“Love you too, K,” he replied, ducking his head down. “With everything I’ve got.”
Miki moved first, sliding his tongue across Kane’s lips. Kane barely heard the roar of his blood in his ears, lost in the flavor of Miki in his mouth. Every man tasted different; he’d kissed enough men to know the truth of it, but Miki was different. In each of his lover’s kisses there was a vastness Kane couldn’t imagine until his mouth brushed the other’s. The keys jangled when they hit the floor, and Kane’s mind went blank when Miki pushed him back against the doors to the bedroom.
Reaching up under Miki’s shirt, Kane stroked at the line of Miki’s lower back, teasing the silky skin there. Responding, Miki’s kiss grew rough, his passion hardening beneath Kane’s stroking touch. The delicateness of Miki’s frame was deceiving, the power in the singer’s lean body evident as his legs trapped Kane against one of the doors. A steely strength lay under the loose clothing swaddling the singer’s torso, hard muscles under his smooth golden skin.
“Those things open, right?” Miki gasped when Kane’s fingers dipped below the waistband of his jeans.
“Yes. That’s what makes them doors,” Kane said, leaving a trail of kisses along Miki’s throat until he found the spot he was looking for. The cop nipped and tugged at the skin under Miki’s jaw, plucking up dark pink welts with his teeth. Kane’s fingers were everywhere, pulling at the pebbled nubs of Miki’s chest while his other hand trailed up and down the cleft of the singer’s ass. “All you need to do is turn the knob, baby, and let me in.”
The click of the latch did little to prepare Kane for the door giving way behind him, and he laughed when he stumbled back. Snagging Miki’s jeans by a belt loop, he pulled his lover in, dragging Miki in with him. Neither of them saw the woman coming down the hall nor heard the quiet snick of the door closing behind them as they fell into bed, more intent on getting one another undressed than anything else.
“Well, puppy, it looks like they were the ones to get a room,” Edie said, looking down at Miki’s blond terrier mix. Grinning up at her, Dude shook the red pillbox he clenched in his teeth, as if daring her to say something about its theft. “Let’s see if they’ve got some beer in the fridge, and then we’re going to talk about you giving me back my hat.”
The prophets and the wicked both wear black.
How do I tell one from the other?
When both want to kiss me,
And ask for my soul.
—The Consuming of Me
AS PRISONS went, Stephen had to admit, Skywood was a beautiful prison. The majestic, sweeping landscapes were filled with burbling rivers, tall evergreens, and a cobalt-gray range of mountains that turned icy blue when the winter months came around. He clearly remembered seeing the leaves turn brittle, and a few weeks later, what greenery remained was buried under the frosty kiss of icicles and swirling snow. Spring now had a firm hold on the grounds, and bright colors dominated the greenscape, giving the residents of Skywood Chateaux a vibrant expanse to walk or be wheeled around in.
Stephen hated every minute of it. Especially when the staff began to talk to him in a perfected singsong tone that left him with no doubt they thought he was crazy.
“How are we this morning, Mr. Thompson?” The beefy, bald-headed orderly carried in Stephen’s meal on a wooden tray. After placing it on the table near the window Stephen sat at, he removed the silver dish coverings and placed them on the trolley. “Are you thinking of taking a walk outside today or maybe heading over to the entertainment room? Doctor Hanline thinks it would be a good idea for you to try the game systems again. Maybe something interesting, like Katamari.”
“No Rock Band, huh?” Stephen sniffed at the hollandaise sauce on his eggs.
“Probably not, sir.” He caught the sour look on the orderly’s face before the man could mask it. “That did not… go well for you last time.”
“Yeah, you could say that.” The eggs were good, and the bacon had a sugary crispness he liked. The English muffin accompanying the meal was toasted to perfection, and the orange marmalade tasted handmade, a likely possibility considering the exclusive facility’s attention to detail.
It still was his prison. Despite its beauty and the suite of rooms he occupied, everything was either screwed into the wall or monitored to within an inch of his life. Even the reading material was carefully gone over so nothing would set him off into a rage. The homogenized atmosphere was driving him more crazy than the smug politeness of the staff or the overwhelming blank bits in his mind.
He’d also kill for a cup of coffee, Stephen thought as he stared down at the glass of apple juice. When had he ever liked apple juice?