We’ll talk more about it when I return. Until then, stay safe, and for the love of the ancestors, Dorian, don’t get attached.
“Too late,” I mutter, setting the phone on the coffee table.
Baz returns to the living room and tucks something into her purse—a small notebook and a pencil. Was she drawing something while she was in the bathroom? I don’t question her about it. I’mtoo entranced by the shape of her lithe, tattooed body, her tumble of pink-and-black hair, the glint of desire in her eyes.
“Want a snack?” she says with a sly curve of her lips.
“Hell, yes,” I answer.
27
Baz
I didn’t know I could climax so much during a twenty-four-hour period. The last one happens on my kitchen island, where Dorian eats me out with such enthusiasm I feel like a damn queen. Afterward, we squeeze into my little shower to wash off. I’m embarrassed by the mold threading the grout between the tiles and by the very cheap gardenia-scented soap in its grimy dish, but Dorian doesn’t comment on any of it.
By the time we’re done soaping each other up and rinsing off, he’s getting hard again. But he doesn’t insist on relief. So I push him naked against the bathroom wall, kneel on a fluffy towel, and take him in my mouth.
I thought Dorian Gray was beautiful before. But nothing surpasses the sight of his wet, gleaming body braced against the wall, every muscle in his abdomen taut with aching pleasure, nipples tightly beaded, the tendons of his neck standing out, his cheeks flushed rosy. His lips could be in a lipstick commercial. They’re perfectly shaped, parted just enough to show a hint of straight white teeth. His arms are rigid, hands splayed against the tiles. He’s gasping, his lashes fluttering as I take him deeper.
Pretty boy. So damn pretty.
I savor him, every inch, hollowing out my cheeks and opening my throat to take him deeper. I enjoy the idea of giving blow jobs, but dicks are usually smelly, and they often taste like sweat and piss. Pretty sure Dorian would taste good to me no matter what, but licking him right after a shower is the best-case scenario for sure, because he smells like gardenia soap and tastes salty-fresh.
He comes in a hot burst over my tongue, lines of his release painting the inside of my mouth. I collect it all with my tongue and swallow before letting my lips slide off him.
“Shit.” He sinks right down to the floor, panting. “You give head like a pro.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Thanks? And also, you’re welcome. You’re not so bad yourself.”
His head rocks back against the tiled wall, and his eyes drift shut. “I’m starving. You?”
“Yup.” I hesitate, but then I ask anyway. “So you’ve done it with professionals? Like porn stars?”
“Porn stars, models, high-end escorts, actors whose names you would know, soccer moms you’d never suspect, politicians, princes… Yeah, I’ve done them all.” He lifts his head. Looks straight at me. “But none of them exist anymore. They’re all gone. They are the past. You’re my present, and my f—”
“Don’t,” I gasp, my eyes stinging with sudden tears. “Don’t say it.”
He doesn’t, but the wordfuturehovers between us like a ghost.
We don’t speak again while we dry off. Once we’re dressed, Dorian orders from P. F. Chang’s while I feed Screwtape.
“Any more word from Lloyd?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“He should be more concerned about the skriken and what theiractivity could mean. I don’t understand why he’s not.” I peer out the window into the darkness, half expecting to see a monster of sticks and rubbish skulking between the buildings.
Dorian clears his throat, shifts his position on the couch. “There’s something you should know about Lloyd-Henry.”
“What?”
“I’ve known him for about sixty years.”
The enormity of what he’s saying takes a minute to sink in. “Oh my god. What is he?”
“He claims he doesn’t know. That’s why he’s so invested in studying folklore. He’s trying to figure out why he stopped aging at thirty-two. We first met around 1965 or so, and then again twenty years later. Neither of us had aged a day, and we got to talking later that night. That’s how he and I came to be close friends.”
“So you’ve been friends for forty years?”
