A Lesson in Thorns (Thornchapel #1)(77)

He skips the maze and hops easily onto the path as it emerges from the maze’s tunnel and meanders into the trees. The clever topography of the grounds means the route can’t be seen from the house or from the lawn, and only someone who knows Thornchapel’s every last secret knows about the deep-sliced trail at the border of the woods. Being its lord, he knows every last secret—or at least he’s pretty sure he does.

He eats up the walk with long, impatient strides, very aware that the others will soon be waiting on him, waiting for a ritual that might rip apart the perfect little world they’ve built. The tiny, perfect kingdom of his favorite people—well, his favorite people and St. Sebastian—nestled in the heart of Thornchapel, protected and happy and his.

And maybe they’re about to throw that all away.

Christ.

His chest hurts with Delphine’s decision, but it hurts even more knowing that he’s not as crushed as he should be. He aches with his own selfishness, the selfishness that tells him he can finally stop hating himself for wanting Proserpina, the gross relief that he can finally release all the perverse needs inside him.

How fucking miserly is he? How callow? That he feels owed somehow for all the years he’s held back?

That he wants to make up for lost time and he already knows with whom he wants to do it?

He’s not good, that’s for certain. And if he ever had doubts about that before, he knows it now, when he should be bent over with heartbreak, and instead his body is already yearning for someone else.

God, what if it’s him and Proserpina chosen tonight? What if he gets to have that petite body under his, her wrists bloody with thorns and her neck arched with pleasure-pain as he fucks into her sweet cunt? What if he gets to tell her something like what Delphine told him tonight?

I think I need more of what Rebecca showed us, I think I might be like her.

I think I need to spank you and then fuck you and then spank you again.

Even just thinking about it has him so hard that he feels like a walking obscenity crime. It’s a good thing he’s alone and it’s dark, because there’d be no mistaking the swollen length pushing against his zipper.

Except then a figure resolves itself out of the darkness, coming toward him with a fluid and wary grace. Auden’s flashlight catches the glinting metal of a lip ring, and then Auden lowers it, so it won’t blind St. Sebastian.

“I was just about to head back to the house,” St. Sebastian says, “but I wanted a few more minutes here alone. You know?”

Auden can’t stop watching Saint’s mouth in the indirect glow of the flashlight. It’s all shadows and metal, and his cock wants it, his cock wants back inside that shadow mouth, and his hands want Saint’s hair to twist and yank, and his own lips buzz with the need to kiss and suck the strong, supple curve of Saint’s throat.

Fuck.

He hates Saint. He can’t ever forget that. He can’t ever forget what it felt like to have his cheek taped back together and his broken arm set. He can’t forget what he felt like to breathe with a cracked rib for weeks and weeks.

He can’t, he can’t, he can’t.

“You don’t know,” St. Sebastian says, surprised, and Auden realizes he’s been staring at Saint’s exposed throat for so long that he thinks Auden isn’t going to answer. “I thought you might understand how this place feels sometimes. Like when you’re alone here, you’re alone with God.”

“You don’t believe in God,” Auden finally manages to say, over the roar of his lust and angry memories.

“No,” St. Sebastian agrees thoughtfully, “no, I guess I don’t.”

Auden wants to grab him and shove him to the ground, drive Saint to his knees and make him swallow his aching length. He wants to feel that piercing against his shaft, and see Saint’s long, dark eyelashes fluttering up at him, wet with breathless, cocksucking tears. It’s all Auden wants right now, it’s consuming every thought, every sense of self-preservation he has.

“Well, I guess we should head back,” Saint says, oblivious to Auden’s struggle. “The others are probably waiting.”

Saint starts to walk past Auden, and Auden grabs his arm.

Saint stops immediately.

Not because Auden forced him, not because Auden wrestled him to a stop, but because Saint felt Auden’s hand on his arm and stopped on his own. He stopped like he was being obedient. And then when he looks over at Auden, when his so-dark-in-the-darkness eyes dip down to where Auden’s hand circles his bicep, he bites his lower lip and says, “Yes, Auden?” in the way that someone might say, ask me anything and I’ll say yes.

Blood pools even more in Auden’s groin; he could come just standing there and listening to Saint talk to him in that voice. So he doesn’t speak at first, he only squeezes ever so slightly, testing the hard curve of St. Sebastian’s upper arm. The muscle is so firm that Auden has to squeeze hard to feel the flesh denting under his fingertips.

Saint goes completely, utterly still.

“You’re not wearing a coat,” Auden says after a long minute.

“I’m not cold.”

And indeed, even though he’s in only a T-shirt and jeans, both smeared and flecked with dried mud, Saint’s not shivering and there are no goosebumps under Auden’s fingers. Saint’s skin is almost hot to the touch, so hot Auden almost wants to slide his other hand up Saint’s shirt to warm it up.