Page 19 of Close Quarter
He had forgotten just how strong Silas was.
Rhys was not a slight man, not after slinging clay, stone, and metal around a studio, but Silas pulled him off the floor with ease.
And God, could the man kiss. He had vague memories of the colored fairy books as a kid, the glossed-over sensuality of the good folk. None ever mentioned male fairies seducing men or sucking cock.
Truth was better than fiction.
Silas finished attacking his mouth and slid him onto the bench. "Let me put myself back together." He stood and tugged up his underwear and pants.
Fae, it seemed, preferred boxers. Or at least this one did. Rhys licked his lips, tasting Silas. Oh, part of him rebelled against the notion of this man being anything other than human. Impossible, the logical side of his brain said.
Damn logic. Silas was the picture of a fantasy brought to life--tall, slim but with enough muscle to give a sense of his strength. He wanted to carve the man into marble--a modern-dayDavid. He didn't even like the classical forms. Abstract was more his thing. But if he could get Silas into his studio, he'd do it.
Rhys never took any of his lovers there. Art was his alone. But for this man, he would share.
Rhys cleared his throat. "What are your plans in New York?"
Silas sat. "I haven't thought that far ahead."
He had to be kidding. "You must have some idea. I mean, you don't just get on a cruise and not think about--"
Silas smiled, whether from amusement or sadness, Rhys couldn't tell. "I live day to day."
"Carpe diem, huh? Is that just you or all fae?"
"Just me." Silas brushed his hand against Rhys's cheek. "Do you know the rest of the saying?"
There was more? "No."
"It's the last line of an ode by Horace. 'Carpediem, quam minime credula postero.' Seize the day, trust as little as possible in the future."
That was definitely Latin. It rolled off Silas's tongue as if he'd been born to it. "That's how you live life?" Would he lose this man as soon as they docked in New York? "No thoughts of tomorrow?"
Silas fell silent. His gaze drifted upward to the darkening sky beyond the glass ceiling. "Oh, I have thoughts. I only consider them after I've seen the sun rise."
Fear rippled through Rhys. "You think you're going to die. Every night."
"No," Silas said, "but I know one of these nights, I will."
Compelled to be on this boat. Sent, he had said. Dangerous business. "Why? What are you, some sort of fairy special agent?"
"Fae." Silas took Rhys's hand, drew it up to his mouth, and nipped at the ends of his fingers. "I work for the Messengers," he said between nibbles.
The sensation traveled straight to Rhys's cock. He tried to focus on Silas's words, rather than the wet and silky mouth around his index finger. "Messengers?"
"Hmm-mmm." Silas mouthed his ring finger.
Wrong question, apparently. He tried another.
"What do you do?"
Silas stopped sucking on his fingers but didn't let go. "Whatever they wish me to do." He stood, still holding Rhys's hand. "I've run out of time."
Almost a whisper, that last bit. Rhys rose and kissed Silas's knuckles. "Will I... You..."
Desperation threatened to close his throat. "I want to see you tomorrow."
Silence hung between them, longer--much longer than Rhys liked--until Silas exhaled. His slight smile offered a glint of hope. "You move me, Rhys, in wild and wonderful ways. That is very rare. If the Fates grant, you will see me again."
