Chapter Twenty-Nine
Ash padded barefoot across the loft, the floorboards cool beneath his feet.
It was one of those leaden fall afternoons in Calgrave, lightless and raw, the sky the color of an old nickel.
The kind of day that pressed in through the tall windows and dulled the gold-leaf edges of everything it touched.
But it didn’t touch him. He was incandescent.
He’d showered. Shaved. Eaten. Washed the plates.
Yet the fog of pleasure still clung to him like cigarette smoke.
Under the silk kimono, his skin sang with the memory of rough hands and rougher kisses, of teeth grazing his throat, of Rick’s voice rasping low in his ear: ‘You can take it, can’t you, boy?
’ He could. He had. Rick had worked him over until Ash didn’t know where one climax ended and the next began.
He floated somewhere between a purr and a shiver.
When he bent to pick up a stray sock near the chaise, Poe darted out from below it, tail lashing, something clutched in his tiny jaws.
“Hey!” Ash laughed, springing after him. “Drop it, you furry little klepto.”
The cat meowed in triumph and bolted under the table.
Ash followed on hands and knees, grinning like an idiot, until he managed to wrestle the stolen prize free.
Rick’s underwear—what was left of it. Not completely shredded, but definitely mangled.
One side was torn down the seam, caught by a claw or a tiny set of teeth.
“You little perv,” Ash muttered without heat.
Poe meowed, utterly unrepentant, and leapt into Ash’s lap. He licked at Ash’s wrist, then curled into a small, vibrating crescent of warmth.
Ash ruffled the cat’s ears. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
He sprawled over the plush rug, bringing the briefs to his nose and rubbing them all over his face.
Rick’s scent stuck to them—clean skin and sweat, tangled with the wild, musky smell of his balls.
It hit Ash hard, a jolt right to his cock.
His whole body warmed, humming in places he never knew had nerves.
God. He could drown in it.
Eventually, as shadows crept long across the walls, he peeled himself off the floor and dressed: black jeans, fresh and snug, a white T-shirt that clung just right.
When he passed the mirror propped against the wall, his gaze snagged on his reflection.
There was a flush to his skin that hadn’t faded.
His lips were bitten red. He’d taken some hard poundings in his life, but he never felt this way before, empty and brimming all at once. And Rick…
Ash’s brows knit. The man had taken a bullet and still railed him like a locomotive, three—no, four times—and walked away without so much as a limp.
He should’ve been ill. Or out cold for a week.
No ordinary man could’ve taken what they did last night and still be standing.
But this one seemed wholly unaffected. Even the gunshot wound was gone, for Christ’s sake.
‘Guess we’re more alike than you thought, huh?’
Could Rick be… like him? He’d never met another, but surely there were others—creatures burdened with the same peculiar malady, the same perverse power. He couldn’t be the only one. Was that what Rick meant?
Mulling it over, Ash crossed to the rumpled bed, tugging the tangled sheets straight.
Tess had texted earlier—she’d be over with lunch—and he wanted the place at least halfway decent.
Not like a gangbang scene from some debauched bathhouse porno.
But as he smoothed the pillows, his fingers paused.
There. Five long slashes in the fabric on each side, right where Rick had braced himself.
He stood there a moment, staring. Questions swirled, uneasy, half-formed things that refused to settle.
(6:23 p.m.)
“You absolute slut,” Tess said, lips curling around the words as she chewed her food. “I can’t believe you actually slept with that… Sasquatch!”
Ash raised an eyebrow, lounging on the floor beside her. “Tall, burly, and damaged—what’s not to like?”
They sat shoulder to shoulder, backs resting against the chaise, legs stretched across the plush rug.
The floor was scattered with takeout cartons, dipping sauces, and a mostly empty bottle of rosé.
Evening had fallen, and yellow slants from the streetlights cut across the tall Venetian blinds, mingling with the warm amber glow of the lamps inside.
The wind had picked up. Ash could hear the faint rattle of a loose AC pipe, the slow gathering hush that meant a storm was coming.
Tess leaned over, stage-sniffing him with a dramatic flair. “I think I can smell him on you,” she declared, voice pitched low and dirty. “You’ve got that freshly-fucked glow, and this place reeks of man-juices.”
Ash rolled his eyes, fishing through his noodles with a pair of black chopsticks. “I think that’s the shrimp.”
She snatched a pillow from the chaise and smacked him with it, grinning.
