With Abandon: With or Without, Book 3 (30 page)

Going to dinner had tired him, even though it was fun and tasted as fine as anything he imagined he’d get in a fancy restaurant. He’d felt Dylan’s eyes on him the entire time.

I want you
.

Green light.

Maybe—finally—Dylan would stop treating him like he was some kid he had to watch out for until social services stepped in.

William grabbed a blanket and sat on one of the rockers in front of the fireplace. Curiosity kept him still, waiting. When Dylan returned from the bathroom, he wore the usual cool, distant expression on his face, even though he wasn’t quite meeting William’s eyes. He busied himself with building a fire while William watched and soon had a bright blaze glowing behind the fire screen.

“This ought to warm things up.” Dylan pulled a blanket off his bed and sat in the rocker next to William.

“Thanks.”

“I’m glad Ernesto put firewood in here. The wood out back is probably pretty damp. We have enough for tonight, anyway.”

“I checked, there are more blankets in the cupboard next to the kitchenette.”

“We won’t freeze; there’s a space heater.”

“I guess I’m just not used to it.”

“It can get pretty cold in Vegas at night. One time it even snowed. Nothing like here though.”

“I saw that on the news. Snow in Vegas.”

“That was pretty amazing. Yves and I were having breakfast and he just…”

William’s curiosity got the better of him. “What did he do?”

Dylan smiled. “It’s nothing. He and I were together and he left so he could go home and play in the snow with his grandkids. It was beautiful. So serene. I felt a little like playing in it myself.”

“I can see that.” William closed his eyes. It wasn’t hard to picture Dylan looking through the window of his opulent house, a man who had everything except someone to play with him in the snow. William was so tired the heat from the fire pulled every last bit of strength from his body. No matter how much he wanted Dylan, he could hardly keep his eyes open. “I bet you do all that snow stuff.”

“I ski and snowboard. Des is a maniac. She’s completely fearless. She used to play ice hockey.”

“I’m glad you can see her again. Sometimes I think…” He drifted into sleep, his rocker slowing to a bare back and forth, inches only.

Dylan’s voice startled him. “William?”

“Hm?” He started rocking again.

“You were in the middle of a sentence.”

When William opened his eyes, Dylan faced him, half illuminated by the fire, made up of reflected light and mysterious shadows, as enigmatic as the moon. “I was just saying I’m glad you have your sister back. Maybe when I’m thinking about you I can think of that and I won’t feel so bad for what we did to you.”

“You don’t need to feel—” Dylan’s voice stopped. “I can’t say what you need to feel.”

“I have to go and start over somewhere, and I’d like to know that you don’t…that you won’t be feeling responsible for me or some stupid shit like that.”

Dylan’s hand came down on William’s so timidly he didn’t move for fear that Dylan would snatch it away. “I wish I could give it all back to you. I’ve been trying to think of a way you could keep your college credits and maybe even renew your scholarship, but I can’t think how to do that without risking your—”

“Shh. Don’t worry.” William turned his hand and carefully laced his tender fingers with Dylan’s.

“But I do worry. What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. Look at you, going all concerned for me—like in that syndrome.”

Dylan snorted. “Stockholm syndrome? Doesn’t it sort of feel like you’re
my
hostage now?”

William gave up a sad smile. Maybe he could be honest for once. Maybe it wouldn’t get him in too much trouble to say what was on his mind.

In his heart.

He lifted his gaze and found Dylan watching him. “
Papi
, I’ve been your hostage since day one. Since the first time I saw you.”

The grip on William’s hand went slack.

“You don’t seem to know it, but you’re one very fine motherfucker, Dylan. My personal walking wet dream.”

Dylan whispered, “How come you call me
papi
?”

William tilted his head. “I don’t know. It’s just a thing. Like when Esme calls you
m’hijo
.”

Dylan didn’t break eye contact. He held William’s gaze for a long enough time that it made William want to look away, but he forced himself to meet those strange light eyes. What he found there was something pure and—probably—more honest than he was ready for. He didn’t find acceptance, necessarily, but what he saw didn’t cause him to lose hope, either.

“You should sack out, huh?” Dylan said quietly.

Disappointment flooded him. “Yeah.” William got up and carried his blanket back to bed.

“Lots to do tomorrow.” Dylan padded to his own bed. “Ernesto has a list a mile long and I’m not sure we can do half of the chores with the grounds so wet.”

“There’s new shit that will come up with the storm.”

“Yeah. Maybe more roofs to check out.”

“Night, Dylan.” William turned his back and pulled his covers over his head.

“Night, William.”

Giving screwball mystery a whole deadly new meaning.

All She Wrote

© 2010 Josh Lanyon

Holmes & Moriarity
, Book 2

A murderous fall down icy stairs is nearly the death of Anna Hitchcock, the much-beloved “American Agatha Christie” and Christopher Holmes’s former mentor. Anna’s plea for him to host her annual winter writing retreat touches all Kit’s sore spots—traveling, teaching writing classes, and separation from his new lover, J.X. Moriarity.

For J.X., Kit’s cancellation of yet another romantic weekend is the death knell of a relationship that has been limping along for months. But that’s just as well, right? Kit isn’t ready for anything serious and besides, Kit owes Anna far too much to refuse.

Faster than you can say “Miss Marple wears boxer shorts”, Kit is snooping around Anna’s elegant, snowbound mansion in the Berkshires for clues as to who’s trying to kill her. A tough task with six amateur sleuths underfoot. Six budding writers with a tangled web of dark undercurrents running among them.

Slowly, Kit gets the uneasy feeling that the secret may lie between the pages of someone’s fictional past. Unfortunately, a clever killer is one step ahead. And it may be too late for J.X. to ride to the rescue.

