Vision Quest
vision quest
a.f. henley
kelly wyre
When Arik Beltrán checks into a hotel on business, he expects the tedium of unfamiliar beds and boring meetings. He expects to meet a financial client and be home before the solitude of being a stranger in a mundane land becomes too much to bear.
Instead Arik finds Blaze: a mysterious man with an inner fire that lives up to the name. Nothing in Arik's life, not his deranged father nor even his faint brushes with the magic only Arik can see in the woven web of life could have prepared Arik for the man in the hotel lobby who casually invites Arik to room 1109 for late night...Well, anything at all.
Blaze Zaituc, on the other hand, knows exactly who Arik is and what Arik needs: Blaze. He has crossed land and sea to find the man who has appeared in Blaze's Visions as the next target in the Quest that comprises Blaze's life. Arik is someone for whom the Universe has plans, and Blaze must make sure Arik complies. Or else.
Unaware of the lives and risks hanging in the balance, Arik untangles himself from the sheets in the silent hours of the morning. He wonders if he will find the door to 1109 open and waiting. He's not a risk taker, but this one time, just this once, maybe he'll take a chance...
And seal both his and Blaze's destinies forever.
Vision Quest
By A.F. Henley and Kelly Wyre
Published by Less Than Three Press LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.
Cover designed by Megan Derr
This book is a work of fiction and all names, characters, places, and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.
First Edition April 2014
Copyright © 2014 by A.F. Henley and Kelly Wyre
Printed in the United States of America
For Henley.
For the magic.
For what happens when we believe in it.
I hear your caw, Raven.
And I raise you a Dragon roar.
*~*~*
For Kelly, of course, as without you this story would have sat as nothing more than a one-shot twined around a poem. Thanks for jumping, for hanging on, and for digging in. You are brilliant—both with what you do, and what you see—and it's been an honour and a pleasure to work with you. Thank you.
And for Volker: buddy, your support is unending, and your friendship incomparable. Thank you.
"Well, no I didn't make the reservation myself," Arik said to the rather unimpressed desk clerk. "I mean, not personally." He could see the clerk was doing everything in her power not to roll her perfectly painted eyes to the ceiling. Arik smiled, contempt obvious. "But it was made."
The snap of fingernails against plastic told him she was making her third attempt at locating his name. He was responding with his own exasperated tapping on the highly polished laminate of the counter when something in his peripheral caught him. Distracted, and not happy about it, he turned to his left and frowned.
"Sir?" the woman behind the desk urged his focus back towards her. "I'm sorry, sir. But I'm going to need a confirmation number. I've tried your name several ways, and I can't find anything at all."
Arik would have caught his breath, held it to the count of seven like he always did when he was trying to focus on circumstances that needed a little ‘extra' consideration—on those things that tugged at his subconscious. Things that, uncannily, moments, hours or days later came up in conversation, found an unexpected requirement in his life, or posed some kind of threat. He'd long since given up trying to figure out why. Now, when called, Arik just did what he had to do. He watched. He reviewed. He recorded. And he waited until the web began to make sense.
"Sir!"
Arik snapped back to the woman who was quickly advancing from bored lack of concern to irritated annoyance. "Yes, yes, right here," Arik mumbled, digging through his briefcase for the copy of the email his assistant had tucked there before he left. "One moment. I have something here somewhere." He located the paper, yanked it from the attaché, dropped it onto the desk, and let his gaze wander again.
Eyes met eyes: Arik's green to a startling blue. A peculiar smile was lifted by mere fractions, and Arik knew he should turn his attentions back to his own business and leave the pretty redhead alone—but damn! A long-sleeved shirt clung so nicely to shoulders and chest and biceps, all most worthy of a moment's pause, and the worn denim over slim legs and righteous ass was oh, so sweet. Fiery hair was cleverly styled, just one side of wild, and long enough that curls were starting to sprout at the nape of the man's neck.
Fascinating, Arik thought. And why that adjective? He had no clue.
"Oh, here you are!" The clerk said, perking up. "Do you have your credit card with you, Mr. Beltrán?"
*~*~*
"Hold the elevator, please!" Arik called, cursing as the doors began to slide closed. Yet, just as the two metal halves were about to make one whole, a hand pressed between them and stopped the completion. The doors reopened.
"Thank you!" Arik puffed, dropped his suitcase with exaggerated effort, turned towards his kind-hearted stranger, and stopped—surprised. Now, on a normal day, under normal circumstances, running into the same person in a busy downtown hotel wouldn't seem that bizarre. But Arik knew without a doubt that it had taken a good twenty-five minutes to finish the check-in process. He had, in fact, checked his watch in frustration several times.
He'd followed that fiasco with a dash to the coffee counter, spent eight minutes and fourteen seconds on his cell to his dog-sitter, and picked up a local paper. And the redhead had been long gone from the check-in desk when Arik finally got free. Another indisputable fact, because Arik had looked, just to make sure. So why, why, oh why, would the man be getting on the elevator now?
Fascinating.
"Where you headed?" the man asked politely, fingers hovering above the buttons.
"Oh, uh, eleven. Floor eleven, please."
The man's smile grew by minute degrees. "Good," he glanced over and caught Arik's gaze. "Me too."
