He wasn’t cheating on Saxton, he told himself. He wasn’t with Qhuinn—and Saxton was the one he wanted….
For a while, he continued to argue the pros and cons, but eventually his hand made the decision for him. Before he knew it, his palm was burrowing under his loose waistband and—
The hiss he let out when he gripped himself was like a gunshot in the silence, and so was the groan of the chair as the thrust of his hips pushed his shoulders into the leather padding. Hot and hard, thick and long, his cock was begging for attention—but the angle was all wrong, and there was no room for stroking in the damn shorts.
For some reason, the idea of stripping from the waist down made him feel dirty, but his sense of propriety went into the shitter pretty fast when all he could do was squeeze. Lifting his ass, he swept the shorts off…and then realized he was going to need something to clean up the mess with.
The shirt came off next.
Naked in the dark, sprawled out long from the chair and to the desktop, he gave himself over, spreading his thighs, pumping up and down. The friction made his eyes roll back in his head, made him bite his lower lip—God, the sensations were so strong, flowing through his body—
Fuck.
Qhuinn was in his mind, Qhuinn was in his mouth…Qhuinn was inside of him, the two of them moving together—
This was wrong.
He froze. Just stopped dead. “Shit.”
Blay released his cock, even though the mere process of letting the betrayal go made him grit his molars.
Opening his eyes, he stared into the darkness. The sound of his breath punching in and out of his chest made him curse again. So did his pounding need for an orgasm—which he refused to give in to.
He was not going to take this any further—
From out of nowhere, that image of Qhuinn arched under the falling spray slammed into his brain, taking over everything. Against his higher reasoning, and his loyalty, and his sense of fairness…his body went into instant overload, the orgasm shooting out of his cock before he could stop it, before he could tell it no, that wasn’t right…before he could say, Not again. Never again.
Oh, God. The sweet, stabbing sensation repeated over and over until he wondered if it was ever going to end—even though he didn’t help things along.
This physical reaction might be outside of his control. His response to it was not.
When he finally stilled, his breath was harsh and the coolness across the bare skin of his chest suggested he’d broken out in a sweat…and as his body recovered from the rush, his awareness returned—and his deflating erection was like a barometer of his mood.
Reaching forward, he patted over the desk until he found his shirt; then he wadded it up and pressed the thing into the juncture of his thighs.
The rest of the mess he was in was not going to be so easy to clean up.
Across town, on the eighteenth floor of the Commodore, Trez sat in a sleek steel-and-leather chair that faced a wall of windows overlooking the Hudson River. The noonday sun was shining down from a crystal clear, chrome-like sky, everything ten times brighter because of the fresh snow that had fallen overnight on the shores.
“I know you’re there,” he said dryly, taking a sip from his coffee mug.
When there was no reply, he spun his chair around on its swival base. Sure enough, iAm had come in from his bedroom and was sitting on the couch, iPad on his lap, forefinger striping across the screen. He would be reading the New York Times online edition, of course; he did that every morning when they got up.
“Well,” Trez bit out. “Go on.”
The only response he got was one of iAm’s brows lifting. For, like, a split second.
The smug bastard wouldn’t even look over. “Must be a fascinating article. What’s it about? Recalcitrant brothers?”
Trez passed some time nursing his hot coffee. “iAm. Seriously. This is bullshit.”
After a moment, his brother’s dark stare lifted. The eyes that met his were, as always, completely uncluttered of emotion and doubt and all the messy stuff that mere mortals struggled with. iAm was preternaturally sensible…rather in the way of a cobra: watchful, intelligent, ready to strike, but unwilling to waste the power until it was needed.
“What,” Trez ground out.
“It’s redundant to tell you what you already know.”
“Humor me.” He took another draw off the rim of the mug, and wondered why the hell he was volunteering for this. “Go on.”
iAm’s lips pursed the way they did when he was considering his response. Then he flopped the red cover of the iPad down, each of the four sections landing like footsteps across the screen. He then put the thing aside, uncrossed his leg, and leaned forward to balance his elbows on his knees. The guy’s biceps were so thick, the sleeves of his shirt looked like they were going to split wide.
“Your sex life is out of control.” As Trez rolled his eyes, his brother kept on talking. “You are fucking three or four women a night, sometimes more. It’s not about feeding, so don’t waste either of our time by excusing it in that fashion. You are compromising the professional standards of—”
“I run liquor and prostitutes. Don’t you think that’s a little highbrow—”
iAm picked up the iPad and waved it back and forth. “Should I go back to reading?”
“I’m just saying—”
“You asked me to speak. If this is a problem, the solution is not to get defensive because you don’t like what you hear. The answer is to not invite me to talk.”
Trez ground his teeth. See, this was the issue with his fucking brother. Too goddamn reasonable.
Bursting up, he stalked across the open living room. The kitchen was like everything else in the condo: modern, airy, and uncluttered. Which meant that as he poured himself some more caffeine, he could see his brother in his peripheral vision.
Man, sometimes he hated this place: Unless he was in his bedroom with the door shut, he couldn’t get a break from those damn eyeballs.
“Am I reading or talking?” iAm said calmly, like he didn’t care either way.
Man, Trez desperately wanted to tell the guy to shove his nose back into the Times, but that was like a defeat.
“G’head.” Trez went back to his chair and settled in for more ass kicking.
“You’re not behaving in a professional manner.”
“You eat your own food at Sal’s.”
“My linguine with clam sauce doesn’t require a restraining order when I decide the next night I want the Fra Diavolo.”
Good point. And somehow, that made him feel nearly violent.
“I know what you’re doing,” iAm said steadily. “And why.”
“You’re not a virgin, of course you do—”
“I know what they sent you.”
Trez froze. “How.”
“When you didn’t respond, I received a phone call.”
Trez pushed the rug with his foot and turned himself around to face the river. Shit. He figured he’d clear the air with this, you know, give his brother a little bitch session so that the two of them could go back to being normal—usually they were close as skin to bone, and the relationship was as fundamental as that to him.
He could handle just about anything except friction with his brother.
Unfortunately, the problems that had gotten alluded to over there were about the only thing in that “just about anything.”
“Ignoring it will not make it go away, Trez.”
This was said with a certain gentleness of tone—like the guy felt bad for him.
As Trez looked out over the river, he imagined that he was at his club, with humans all around and cash trading hands and the women who worked there doing their thing in the back. Nice. Normal. In control and comfortable.
“You have responsibilities.”
Trez tightened his grip on his mug. “I didn’t volunteer for them.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
He spun around so fast, hot coffee went flying and landed on his thigh. He ignored the sting. “It should. It fucking should. I’m not some inanimate object that can be given to somebody. That whole thing is bullshit.”
“Some would find it an honor.”