The Devil's Brew (3 page)

He grabbed the armrest and seat to steady himself, cursing his mind for pulling up shit he didn’t want to deal with. As if in solidarity with his rebellious brain, his knee began to throb, a merry beat of almost-pain and twinge.

“Really? You fucking thing.” He wanted to slam down on the joint with his fist, but he’d learned that particular act of stupidity only made things worse. Instead, he shifted in his seat, opened the door, and swung down from the Cherokee’s cab.

And almost ended up on his ass in the middle of the cul-de-sac he called his driveway when his knee gave out from under him.

“Sinjun!” Damie was there a second after Miki grabbed at the door.

Damie was always there, and the black seep spreading through Miki edged away, probably muttering darkly as it was forced back to the rock it lived under.

“Dude, you okay?” Damie hooked his hands under Miki’s arms and lifted, helping him steady himself. “Your knee?”

“Yeah, I’m okay, D.” Miki blinked, startled to find Sionn a few inches away, reaching to help. Miki waved him off. The attention was too much, and it made him too aware of himself. Not something Miki wanted to deal with when Damien should have been spooging over the steel beast squatting in the driveway.

The bow made it look pretty silly, but Miki kept his mouth shut. People
liked
shit like bows and wrapping paper. He’d learned that when he wrapped Brigid’s Christmas present and jacked it up something fierce, but she’d loved the wrapping job nearly as much as she liked the bracelet Kane picked out for her.

“Shit, I should have asked
her
what to get Kane,” he muttered, then stopped himself. “What the hell am I saying? That’s nuts. She’d peel me apart like a chestnut. Or a banana.”

“Hey, Miki—”

“Start singing that damned song, and it’s going to be really fricking easy for you to give Sionn head ’cause you won’t have any teeth.”

“I asked if you’re okay.” Damie examined Miki’s face, either looking for a lie or eye boogers, so Miki shoved him away. “I’m guessing yeah, because you’re grumpy as shit.”

“I’m fine,” he grumbled, then seized on the one thing he knew could distract his friend. “Maybe Sionn got a new car. How do you know it’s for you?”

“Ah, no.” Sionn’s face blushed a bright pink, and he rubbed at the back of his neck with one hand. “That’s Damie’s present. You know, for the day. Valentine’s Day.”

“Dude, you just—wow—rock. No words, babe. Just. No. Words.” Damien hooked his arms around Sionn’s waist, drawing the larger man into a long kiss. They finished sucking each other’s tongues, and Damie leaned back to give Miki a wide grin. “Did you see what Sionn got me?”

“Yep, it’s a car.” He studied the gleaming hunk for any kind of clue to identify what type, but Miki came up empty. “A black one.”

“It’s a seventy Plymouth Hemi ’Cuda!” Damien broke free of Sionn’s loose embrace and snagged Miki’s arm. “Come on, you’ve got to ride in it. Sionn got it off a car guy in Vegas. It’s tricked out like you wouldn’t imagine.”

“I dunno. I can imagine quite a lot,” Miki muttered as he looked at the car. “Well, okay maybe not about that.”

“Actually, love, we’ve got to get going,” Sionn said, checking his watch. Not the watch Damien bought him, so Miki guessed D was too wrapped up in the car to do an actual exchange. “We want to miss traffic.”

“Where’re you guys going?” He tried to remember if Damie’d said something about leaving, but his brain rattled on without him, probably still pissed off about its whole accident flashback thing not working. “Did I know you were going?”

“Over to SLO. Down to the Madonna Inn.” If Damie’s grin got any wider, he could play the Joker for Halloween. “We talked about it, Sinjun. Shit just sneaks up on you. Okay, to be fair, I think Kane had his tongue down your throat.”

“Yeah, my ears stop working then.” Miki nodded. “Like if you cut off a frog’s legs it goes deaf.”

“I worry about the two of you. And no, Mick, he probably didn’t tell you. I got us the Old World suite,” Sionn explained. “Thought we’d spend a couple to three days down that way. Maybe even get out of the room and get some crab up at Morro Bay. Or maybe down to Solvang.”

“Dude, it’s got a waterfall in the bathroom. And it’s like a cave.” Damie was practically thrumming, and Miki laughed, caught in the web of his friend’s excitement. “We’re taking the ’Cuda. Wait, we
are
taking the ’Cuda, right?”

“Yeah, D. Into the car now. We’ve got to go.” Sionn pushed Damien toward the steel beast. “We’ll see you in a couple of days, Mick. Have a good time of it. Just no—”

“No sex on the counters or the couch,” Miki cut him off. “Yeah, yeah. Whatevers.”

