Lover Unleashed (Black Dagger Brotherhood #9)(162)

Blink.

Why was he on the ground?

Blink.

He smelled blood. But why?

Blink. Blink.

With a groan, he lifted his head and—“Shit!”

Leaping to his feet in shock, he stared down at the bloody mess that was in front of him.

“Oh . . . f*ck,” he cursed. He’d done it. He’d finally killed someone—

Except then he looked at the knife in his fist. No blood: Not on the blade. Not on his hands. And only specks on his clothes.

Looking around, he had no clue what had just rolled out. He remembered driving here . . . and parking his motorcycle . . . and tracking the man who was now dying on the ground.

If he was brutally honest with himself, he’d had the intent to kill. All along. But going by the physical evidence? It hadn’t been him.

The problem was, all he had was a black hole of no info.

A moan from the serial killer snapped his head to the right. The man was reaching for him. Mutely asking for help as he leaked all over the place. How was he still alive?

With shaking hands, Veck grabbed his cell phone and dialed 911. “Yeah, Detective DelVecchio, CPD Homicide. I need an ambulance out at the Monroe Motel & Suites now.”

After the report was logged and the medics were on their way, he yanked off his jacket, wadded it up into a ball, and knelt down by the man. Pressing his coat into the guy’s throat wounds, he prayed the f*cker survived. And then had to wonder whether that was a good thing or not.

“I didn’t kill you,” he said. “Did I?”

Oh, God . . . what the hell had happened here?





FIFTY-EIGHT


“Be came to see you.”

From Blaylock’s vantage point on the bed, Saxton son of Tyme was showing him his very best side. Which, no, was not his ass. The male was shaving in the mirror in the bathroom, and his perfect profile was bathed in the soft overhead light.

God, he was a beautiful male.

On so many levels, this lover he had taken on was everything he could want.

“Who,” Blay said softly.

The eyes that shifted over to meet his were all about the oh-puhlease.

“Oh.” To dodge any further conversation, Blay looked down at the duvet that was pulled up to his bare chest. He was naked under the satin weight. As Saxton had been until he’d put his robe on.

“He wanted to know if you were okay,” Sax continued.

Since oh had already been used as a reply, Blay spiced it up with, “Really.”

“It was out on the terrace. He didn’t want to come in and disturb us.”

Funny, when he’d been on the verge of passing out after his stomach had been stitched up, he’d dimly wondered what Saxton had been doing out there. But he’d been in so much pain at the time, it had been hard to think too much about anything.

Now, though, he felt a terrible thrill go through him.

Praise the Scribe Virgin, it had been a while since he’d had this old familiar tingle—although the time lapse didn’t diminish the sensation. And the rush that followed to ask what had been said was nothing he could act on. It was disrespectful to Saxton, for one thing. And it was pointless, for another.

Good thing he had plenty of ammunition to shut himself up with: All he had to do was think of Qhuinn coming home a week or so ago, his hair a mess, his scent clouded by some man’s cologne, his swagger all about the satisfaction he’d grabbed on the run.

The idea that Blay had thrown himself at the male not once, but twice—and gotten shut down? He just couldn’t bear to think of it.

“You don’t want to know what he said?” Saxton murmured as he drew the sharp blade up his throat, skillfully avoiding the bite mark Blay had given him a half hour ago.

Blay closed his eyes and wondered if he was ever going to get away from the reality that Qhuinn would f*ck anyone and anything except him.

“No?” Saxton asked.

As the bed moved, Blay popped his lids. Saxton had come over to sit on the edge of the mattress, the male blotting his jaw and cheeks with a bloodred towel.

“No?” he repeated.

“May I ask you something?” Blay said. “And now would not be a good time to be your charming, sarcastic self.”

Instantly, Saxton’s stunning face grew grave. “Ask away.”

Blay smoothed the duvet over his chest. A couple of times. “Do I . . . please you.”

From out of the corner of his eye, he saw Saxton recoil and just about died of embarrassment.

“You mean in bed?” Sax demanded.

Blay flattened his lips out as he nodded, and he thought maybe he might explain a little more, but as it turned out, his mouth was dry.

“Why would you ask that in a million years?” Saxton said softly.

Well, because there had to be something wrong with him.

Blay shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Saxton folded the towel and put it aside. Then he stretched an arm over Blay’s hips and leaned up until they were face-to-face.

“Yes.” With that, he put his mouth to Blay’s throat and sucked. “Always.”

Blay ran his hand across the male’s nape, finding the soft, curling hair at the base of his neck. “Thank God.”

The familiarity of the body poised over his was nothing he’d ever had before, and it felt right. It felt good. He knew every curve and corner of Saxton’s chest and hips and thighs. He knew the pressure points and the places to bite, knew exactly how to grip and roll and arch so that Saxton would come hard.