulder blades, every dip and curve, like he’s mapping or memorizing me. He’s trying to speak smoothly, but his voice is thick, jagged at the edges. He’s close to coming apart, and I would smile at the knowledge if I weren’t so desperate.
“Please make me come, Dorian.”
“Ah—” He groans sharply, and the next second, I feel the pulsing of his rigid length inside me. But he doesn’t stop. He quickens his pace like he’s desperate to get me there, even though he must be painfully sensitive right now.
“Come for me, darling,” he says brokenly. “Come all over me, love.”
I clamp the pillow between my teeth—more, more, more —almost—god yes, yes —and I come around him, a cataclysmic burst, my thighs shaking against the side of the bed. The aftershocks make me sob with blissful relief.
“Oh yes,” Dorian gasps, utter joy in his voice. “Yes, baby.”
He stays inside me until the tremoring bliss has softened me into a boneless mess. I spit out the wad of pillow and drop my cheek against it, utterly limp, unable to move or open my eyes.
Dorian crashes onto the bed beside me, urging his body close to mine. The fact that he craves my nearness even after he just came… It’s beautiful. I love it. I love h—
I pull my thoughts up short, because that isn’t happening. I can’t feel that , not for Dorian Gray. Not for someone who has hurt so many people.
He’s toxic. I’ve seen the proof of it in that hideous painting. So why, why, why do I want to curl up against him and stay there forever? I don’t think I’ll ever be tired of the flow of his hard muscle and smooth skin against my body.
It’s more than that. It’s the way he makes sure I get there with him, the way he’s so aware of my responses, my pleasure points, my needs. It’s his casual gusto as he chowed down on that cheeseburger and the graceful way he played the piano for the fine southern ladies at tea. It’s the way he rubbed sunblock on my nose on the beach and the way he laughed at the minimum expense requirement for the VIP table at Scoundrel.
It’s the way he kissed the forehead of the old man in the retirement home and the way he coolly prepared the flamethrower to fight off the skriken. It’s the way he hesitated before showing me his picture and the tears in his eyes.
Most of all, it’s the way I feel like I can’t be happy without seeing him every day. I need him like I need my art—as if he is my art, my reason for being on this planet. My damn meaning of life.
That can’t be healthy, but it’s fucking true, and I’m starting to not care so much about the health of it all.
I crawl farther onto the bed, and Dorian hauls me right against him, his arm banding my waist.
“That was incredible,” he mutters. “I feel so refreshed. Like I could…fall asleep…right here.”
“Go ahead,” I whisper.
“I just might. And then…I’m going to bury my face in that pretty little pussy of yours again.”
Delight throbs in my heart…and in other places. “We’ve got nowhere to be and nothing to do. It’s you, and it’s me. No one else. Just for today.”
“Just for today,” he echoes drowsily.
I fold up my worries, my fears, and my guilt about caring for this beautiful, wretched man, and I set myself adrift with him, and I pretend it’s forever.