The Boy With The Painful Tattoo: Holmes & Moriarity 3 (16 page)

“He’s had a couple of heart attacks,” J.X. said. “Adrien, not Jake.”

“Heart attacks? At his age? He better give up the steak pies. He was shot. I know that. Everyone in publishing knows that.”

“I know he was in pretty poor health not that long ago.”

“He’s healthy enough now. He went sprinting up those stairs like an antelope.”

“Yep, he sure did.”

I could tell J.X. was losing interest in the topic of Adrien English. I was thinking though that Adrien was about J.X.’s age, give or take a couple of years. And, at a guestimate, Jake was about my age. It couldn’t have been easy for him to start over, but he’d done it. And he seemed happy.

If he could do it, maybe I could too.

The Langham Huntington, which referred to itself as an “urban resort oasis” in its brochures, was nestled at the base of the blue San Gabriel mountains. Tall palm trees looked silver in the moonlight. Window lights glowed warmly in welcome as we started up the long drive. Like the Fairmont, the Langham Huntington was one of those iconic landmark hotels that take you back to another time and place. A time and a place when you didn’t understand how credit card debt worked.

Our room was a spacious suite with fresh flowers, vintage-style details and a lush garden view—twenty-three acres worth of garden view—a private parlor and a four-poster bed.

In fairness, that night I was only interested in the bed, which we landed on in a breathless, naked heap within ten seconds of closing the door behind the bell boy.

“Jesus
Christ
, I missed you,” J.X. muttered, covering my face with hot and hungry kisses. His mouth was sweet, his beard scratchy, his voice husky with sincerity. “This last week has been torture.”

“Well, it was just a weekend, if you want to get tech—”

He shut me up with more kisses. I liked kissing. I liked it a lot. David had not been much for mouth-to-mouth, but during our brief fellowship J.X. had more than made up for it. If there was a place on my body he hadn’t applied his lips to, I couldn’t think what it was. Back of my knees, arch of my foot, nape of my neck, left tonsil… But mostly I liked it when he pressed his warm, open mouth to mine and we breathed in moist unison, hearts thumping against each other. Nothing so simple nor yet so intense as a kiss between lovers.

“I got you something,” J.X. whispered after a time.

“Mmm?” That was the best I could offer in the interests of coherency.

He gave me a final smack and tore himself away. I made a protesting sound at the bounce of bedsprings. Or the bounce of something.

“Be right there…” he promised. I watched the long, elegant line of his back as he moved away from the bed. Wide shoulders, narrow hips, and skin as smooth and golden as good old Ricardo Montalban’s Corinthian leather. I smiled, closed my eyes.

A moment later he waved something beneath my nose. I caught the faint scent of sweet almonds and anise.

I pried open my eyes. “Ah. Oil of cyanide. A favorite of mystery writers everywhere.”

J.X.’s smile was very white in the perfect frame of his Van Dyke, his eyes glittered like black stars. He said in a low, almost guttural voice, “The oil warms inside your body so you’ll feel everything I do to you that much more intensely.”

I shivered. Oh my God, I wanted that. I wanted to feel that oil warming me, softening my resistance, readying me for him, for whatever he wanted to do, and I wanted him to do it all. Wanted J.X. to touch me, stroke me, caress me, fuck me. Yes, more than anything I wanted him to fuck me.

And at the same time I felt a flutter of alarm.
Not this again
.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Nothing articulate anyway. Just a funny, squeaky sound that wasn’t exactly a protest, but wasn’t quite encouragement.

And yet J.X. smiled more widely still. He squirted the golden liquid onto two fingers and we both watched it drizzle down his hand and wrist like honey.

“Smells nice,” I managed.

“Feels nice too. Slick and slippery—and it
is
warm. Let me show you.”

I gave myself up to it, closed my eyes, moved my leg, lifted my hips, and J.X.’s oily finger pierced me with delicate deliberation. Usually he gave me a little more time, but not tonight. Tonight there was no time to think. His index finger pushed inside and my muscles clenched in instant how-very-dare-you reflex.

But of course he dared. Why wouldn’t he when I was lying there, panting and shivering and waiting obediently for whatever he did next?

“Nice?” he whispered.

