Chapter 16
Lorenzo spent the early evening filling out paperwork that had been brought over by a few of the packs’ lawyers.
Werewolves could be beasts under the full moon, but they were nimble after a crisis, and quick to ensure that all parties affected by any sort of incident were incentivized not to cause trouble. He’d signed a few of these before.
This time, he was distracted as he initialed page after page by thoughts of Charlie. Charlie, so smart and funny and sharp around the edges, turned out to be . . . touchable.
Very touchable.
Nothing like Charlie’s dream, which had been intense but insubstantial. Last night had been solidly, spine-tinglingly real—violent, hot, and consuming.
But it was still Charlie. Lorenzo had no idea what last night meant to him, or what would happen now.
And he ached all over. He knew it wasn’t from the crash; those injuries had healed almost instantly. This was something else.
Once he was done with the paperwork, he sent the pack lawyers on their way. A few moments later a knock came at the door, and he answered, assuming one of them had left a pen.
Charlie stood in his doorway, looking up at him with his big amber eyes, his lips parted.
They stared at each other for a long moment while the we had sex last night of it all just hung there, freezing everything.
Then Lorenzo shook his head slightly. Charlie cleared his throat. “Uh. Hi.”
“Hello,” Lorenzo said, standing aside so that Charlie could enter without any risk of touching him at all. He wanted to ask what he was doing here, but that would probably come out as hostile. So he said, “How are you feeling?”
Charlie’s eyes widened. “After the crash,” Lorenzo said gruffly. “Are you injured?”
“Oh! No, I’m—I’m good. A bit of whiplash, I think, but—I’m good.” He touched his neck absently as he spoke, but it looked more like a nervous tic than anything else.
“Good,” Lorenzo said.
“Um. I wanted to—” Charlie finally made eye contact with him, and broke off in a nervous grin. “I’m sorry,” he said, scratching his neck and pulling a flyer out of his bag. “I wanted to show you this.”
It was a flyer for an art show at a small local museum. “Why?”
“It looks like it’s supernatural,” Charlie said, leaning over to look at it with him. Lorenzo pulled back slightly, just enough to keep a plausible distance between them. “I mean, is it? I think I’m getting pretty good at telling.”
He was so damn handsome when he got excited about something—his eyes lit up, his eyelashes fluttered, and his lips curved into a half smile that made Lorenzo feel like the floor was pitching underfoot.
He forced himself to examine the flyer more closely. When he realized what he was looking at, he frowned. “Well—it—yes,” he said. “It’s . . .”
“What?”
“It’s . . . succubi,” Lorenzo said grimly. “And incubi.”
“Succubi,” Charlie said, weighing the word carefully. “Like . . .”
There was a long, strained pause while they stared at each other, neither willing to put it into words. Charlie swallowed, his throat bobbing. Finally, Lorenzo managed, “Mm-hmm.”
“So—it’s an art show put on by . . .”
“Yes.”
Charlie frowned, thinking this through. “Is it a live sex show?”
“No,” Lorenzo said. “Well, a little. It—this is just a thing they do. They’re very . . . artistic and high-minded.” He sighed. “It’s stupid, sexy art.”
“I need to see this,” Charlie declared.
“That’s not a good idea,” Lorenzo said.
Charlie looked up at him furtively. “Because of . . .?” Because of us?
Lorenzo scowled. “No, because they can be dangerous to humans. They can influence human behavior, get inside your head.”
“I thought it was an art show.”
“Well, it is,” Lorenzo said. “But . . .”
“Okay,” Charlie said, starting to smile. “Then come with me.”
Now Lorenzo was at a loss for words. Was Charlie asking him out? Or was he just using him as a protector, distraction, guide? All of the above?
Why did it have to be a succubus exhibit?
Charlie was chewing on his lip, a nervous tic that belied his easy smile. “Just, y’know,” he said, filling the silence that followed his invitation. “Like we’ve been . . . doing.”
“Yes,” Lorenzo found himself saying. “Okay. I’ll go with you.”
Charlie eyes lit up. “Great,” he said.
They realized at the same time that they were both still holding the flyer, standing shoulder to shoulder.
Lorenzo let go first, taking a step back. Charlie blinked at him.
“So, uh,” he said. “Do you . . . want to go now?”
Lorenzo’s car was also on loan from the pack, as compensation for his beloved Ford Focus getting totaled. This one had a beige interior and smelled almost harshly brand new.
Nothing like the burning wreckage they’d turned his last car into. Charlie’s skin had tasted like soot.