Arik leaned against the wall of the elevator and used the time to take another long, hard look at the man standing with his hands clasped lightly behind his back, legs spread just so, chin turned up to eye the advancing numbers. The stance reminded him of all kinds of pretty pictures, ones that usually involved blissed-out, sweating men in leather bindings. The connection instantly made Arik's mouth water like a dog beside an unattended barbeque.
Arik closed his eyes quickly, feigning exhaustion, but that didn't erase the images that his mind started playing. And this particular movie seemed to be one in which his cock showed a great deal of interest.
When the beep sounded and the doors began to slide, Arik could have gasped in relief. He waited for the other man to step out, but, instead, the redhead turned, half-peered over one shoulder with a small smirk, and said, "The name is Blaze. And the room number is 1109."
*~*~*
It never mattered how comfortable the bed was, Arik always struggled to sleep in a hotel. The annoying sounds, the stiff blankets, the unfamiliar scents of the bedding ... without fail they would have him tossing and turning.
He flipped onto his back and stared at the ceiling, trying desperately to focus on anything but curling red hair and a tight ass, and for all of about one second, it worked. But it made so much more sense just to go with the thoughts and give up trying. Happily defeated, Arik reached for his cock without waiting for his creative mind to stir it into stiffening.
Arik's mind placed a patch of hair, the same fiery tone, trimmed and defined above a rock hard, agitated dick that wept in anticipatory delight. He imagined his mouth on it, his fingers seeking the oddity of velvet softness over steel, his palm against balls tightened and twitching. Vanillin skin, coated in sweat—pink lips parted and pleading. Writhing. Long, slim thighs trembling in need and fingers burying in his hair.
Movement increased, and the rhythmic sound of sheets being brushed by arm and elbow harmonized with breath being forced rushed and jagged from Arik's throat, until sensation seized his belly and every muscle in his body tensed. He felt the heated splashes paint his torso, but his mind saw them on chin and lip, and mesmerized him with images of salacious drips falling from the tips of red curls.
The orgasm should have made Arik sleep. It usually worked. Yet demonic litanies kept encouraging him to rise, to seek out the four digits on the tastefully decorated doorways until he could claim the man he'd never met but, somehow, could not get out of his head.
However, for all the pondering Arik was doing over Blaze's words, he could not see the justification in believing there was any reality to them. After all, Blaze had to have been teasing. Hot men did not just approach Arik for sex. It wasn't that he was unattractive because even Arik knew that wasn't the case. He worked hard at looking good.
Still ...
A hotel elevator wasn't a bar. Random young men did not just pause, mid-floor, and offer favors to men they didn't know.
Did they?
With an aggravated sigh, Arik threw off the blankets and rose. He needed a drink. Maybe some scotch, if he could find some ice. After all, if jerking off wasn't going to put his mind at ease, if meditating and quiet thought refused to help, then fine. He'd drink himself unconscious.
Arik didn't bother with slippers. He didn't stop to change out of his Adidas pants. He merely slipped on a zippered hoodie, grabbed the card to his room, and, after a quick poke of head into hallway to ensure the way was clear, he headed down the corridor to find an ice machine.
He almost shrieked when ten seconds later a door to the right opened with a definitive click. A smug smile and hungry eyes met his own deer-in-the-headlights stare. "I almost thought you weren't going to show," Blaze said.
*~*~*
"Ridiculous," Arik's mind kept telling him. Un-fucking-believably ridiculous. And yet ... so goddamn interesting it wasn't even fathomable. Leaning against the wall of a space so similar to his own, his cock as hard as it had been mere hours ago, and attached at the mouth to a man that tasted better than Arik's imaginings could have ever guessed, the entire event seemed surreal.
Blaze felt good. He felt awesome, in fact. The chest and arms that Arik had stalked through clothing looked infinitely better in moonlight. The lips he'd shot his load on in fantasy tasted so superior in reality that Arik was beginning to question his own ability to visualize. It had been too long. Way, way too long since Arik had held another man against him.
Arik squeezed flesh still encased in denim, used that squeeze to drag Blaze closer and let go of a low moan when two hard cocks pressed between two seeking bodies. Hips rolled, Blaze's or his own, Arik couldn't even say which, and friction caused sparks to fly through Arik's blood like knots exploding in a campfire.
"Bed," Blaze growled. "Now!" And Arik reacted without pause, bending knee, grasping thighs and picked Blaze up from the floor in a swift, easy move. A startled gasp, a misplaced grab on slipping hoodie, and Blaze was deposited gracelessly on the mattress. An arm flew east, a nightstand rocked, a cell phone and clock went spinning like scuttling beetles. A drinking glass tottered, daring to question gravity, before succumbing and shattering on the floor below.
Destruction was lost in the throes of want. Blaze yanked clothing while Arik fumbled to assist. Every new patch of revealed skin taunted, every piece of sloughed clothing chuckled a sigh as it passed through air to find ground, and when Blaze finally lay back, propped on elbows, one knee up and eyes wild with hunger, Arik let his own pants slide to his ankles.
The pleased murmur that Blaze released was enough to blow Arik's mind. "Don't just stand there staring," Blaze demanded. "This isn't a fucking painting. As much as I appreciate the visual approval, I want you to fuck me."
"Jesus," the word tumbled from Arik's throat before he had a chance to stop it. He crawled forward, advancing slowly, not to add to the tension but because of it. Surely you couldn't forget? Surely the act could be akin to, hell, who knew? Riding a bike? A horse? Yet the fear still gripped him, made his hands shake and his throat dry.