The car did make an impressive rumble. It also squealed when Damie punched the gas pedal, waving as the Barracuda shot past Miki. He waved back, holding the humongous red bow tightly when it began to flap in the wind. The sleek muscle car turned the corner, and Miki lost sight, but its growling engine could still be heard echoing around the block.

“Almost forgot Kane’s other thingie.” He had Sionn’s car keys and turned to grab the package he’d left on the seat when he smashed the bow into the door. The thing was nearly as tall as he was, and he fought with one of its loops, trying to get it out from around his neck. “What the hell am I going to do with this?”

Miki eyed the Cherokee. Grabbing the gift, he stuffed the insanely large bow into the car’s interior, then slammed the door quickly before it could pop out and run amok. “There. Fuck it. They can deal with all of
that
later.”

T
HE
HOUSE
was quiet. A little bit too quiet. Toeing off his Converses and socks, Miki heard the scrape of Dude’s teeth on something hard—most likely a bone since it looked like Kane meant to keep the terrier occupied.

Or so he guessed by the odd trail of red heart-shaped objects leading from the front door to the first-floor bedroom. Miki bent over and picked up a handful. Some pieces were guitar picks, deep red and engraved with his name, while most of the trail was made up of fragrant blood-hued rose petals. The path led to the bed. A bed surrounded by what looked like a million unlit white candles on nearly every table they owned.

He flicked the petals from his hand but slid one of the guitar picks into his jeans pocket. His heart warmed at the idea of the small piece of bendy plastic tucked in near his skin. Miki felt its edge when he took a step, and he couldn’t stop the smile erupting to a full bloom on his face.

Sounds from the kitchen drew him there. A rattle of a spoon against a pan and then a not-so-quiet Irish lilted curse when something metal clanged against another hard something. Music was playing low on the stereo system, and it took Miki a bit before he realized Kane was listening to Sinner’s Gin.

And singing right along with his lover’s words.

“Hey.” Miki padded into the kitchen, and Kane nearly flung himself in front of the stove, as if blocking Miki from seeing what he was doing.

“You’re home… early. Shit.” Kane blinked, his dark lashes fluttering nervously. “I’m not… fucking hell.”

“You’ve been hanging out with musicians too much. You sound like me.” Miki snuck a peek behind Kane, but he couldn’t make heads or tails out of what was sizzling in the skillet. More than sizzling, really, because a thick plume of black smoke was beginning to wisp up from around the savory mass. “I’d want a kiss, but something’s burning, dude.”

“Shit.” Kane spun about and grabbed a wooden spoon from the counter. Digging its edge into the charring mess, he turned the food over, breaking the heat seal. “Damn it. I think it’ll be okay. You really weren’t supposed to be home this early.”

“Yeah, Damie found the perfect grandfather clock for Sionn’s brawny wrist. You should see that fucking thing. It’s huge.” Miki hitched himself up onto the kitchen counter, well out of the way of Kane’s cooking area. With his legs dangling over the edge, his toes stretched out and curled down as he tried to ease a small ache in his scarred knee. “The Queen of England’s going to lose her shit when she finds out someone sold Big Ben and she didn’t get a cut.”

“Just… sit there and look pretty,” Kane muttered under his breath. “Fucking rock stars.”

“I am
not
a rock star.” Miki swung his feet, striking the cabinet with his heels. “I just write the songs. And sing some.”

“Stop hitting the door.”

“My cabinet—well, our cabinet. We share, remember?” He made a face at Kane’s back. “I’m hitting my side. You’ve got the back.”

“You should have been a lawyer.” Kane scraped the spoon against one of the pans, then set it down on the counter. Sniffing at something bubbling in a saucepan, he turned the burner down, eyeing Miki over his shoulder.

“Yeah, your mom would have
loved
that. Betcha she wanted you to marry a doctor or something.” He snorted at his lover’s chuckle. “Instead, she got me.”

“She loves you.” Kane closed the distance between them and leaned on the counter, placing his hands on either side of Miki’s hips. “My dad fucking
adores
you.”

“I don’t think that’s the Morgan I was jonesing for.” Miki pursed his mouth and contemplated Kane’s handsome face. “But you know, he
is
the original model….”

“Dude….” Kane rolled a disgusted sound in his mouth. “That’s my da.”

“Yeah, it sounded good in my head.” He echoed the noise, wrinkling his nose in mock horror. “Then it, like, fell out and was total shit. My brain, babe. It sucks.”