Lorenzo could smell him again now, close as he was in the passenger seat. He’d definitely showered, because the scent of last night was gone; now his skin had a distinctive soapy note. He smelled clean and familiar.
It was a shame they’d had sex for the first and probably last time outdoors.
It had its appeal, of course, but Lorenzo couldn’t help but feel like he’d missed out on the chance to fuck Charlie under the covers, somewhere warm and small where his scent would gather, and every one of Lorenzo’s senses would be completely smothered by him.
Lorenzo swallowed. No one spoke for a long, long moment.
Then Charlie said, “We should talk about it.”
Lorenzo jerked. “Uh,” he said. “Talk about . . .”
Charlie quirked a flat eyebrow at him. “Last night?”
Lorenzo had no idea what to say. Thankfully, Charlie kept going. “Thank you for saving my life,” he said quietly.
Lorenzo tried to respond, but his mm-hmm came out more like a grunt. “And um,” Charlie said. “About the other . . . stuff . . .”
Lorenzo bit his tongue again. What was there to say? That he wanted to do it again, and he also thought it’d be a terrible idea? It had been a mistake. A delicious, delirious mistake.
“I—it was fun,” Charlie said. “Really fun. But, I think maybe—”
“Just a one-time thing?” Lorenzo offered.
“Yes,” Charlie said, deflating with relief, while Lorenzo tried not to feel stung. “I mean—it really was fun.”
“Yes,” Lorenzo said, looking out at the road. Fun.
“Yep,” Charlie said. “Just—okay.”
It was the smart thing to do. Lorenzo still felt like he’d been sent to bed without supper.
And he couldn’t help but sneak a glance at Charlie.
The museum was gorgeous, sleek and modern—he’d been to shows here before, and it was just as chic as he remembered. It was after eleven, so the crowd wasn’t overwhelming. Lorenzo handed his keys to the valet and held the front door for Charlie.
The show, called Need: A New Perspective, began with a collection of paintings and mixed-media pieces. Each had a cluster of guests grouped around it discussing its merits, and servers were passing glasses of champagne. Charlie grabbed one and raised his eyebrows at Lorenzo. Ready?
He shook out his shoulders. It was just an art show; nothing had to be awkward.
Naturally, many of the paintings were erotic—classical oil paintings and faint, haunting watercolors.
There were mixed-media pieces showing pornography and erotic art films, and sketches of the same woman, over and over again.
Lorenzo couldn’t always spot which pieces had been created via the succubi’s powers, which had been hewn with other magic, and which were simply enthusiastic amateur attempts.
If magic were truly intent, the intent behind the assembled exhibition so far reminded him most closely of that cake meme congrats on the sex.
They turned a corner and found a massive field of balloons assembled to look like a strip club, complete with strangely enticing balloon dancers.
Charlie chuckled when he spotted it, glancing back at Lorenzo with laughter in his eyes.
They passed into the next room and found a performance piece: a man and woman cuddled together on a soaking wet bed, the man sobbing into the woman’s chest, while water poured onto them from the ceiling, draining into a deep circle around the edges.
It was tremendously loud, and a faint mist from the water floated over the entire room.
People stood along the sides and watched silently.
What the . . .? Charlie mouthed to Lorenzo.
Lorenzo shrugged. They made their way into the next room.
It was large, but held only one exhibit on a slightly elevated platform: a vintage photo booth with a red velvet curtain and flashbulbs all along one side. Charlie smiled as soon as he saw it.
They drew closer to get a good look. Lorenzo asked, “Can you go in? There’s no sign.”
Charlie looked at him. “Do you want to take some pictures?”
Lorenzo hesitated. “I’m just kidding,” Charlie said quickly. He looked back at the photo booth. “Why is this even at an art exhibit about sex?”
“I don’t know,” Lorenzo lied. “What’s next?”
The next room was the sculpture room, and it took some getting used to.
Every time Charlie was startled by something or burst into laughter, Lorenzo felt like he was being tugged a little closer to him, a little more irresistibly drawn in.
Nothing here reminded him of last night, not really; every piece was sophisticated or outrageous or elevated—sharp edges and refined palates.
Last night with Charlie hadn’t been anything like that. It had been primal, dirty, and raw.
“So,” he managed, when they were mostly through the sculptures. “What do you think?”
“About this one?”
“About all of it.”
Charlie took a deep breath. “You were right,” he said. “It is stupid, sexy art.”
Lorenzo laughed, and Charlie grinned in response. Dangerous, Lorenzo thought, and tried to control the errant fluttering in his chest.