Warning: Contains one irascible, forty-year-old mystery writer who desperately needs to get laid, one exasperated thirty-something ex-cop only too happy to oblige, an isolated country manor that needs the thermostat cranked up, various assorted aspiring and perspiring authors, and a merciless killer who may have read one too many mystery novels.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
All She Wrote:

I want to fuck you, Kit.

I raised my head, cleared my throat. “Come again?”

J.X. smiled at me, a lazy smile. His eyes were dark and tender. “And again and again and again.” His voice was soft. It seemed to raise every hair on my body, like the drifting ripple of static electricity.

“Oh.” I lowered my head to my arm, looked into the serious regard centimeters from my own. Well, good luck avoiding him at
that
distance. I redirected my gaze to his mouth. It was soft and moist and his lips were faintly pink as they shaped his words.

“You never let me before. Is it a problem?”

“Uh…no.”

“You don’t sound sure.”

I wasn’t sure. That is…the idea turned me on, no denying it. The idea of J.X. taking me, all that warmth and strength burying itself in me and making me his own—
bizarre
thought and yet…definitely a turn-on. Which was kind of weird because I’d never liked being fucked. Never enjoyed it. Found it uncomfortable, a little painful, and too much like subjugation. And David had felt the same way. So we’d taken turns with it, because that was the fair thing to do, but there had always been that niggling knowledge that both of us were never truly enjoying sex at the same time. That it was always a concession on someone’s part.

J.X. and I hadn’t really fucked since we’d got together. I wasn’t sure what his feelings were now days. When we’d first hooked up all those years ago, he’d let me fuck him and he’d accepted without demur my refusal to reciprocate.

I mean, I’d tried to put it in more diplomatic terms than that, but the bottom line was…for me there was a bottom line. And I hadn’t planned to cross it. Not for him and not for anyone else. Not ever again. I suppose it was all tied up with my feelings for what had happened with David.

Maybe it was still tied up with that.

Although, the truth was, I never
had
liked it. But recently I’d found the idea not merely acceptable, more and more I’d found myself truly excited by it. Which, frankly, made me sort of uneasy.

“Talk to me,” J.X. said. My eyes were probably starting to spin—black and white swirls while my brain overheated.

I said, “I know it’s only fair that we…trade off.”

His brows drew together. “So you
don’t
like the idea?”

“No. It’s not that.”

“Come on, Kit. Tell me what you think.” Not impatient. Coaxing. I think I’d have preferred exasperation. Then I could have worked myself into a snit and we could have sidestepped the issue for the time being.

I rolled onto my back. “I don’t know. It’s never been good for me like that.”

“Did someone hurt you?”

Startled, I turned my head. J.X.’s nostrils had a pinched look, his mouth a straight line. I realized he was angry on my behalf. Angry at the idea of this imaginary lover who had hurt me with his careless, selfish ways. J.X. not realizing that I had probably been as careless and selfish as any of my lovers. Not that there had been so many of them, though I’d indulged in the usual youthful experimentation before settling down with David.

“It’s not like that,” I said quickly, and I reached over to stroke his hair back from his serious face. The strands felt like silk—short, cool, black silk—and they clung to my fingers. “I mean it does hurt—”

“It shouldn’t.”

“But that’s not really it. I don’t mind a little discomfort if the payoff is worth—” I stopped in time.

Not really in time, though.

“But the payoff isn’t worth it?” His tone was absolutely neutral.

I held his gaze with my own. “I think it would be with you, which is why, for probably the first time in my life, I’m starting to fantasize about it.”

His face softened. “I think I could make it good for you, Kit. I’d make sure nothing hurt you. I’d take care of you every step of the way.” His voice went dark and husky, and he put his hand to my crotch, feeling me up through my jeans with an expert, even possessive hand.

I heard myself make a sound in the back of my throat, and I closed my eyes, focusing on that touch.

“I love you,” he said, and his mouth covered mine.

There was a lump in my throat. I wasn’t used to someone…caring so much. It got to me in a way I’d never have expected. I made another of those freaky sounds—uncomfortably close to a whimper—and thrust against him.

J.X.’s tongue slipped into my mouth, wet, hot, intrusive. Another thing I’d never been crazy about. What can I say? There’s a reason I chose to write about an elderly spinster and her cat. It wasn’t just the, um, hygiene factor—although supposedly dogs’ mouths are cleaner than humans—it was so
personal
having someone push his tongue into your mouth. Hard to think of other things when a guy’s checking out your back molars.

J.X., however, French kissed me with delicacy and skill, and need bloomed like fever in my bloodstream.

“I do want it,” I panted. “I want you to fuck me.”

He groaned like I’d granted some amazing, impossible wish—which, frankly, was all the more exciting.

He kissed me again, broke the kiss with seeming reluctance. “Hang on. We need something…”

“Condoms. Hell. It’s been years since I’ve had to—”

“No, not condoms. I mean, yes, condoms, but I’ve got condoms. I mean something we can use as lube.”

I was still dealing with the fact that he evidently carried condoms everywhere like he was still nineteen, when the significance of the word lube hit me. I gave a shiver that was half excitement and half alarm.

Jesus, we were going to do this. I was going to let him push that long, thick cock right up my tight little asshole.

Wide-eyed, I watched him disappear into the bathroom and reappear a few seconds later with a bottle of Fekkai glossing conditioner.

I was still clumsily trying to peel off my clothes as he took his place beside me on the bed. Together we helped each other undress, warm hands lingering in unconscious caress, accommodating each other. My heart was going a million miles an hour as I leaned back against the pillows he’d propped up for me. I watched his face, so grave and absorbed as he squirted the pale, shimmering liquid onto his fingers.