“I don’t know why I’m surprised,” she said, settling cross-legged on the rug again.
“I saw the way he looked at you last night. Like he was about to leap onto the stage and mount you in front of God and everyone. Eyes like two flaming meat thermometers.”
Ash nearly choked on his food. “That’s an image.”
“Don’t play coy now.” Tess’s grin turned sly. “He was fucking you with his eyes. I mean, Christ, I think even the ice in my glass melted from that look.” She shoveled a forkful of rice into her mouth and waved her chopsticks for emphasis. “So? Was it good?”
Ash smirked into his carton. “It was all right.”
“Oh, shut up.” She lobbed a napkin at him. “You look like you spent the night at Olympus getting ravaged by Ares himself.”
“You missed your calling. You should write erotic epics.”
“What can I say? Gossip makes my juices flow.”
Jazz trickled in softly from the record player—an old Chet Baker tune, smoky and languid, curling through the loft like incense.
Poe was busy swatting a stray chopstick under the coffee table, tail twitching.
Tess reached down and teased him with a bit of string from the takeout bag, flicking it through the air like a dancer’s ribbon.
The cat pounced, missed, hissed in frustration, then tried again. She laughed. It was their routine.
Ash watched them. He liked how easily Tess fit into his space. No awkwardness, no pretense. She didn’t ask questions he wasn’t ready to answer. Just picked her moments, tossed her barbs, and let the rest breathe.
She started talking about the club—the new waitress who couldn’t rinse a glass to save her life, the regular who kept trying to flirt with her despite a wedding ring and breath like something had died in his throat.
Ash chimed in here and there, offered a smirk or some snark (“Maybe he thinks you’re a drag queen?
”, which earned him another pillow-smack over the head and a barrel of laughter), but mostly let her fill the space with her voice.
His mind drifted. To harsh fingers on his hips. The rasp of stubble against his skin. That look—hungry, almost reverent. He remembered how Rick had studied him after he fucked him, gaze flicking between his mouth and his eyes, like he was trying to memorize every flicker, every line.
Ash stirred his food absently. He hadn’t told Tess about the shootout. Or the wound. Or the claw marks torn into his sheets. Some things weren’t ready to live outside his head yet. Not until he understands them first.
The record crackled faintly, then looped into the next track. A sleepy saxophone slurred into life.
Tess set her food aside and stretched, arms over her head. “Whew. That hit the spot.” She rummaged in her bag and came up with a crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes. “Smoke?”
Ash nodded, and she tossed him one without looking. They lit up together, leaning on the lounge, and exhaled in tandem.
“You know,” she said, watching the smoke rise toward the ceiling, “I kinda knew this would happen. The moment I saw him come to the club. That man was starving.”
Ash didn’t respond. Just inhaled slow, exhaled slower. The smoke felt grounding.
She bumped her shoulder into his. “You’re not fooling me, Hunter.”
He gave her a lopsided smile. “I never try.”
Tess checked her phone and sighed. “Damn. Time’s a bitch.
” She stood, brushing crumbs off her pants, then began clearing the cartons, stacking them into the takeout bag with practiced ease.
“Well, this has been delightfully salacious,” she said.
“But I’ve gotta go open up shop, and you’ve gotta start oiling your hips. ”
Ash gave her a lazy look. “You sure you don’t want to call in with secondhand horniness?”
“Tempting. But someone has to keep the place from burning down.”
She leaned in and kissed his cheek, the scent of her perfume warm and familiar. “See you later, Casanova.”
“See you, Wonder Woman,” he said.
The door clicked shut behind her. The loft grew quiet again.
Ash lingered in the silence, cigarette smoldering between his fingers.
Outside, the sky had shifted to pewter. The wind tugged at the fire escape, soft and steady, and somewhere in the distance, he heard the first soft roll of thunder.
Rain would fall soon. He glanced at the window, the slender towers glowing in the distance.
That warmth inside him—low, slow-burning—hadn’t faded.
If anything, it had settled deeper, behind the ribs. A spark he didn’t want to name.
He had to get ready for work. Had to put on his face, lace up his boots, strut out under the lights, and become someone else for a while. But all he could think about was Rick fucking Slade. The way he looked at him. Touched him. Took him apart and put him back together without even trying.
Ash dragged on the cigarette, watching the ember flare. Feelings were a trap. He knew that. He’d gone through hell learning it, spent a lifetime dodging it. So why the fuck did it feel like the trap was now closing?