“Kinda of like it when you suck. Makes things very—” Kane leaned in and bit Miki’s lower lip. “—less sucky.”

“Wow, that was bad. Worse than what I said.” Miki slid his hands up the length of Kane’s bare arms. Kane’s chest and shoulders seemed to strain his T-shirt nearly to the breaking point, outlining the hard muscles beneath the worn cotton. The fabric looked soft, and Miki leaned in close, rubbing his cheek against Kane’s collarbone. “Damn, you smell good.”

He did. Miki thought he’d never get used to the clean, tingly smell of Kane. Everything about the man excited him. And in ways he’d never imagined could touch him. Lazy mornings were the best, but sitting on the kitchen counter and trapped by Kane’s muscular torso and arms came a close second. Although he
did
have a special fondness for the weight of Kane’s long body pressing him down into the couch cushions.

It was the feel of Kane’s skin under his fingers, from the sleek satin of his brawny arms to the soft velvet under his earlobe. And the slightly rough scrape of Kane’s jaw on his own tender skin was nearly hot enough to make Miki hard just thinking about it.

But the man’s mouth—his soft, slick lips, suede-rough tongue, and skillfully applied bites—did Miki in every time.

Especially since that mouth hovered only a butterfly wing’s distance away from his own.

Miki stretched over the distance, marveling at the low-rumbling growl emanating from Kane’s throat and the sudden pricks of Kane’s nipples when Miki explored the man’s broad chest with his hands. He touched his mouth to Kane’s, a delicate inquiry to catch the man’s interest. Then the world went sideways as Kane caught Miki’s face up in his broad hands, and Kane kissed the living shit out of him.

He gasped when Kane’s fingers grabbed at his wrists, and his gasp was lost in the depths of Kane’s ravaging mouth. The larger man pushed forward, pinning Miki to the upper cabinet, and he guided his tongue past Miki’s parted teeth, sliding in deep. Miki teased back, lapping at the edges of Kane’s lip, then returned Kane’s probing. Angling his head, Kane growled and let go of one of Miki’s wrists.

Only to slide his now free hand to the small of Miki’s back to pull him forward—where Kane’s thick, hard cock made itself known through their clothes.

His fingers dipped down past Miki’s waistband, working past the rise of Miki’s ass, but his jeans were too tight for Kane’s large hard to go any farther, and Kane hissed, frustrated at being denied.

“Unbutton your jeans, Sinjun.” Kane broke free of their kiss and nipped at Miki’s mouth. “I want to fuck you. Give me some space so I can get my hand in.”

Miki fumbled. His dominant left hand was pinned against his leg, and his right was doing a piss-poor job of getting his fly undone. Impatient, Kane pressed down at the small of his back, the inside of his wrist rubbing at the crease in Miki’s spine.

“Fuck the jeans.” Miki tugged hard at his fly, and the rivet popped off the metal button, sending it careening someplace into the depths of the kitchen. “They’re old. I’ll get new ones.”

“Or sew a button on.” Kane muttered. “I like these. There’s a tear right under your asscheek. Drives me nuts.”

Beyond that, Miki heard nothing. Kane’s mouth was back on his, tearing apart any thoughts he might have been able to dredge up about him sewing a button onto
anything
, much less a pair of ancient jeans. His legs were spread, his knees on either side of Kane’s hips, and his lover’s wide hand spread over his asscheeks and lifted him even closer, grinding Miki’s aching, denim-trapped cock into Kane’s crotch.

“So fucking glad someone in your family screwed a Viking.” Kane’s teeth nipped and tugged at the corners of Miki’s mouth as he spoke.

“I’m Irish, love. Through and through. Best you be not talking of Vikings around my family.” Emerald and whiskey poured into Kane’s mutter, deepening the hint of Gaelic in his voice. “Lean forward a bit, Sinjun love. I’ve got plans for that sweet ass of yours.”

He was about to complain about not being able to get any closer. Then Kane’s fingers dipped even lower into the cleft of his cheeks, and he felt the ridge of a nail against the edge of his rim. The pressure was intense, pushing up into him, and the delectable burn of Kane’s heat on his skin made Miki wonder why he hadn’t just stripped his jeans off entirely.

“Shit, no fucking on the counter.” It was a stupid rule. One Kane himself made up, and damned if Sionn hadn’t agreed. Damie argued for the merits of bleach and scrubbing until Miki pointed out they’d either forget about doing it or start some kind of Pavlovian trigger where they’d get hard every time someone busted out a jar of Comet. “Fucking stupid goddamn….”