Page 89 of Close Quarter
Silas fell next to Rhys, unable to hold himself up any longer. Not one of his lovers had ever made time stop or poured such fire into his veins. His soul ached. He'd find a way to keep Rhys alive.
Silas couldn't tell which of them was trembling more. His vision turned white about the edges and faded, his lips suddenly dry.
Oh.
Well, that had certainly been worth it. Rhys was going to be furious, though.
"God, Silas." Rhys's voice was breathless.
"That was awesome!"
He felt Rhys's lips brush his cheek. "I'm glad you enjoyed it," he whispered. Then his vision turned dark, and he fell into oblivion.
SILAS WENT LIMP against Rhys.What thefuck?
"Silas?" Rhys kissed his cheek again. No response. And none when he slid out of Silas's slack embrace.
Rhys rubbed a shaking hand through his hair.
Cum slid down his chest.Shit.He was still pretty high from the best orgasm of his life.
He was going to kill Silas when he woke up.
If he woke up.
Hell.
Other than the sweat and mess of sex, Silas was pristine, if a little pale. He was breathing. All his wounds had been healed, the poison gone.
Surely he'd have noticed--"Damn it, Silas!" Rhys flopped down on the bed, his heart thumping.
Blood loss. Silas had said he'd probably be a bit weak for a while, and yet the fool had gone and fucked Rhys with abandon. Rhys should have stopped it, but he hadn't been awake enough to think.
Sunlight slanted in the windows. Rhys glanced over at the clock: 1:27. Not too late. He rubbed his eyes and cursed. How the hell had he become the smart one in a relationship with a guy more than two thousand years old? What if that asshole vampire came out in the day again? Rhys hauled himself out of the bed. He knelt down and found the hilt of Silas's sword.
Good.So if Anax-bastard showed up, he'd have some weapon. Silas would be furious that he'd taken the blade.Tough shit.He pulled it from under the bed, then made his way to the bathroom.
He left the blade on the sink counter and the door open, just in case.
Ten minutes later, he placed the sword on the coffee table and then stood in front of Silas's closet. Sadly all that remained in the closet were slacks, collared shirts, and sedate sweaters.
Everything was a bit too corporate. It was like the crap his father--Not his father. Derrick Matherton wasn't his father.
Pinpricks ran up his arms. What was the man --that half-fae who had fathered Rhys--like? He'd never find out now. He'd taken the millions rather than the opportunity to search for him.
Perhaps that had been a mistake. On the other hand, he didn't want to be beholden to anyone, not even Silas. His inheritance granted him freedom, provided he could keep the vultures away.
He grabbed a pair of black pants and a dark blue shirt and dressed.
On the bed, Silas lay sprawled among pillows and sheets, alive but otherwise unmoving.
"Silas."
Nothing.
At least there was coffee. And room service, if it came to that. He popped a pod into the coffeemaker and brewed a cup. Wrapping his hands around the warm mug, he settled into a chair at the coffee table and waited.
Maybe it was the aroma, but as Rhys sipped his coffee, Silas stirred, rolled over, and burrowed under the sheets. A groan issued from beneath a mound of white cloth.
