Wycke swaggered to the table and sat down opposite Piers. “Good evening. Nice to see you again. I’m glad you called.”
Piers gave a sheepish shrug, pink filling his pale cheeks. “I still feel bad for being such an asshole to you the night we met. Men hitting on me all the time gets old.” He cast his gaze around the room to the men he’d turned down. “It has nothing to do with me. They’re just throwing a hook in the water to see who’ll bite. Or they’re married and cheating on their spouses while they’re out of town.”
“I can see the problem.” Not that someone’s mating status slowed Wycke at court. “I can assure you; no mate waits for me back home. Can I buy you a drink?”
Piers’ lips turned upward, then back, revealing gleaming teeth. Gods, what a smile, genuine, playful, causing those adorable crinkles at the corners of Piers’ eyes and carving a tiny divot in his cheek. What the fuck? Adorable? Where had such a sappy response come from? Once more, a dream image came to mind, vanishing before fully formed.
“Only if you’ll let me return the favor. Remember, you picked up last night’s dinner tab. I’ll have a mojito.”
Wycke smiled. “Your wish is my command.” By the ancestors! He could barely force his gaze from Piers to stumble to the bar for drinks. He’d never tasted whatever Piers ordered but ordered one for himself.
Wycke paid for the drinks, returned to the table, and handed Piers a glass.
“Thank you.” A sincere smile, so unlike those seen at court—worn to win favor and influence—warmed Wycke clear down to his toes. “You never said exactly where you’re from. You have a bit of an accent that I can’t place.” Piers took a sip of his drink, closed his eyes, and moaned. “It seems like I should know you.”
“I’m definitely not from around here.” Please let Piers not pry. Usually, lies fell easily from Wycke’s tongue. Right now, he lacked enough working brain cells for thinking.
“My uncle said I’m not either. Your accent reminds me of his.”
Wycke waited, but Piers didn’t clarify. Okay, both of them wished to remain a mystery. “You mentioned not originally being from here.”
“I’m from somewhere the stars are different, and men in their sixties have no domestic training.” Piers lifted his drink in toast. “To Uncle Lee. His lack of cooking skills might have been the stuff of legend, but he kicked ass like a cage fighter.”
Why the sudden prickles on the back of Wycke’s neck?
“Anyway, I’m not here to talk about myself.” Piers placed his glass on the table, reaching clear down to Wycke’s soul with a blue-eyed gaze. Few met Wycke’s eyes at court. Too hard to lie that way. “I know about me. I’m dull. I want to know how you landed at the club where I happen to be working and came straight to me without bothering to look around at what else the club had to offer. Hundreds of beautiful men. Why me?”
Wycke tried honesty, seasoned with a hint of flattery. “No one else in the room mattered after I laid eyes on you.” The truth of the words hit with the force of a battering ram. He truly meant them.
Piers studied Wycke over the rim of his glass for several moments. He averted his gaze, face infused with color. How long since Wycke had met someone of innocent enough character to flush at a mere compliment? His usual lovers thought compliments their due. He handed them out dutifully as part of the game, never pausing to consider practiced sweet talk. Honeyed words offered a means to an end.
Damnation. Somewhere along the line, Wycke had become as shallow and double-dealing as the courtiers. “I tell you what. Why don’t we talk about something else?” Because the current topic touched too much on feelings. Wycke avoided feelings in regards to potential lovers.
“Okay.” Piers let out a breath. “Tell me, what was little Wycke like as a child?”
An innocent enough subject, or not so innocent, in Wycke’s case. “A holy terror to hear some say.” Or most, rather. Wycke took a sip of his drink. Not bad.
One side of Piers’ mouth lifted in a shy half-smile. “I can’t imagine.”
Confession time. “Why do you think they call me Wicked?”
Piers clicked his mouth shut. Then, “They really call you Wicked? I thought that was a play on your name or Jess being Jess.”
“Yes, they do.” Wycke earned the nickname young and never managed to grow out of the habit of making trouble. But, hey, everyone needed a purpose in life. Since King Broen the Rule Giver insisted Wycke spend his days learning to run a kingdom—which didn’t endear him to Radre—he needed some way to occupy his off-hours.
Piers’ smile returned, then slid into a grin, lighting his whole face. “Did you live up to the name?”
Wycke lifted a brow. “Yes, and still do.” He winked. “Every chance I get.” Finally! Someone who appreciated his favorite hobby. He ticked off points on his fingers. “There was the time I let a box of spiders loose during a sta… important dinner. Likewise, mice, harmless snakes, moths, and worms. Not all at the same time, mind you.” That would definitely have taken his reputation to the next level.
The interest on Piers’ face nearly made Wycke laugh. Unguarded people let their expressions talk for them. How refreshing to find someone so guileless and who didn’t wear a mask in public. “What about little Piers? What kind of wickedness did you get into?”
Piers took a long swallow of his drink. Wycke watched the way his throat bobbed. How would the motion feel against Wycke’s lips? Or that dark hair—much shorter and so different from Wycke’s own—feel beneath his fingertips? The muscles in Piers’ arms flexed when he returned his glass to the table.
Wycke followed every motion, fascinated by the dusting of dark hair on Piers’ forearms, the blunt fingernails, the long, strong fingers.
Piers cocked his head to the side. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.” No. Wycke played the game of sex with skill.And how fast can I get them in my bed?without really wanting them there. He wanted this man. Truly wanted him.