I nodded. It
was
nice. The oil felt heated and it tingled a little as J.X. touched me with pleasurable expertise.

“It’s hard not to rush,” he said. “I just want to bury myself in that sweet ass of yours. But it’s got to be good for you. As good as I can make it. Every time.”

I moaned. I told myself it was pain at such terrible dialog. I wanted to say something brisk and cutting like, “Do you serve wine with that cheese?” But I couldn’t speak over my heart, currently lodged in my throat. Who was I kidding? I found his honesty unbearably exciting. Both his words and deeds.

“That’s your sweet spot, right there.” I could hear the smile in his voice as J.X. skimmed the tender bump of my prostate. Colored sparks flashed behind my eyelids like action bubbles in a comic book. ZAP! Zing! Shiver! Ka-POW! My brain was about to short out. Short out and burst into flame, and all that would be left would be a pile of gray ash and a couple of smoldering wires.

“Jesus, you handle so sweet, Kit. So quick, so responsive. I could make you come just like this…just touching you like this.”

No lie. And I almost wished he would. Get it over with. Move on to the next part. The part where
he
was helpless and begging and vulnerable. Except that part never seemed to come anymore. These days it was always me dangling over the ravine. I felt a pricking behind my eyelids because it was just…difficult…to be forced to feel so much. To have all your defenses stripped away and be left with nothing but want and need and longing for another person. What could be more precarious than that?

I held him tighter, breathing in the scents of sweet oil mingled with imminent sex. I loved the smell of his hair and the taste of his skin and the ragged sound of his breath gusting against my face.

“I waited so long for you,” he muttered.

I opened my eyes.

He was beautiful in the creamy light. Sleek and golden and somehow exotic. His eyes gleamed beneath the dark length of his lashes as he studied me. His mouth curved in a small, satisfied smile.
Mine. All mine
. I had to strangle the sudden and maniacal laugh that almost burst out of me at the idea. But it was true. Or at least
he
believed it was true. Which was almost the same thing.

J.X.’s lashes flicked up, catching my gaze. He whispered, “You want to ride me, Kit?”

The offer surprised me. To be honest, I wasn’t sure. It seemed a little showy, a little exhibitionist, and I’d still be the guy with the cock up his ass. Changing positions didn’t change who was submitting to whom. Not really. Besides which, he’d have only too clear a view of my not-washboard-like abs.

“Uh…”

“I want to see your face,” J.X. said. “I want to watch you come.”

What could I say to that?

We ungracefully shifted positions. That’s the thing about sex. So much of it is just plain awkward, clumsy, are-you-sure-this-is-going-to-fit-I-think-they-forgot-to-include-the-washers. But we crawled around, and I straddled J.X.’s lean hips, toes digging into the mattress as I tried to get into position. Yoga?
Really?
And what the hell would you call this position?

Whatever I looked like—hair mussed and needing a shave, at the least—
he
looked beautiful, lying there gazing up from beneath his black lashes, a sensual smile on his mouth. Like Good Saint Somebody patiently waiting to be seduced.

I reached behind me for J.X.’s penis and his throat moved, he gave a little gulp as I took hold of him, guiding that suede-covered pole into my own body.
Insert Tab P into Slot A…
And where was the instruction manual when you needed it?

But we didn’t need it. And he wasn’t just a suede-covered pole. He was flesh and blood. Soft skin and hard muscle, his cheeks flushed and his eyes shining and his heart beating as fast as mine. He wanted me and he loved me and this wasn’t a test of physical endurance, it was the manifestation of our desire and delight, our need to be one.

My thigh muscles were getting a workout as I sat slowly, lowly down.
Ouch
. An instant and clenched resistance.

J.X.’s breathing sped up and I felt him tighten and then force himself to hold absolutely still, fighting the temptation to shove in.

I panted for a second or two. There was no retreat. I didn’t
want
to retreat. I wanted that painful pressure to change to the pleasure like no other, and there was only one way to get there. I sank down a little further. The pressure expanded, the pain bloomed—
not so sure about this, not so sure at all
—and then suddenly gave way, like a secret panel springing open.

“Oh
Christ
, Kit…” J.X.’s hands went to my backside, fingers digging in. “So hot. So sweet. So good like this.”

