Lover Unleashed (Black Dagger Brotherhood #9)(104)

V walked in first and he willed the black candles on their stanchions to light up. The instant the black walls and flooring were illuminated, he went from zombie to live wire, his senses coming alive to the point where his own footfalls sounded like bombs dropping, and the sound of the door shutting them both in was like the building falling in on itself.

Every breath he took was a gust of wind. Every beat of his heart was a boxer’s punch. Every swallow he took was a guzzle down his throat.

Was this how his subs had felt? This too-alive tingle?

He stopped by his table. No jacket to take off. Nothing but the now-bloody hospital johnny on his back.

Behind him, Butch’s presence loomed big as a mountain.

“Can I use your phone,” V asked roughly.

“Here.”

V spun around and caught the tossed BlackBerry with his gloved hand. Calling up a blank text, he chose Doc Jane out of the address book.

His fingers stilled at that point. His brain was clogged with emotion, the screams he needed to let out getting in the way and turning his normal reserve into a solid-steel set of bars that bolted him inside of himself.

But then, this was why they were here.

With a soft curse, he canceled the empty text.

When he went to pass the phone back, Butch was over by the bed, taking off one of his many fancy-dancy leather jackets. No biker’s spiky bullshit for the cop’s downtime—the coat was hip-length and had been fitted perfectly to his barrel chest, the material beyond butter and into cloud-soft. Which V knew because he’d handed the thing over a number of times.

This was not something the guy fought in.

And he was taking it off for the right reasons.

No reason to get blood on the likes of that.

As V put the phone down on the bed and backed away, Butch folded the jacket with careful, precise hands, and when he laid the leather down, it was as if he were settling a young on the black duvet. Then those strong, blunt fingers of his pulled up his belted black slacks and smoothed his black silk shirt.

Silence.

And not the comfy kind.

Vishous looked to the banks of plate glass that ran around the penthouse, and stared at his best friend’s reflection.

After a moment, the cop’s head turned.

Their eyes met in the glass.

“Are you going to leave that on?” Butch asked darkly.

Vishous reached up to the tie at the back of his neck and popped the bow that held the two halves of the johnny together. And then he did the same at his waist. As the shift fell from his body, the cop watched from across the room as it hit the floor.

“I need a f*cking drink,” Butch said.

Over at the bar, the guy poured himself a shot of Lagavulin. And another. And then he pushed the squat glass away, picked up the bottle, and sucked hard.

Vishous stayed where he was, his mouth open, his breath shooting in and out of him as he remained focused on the image of his best friend.

Butch put the bottle down, but held on to it, his head falling forward as if he’d closed his eyes.

“You don’t have to do this,” V said hoarsely.

“Yeah . . . I do.”

The cop’s dark head lifted and then he pivoted.

When he finally came forward, he left the booze at the bar, and he stopped when he was behind Vishous. He was close . . . close enough so that the heat from his body easily registered.

Or maybe that was V’s own blood beginning to boil.

“What are the rules,” the cop said.

“There are none.” Vishous spread his stance and braced himself. “Do whatever you want . . . but you have to break me. You’ve got to tear me apart.”




Back at the compound, Manny changed into yet another set of scrubs. Things kept going like this and he should buy stock in the goddamned garment company. Or in laundry machines.

Out in the hall, he took up res against the concrete wall and stared at his Nikes. He so did not think the soles should get excited—he had a feeling that he and Payne were not going anywhere. At least, not together.

Daughter of a deity.

Annnnnd . . . it didn’t matter to him. She could have been the offspring of an ostrich, for all he cared.

Rubbing his face, he couldn’t decide whether he was impressed with himself or terrified that he was so accepting of that news flash. Probably healthier to be shocked and disbelieving and all about the hell-no. His brain just rolled with it, though—which meant he was either getting really flexible with what he considered reality or his gray matter had fallen into a state of learned helplessness.

Probably the former. Because all in all, he felt with-it. . . . Shit, he felt better than he had in ages: In spite of the fact that he’d operated for ten hours straight, and he’d slept in a chair for part of the night—or day, or whatever time it was—the body/mind combo of his was strong and healthy and sharp as a tack. Even as he stretched, there was no stiffness . . . or creaks or pops. It was as if he’d been on vacation for a month, getting massages and doing yoga in front of the ocean.

Not that he’d ever done the Downward Dog.

Annnnnnnnnnnnd on that note, a truly fabulous, utterly filthy image of Payne came to mind. As his cock raised its hand to be called on, he thought it would no doubt be a good idea not to take her on a guided tour of, say, his bedroom. Actually, given recent events, which had involved him on his knees . . . his bathroom was probably off-limits, too. Maybe he should avoid rooms with tile? So his kitchen was a no-go. His front hall, too—