Page 259 of Eight of Swords, Part One

Lachlan’s regret spikes several notches. ‘Absolutely not. Let go.’

Jules laughs and, denied Lachlan’s mouth, settles for kissing whatever else he can reach instead. Lachlan should say something cruel enough to end this. Should compare Jules to his father. Should do something. Anything. But there’s a terrible, hideous part of him that likes it far too much to stop immediately. Some monstrous sliver of Lachlan Tanner basks in the wild attention of this boy he loves, in the blossoming feelings of desire.

That sliver swells and takes control when Lachlan gets him by the waist, holds him against the side of the pool, rough texture that grinds against skin, and then kisses him properly as if to say, this is how you do it, see?

And his mind goes quiet, and his soul knows peace, and the love he holds for this boy evolves stronger and stranger and worryingly out of control, until Lachlan tears himself away, breathless, instantly sick with shame that trickles down his spine.

Jules is a kid, a child, nineteen is nothing.

He climbs out, grabs his stuff and calls for Danya to take his place.

Lachlan hears Jules singing softly to the moon every step away.

✴

It happens again.

Stolen kiss in the blind spot of the third-floor landing.

And again.

Up against the car when Lachlan collects him after two hours of borrowed freedom with nightclub music pulsing, tequila on Jules’ tongue, and the smell of another man’s cologne all over him.

And again.

In Jules’ bedroom, hands in Lachlan’s hair, panting harshly, the first time Lachlan picks him up under the thighs and holds him against the door, they could fuck like this, but they don’t.

And again.

CQC training in broad daylight when Jules pins Lachlan, absolutely anyone could see, he kisses him and whispers, ‘Say you love me,’ while grinding down and gasping to feel Lachlan’s arousal against his own, ‘love me till I feel it.’

It’s July, and it’s out of control.

Lachlan fully regrets the night he kissed him.

He shouldn’t have let it happen.

Outside this weird bubble of addictive shame, his life is so fucking beautiful and wholesome that Lachlan can hardly stand it. He gets to push his princess on the swings and eat breakfast with her while they work on sign language, and she tells him about her dreams, and he always echoes back what she says to keep her talking because he could listen to her forever.

He and Blaire are a powerhouse team and close friends too. They work together so seamlessly, everything intuitive and natural. She takes care of him; he takes care of her and the sight of that necklace makes him warm inside.

He wishes to God he felt anything for her even remotely like what he’s starting to feel for Jules. To fall for Blaire Montbelliard would be a gift from the universe. He loves her so much, he’d die for her too, but it’s not… this.

This terrible, hungry thing growing inside him like a mountain with a mouth and a hunger only stars can satisfy. Each time it happens, Lachlan tells himself never again, he’ll stop Jules next time, be so firm, be mean about it, be cold, shut it down.

He tells himself that and he believes it.

And then it happens again and he lets it, welcomes it, closes his eyes later in bed and makes himself come replaying it in his head, knows he’s fucked.

It’s so wrong no matter how he reasons with himself.

It’s especially wrong because he’s Julian’s bodyguard.

He’s there to protect him.

Jules is Lachlan’s height now and it’s still only kissing, as if that makes any difference, but it would take nothing for it to become more.

It would happen seamlessly, he knows.