Not yet. Not for me. But soon. I rose up a bit, pushed down lower and finally felt the hard muscles of his thighs against my ass. And the thrill when his cock prodded me in just the right place. There. Right
there
.

J.X.’s hips rocked. He stopped himself. His dark gaze was pinned on my face. “You okay?”

I nodded. I half rose, then lowered myself fully onto J.X.’s rigid erection. And again. Up. Down. Again. Again. It required effort. A lot of effort. Rising up, pushing down, lifting and lowering onto that scrape and burn.

“Yeah, do it, Kit,” J.X. urged in a rough voice. “Fuck yourself on my cock. I want to see it.”

Crude and crazy, but it did something to me. I closed my eyes and began to move, began to lose myself, leaning back, changing the angle of penetration. Up and down, rising and falling, lifting up and slamming down on him.

“I need you,” I said. Cried out the words, in fact. “I need you!”

J.X.’s fingers sank bruisingly into my ass cheeks, and he began to move too, pumping his hips into me. We found a frantic, feverish rhythm.

I got so lost in it, in the rhythm of it, in J.X.’s reactions to it, my own orgasm seemed to, well, come out of nowhere. Like a cloudburst. That buzz of electricity, the crackle of lightning, the roll of thunder and suddenly the whole sky opening up, stars, planets, suns and moons yanked from their moorings, everything tearing loose and spilling out of the heavens in a hot, wet flood.

That release seemed to send J.X. right over the edge. He yelled and arched and thrust harder and faster, and the night tore free. The past was washed away and there was only the present. We were caught up together in a wild summer storm sweeping everything in its path out of the way…

Chapter Eleven

W
e slept late the next morning and then took turns in the Italian marble shower. As I stood beneath the beat of warm water and clouds of rich soap, I felt relaxed, almost at peace. Partly it was the physical release of tension. There were handprints on my ass. My leg muscles felt shaky, my guts trembly, my entire body felt buffeted like after a strenuous workout. But the release wasn’t all physical, and I kept finding myself smiling into space like a complete goof.

As I opened the bathroom door, J.X. was saying, “Come on,
chica
. Don’t start crying. I love him. You make things hard for him, you make them hard for me.”

It was funny how his intonation changed, he sounded a little more Hispanic, a little more urban, a little more like someone I didn’t really know yet. That was neither bad nor good, simply a reminder that he had a whole life I knew very little about.

Spotting me, he shifted the phone to his other ear and said, “I’ve got to go. There isn’t anything more to say. I told you how it was.”

Yeah, good luck with that, hombre.

But I had to give him credit. He clicked off without further apologies or explanation. He smiled ruefully at me. “Nina.”

I finished toweling my hair and said mildly, “I told you.”

To my surprise, he wrapped his arms around my waist pulling me down to the unmade bed with him. I admit I didn’t resist much.

“She’s a little confused. And,” he said quickly before I could interrupt, “yes, I probably did add to her confusion by spending too much time over there giving her advice and playing handyman and generally trying to fill in for Alex.”

I raised my brows and he shook his head. “Never.
Never.
And I still think marrying her was the right decision for that time, but…”

“It complicates things,” I said.

He smoothed the edge of his thumb between my brows—and if he thought it was that easy to get rid of frown lines, he had some bad news coming. “It does. I don’t want to hurt her or Gage. I love them. They’re family.”

I said, “I love my family too, but if you’ll notice, I’m not setting up Fourth of July barbecues with all my aunts and uncles and cousins or asking you to check out my mom’s security system or go golfing with my dad.”

J.X. gave me a long, thoughtful look. “Since you brought it up, it bothers me that you haven’t introduced me to your parents yet.”

“It
bothers
you?”

“Of course it bothers me. It makes me feel like maybe there’s a reason you don’t want me to meet them.”

That shocked me. I pushed up on my elbows. “What? What reason?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I know you get along with them okay, and you considered yourself married to David, so it isn’t anything to do with being gay.”

“Of course it isn’t. It isn’t anything. I mean, there is no
it
. I just haven’t got around to the introductions. Yet.”

He smiled faintly. There was something self-derisive in that curve of his mouth. “Or maybe you don’t think there’s any point, because you don’t view this relationship like you did your relationship with David.”