Page 74

As if Beau had read his mind, he threw over his shoulder, “I still dream about this place, about you and me in your room upstairs.”

There had been a lot more opportunities for privacy at McCabe House than the Langham family’s busy hub of constant coming and goings. Archie smiled, letting Beau draw him along. He felt weirdly relaxed, which was probably three-parts emotional and physical exhaustion, but he was happy to let Beau take the lead, happy to see where this was going.

He didn’t ever remember Beau holding his hand before. It was nice.

The glossy wooden stairs creaked every few steps—some things never changed—they reached the top landing, reached Archie’s bedroom. Beau felt unerringly for the light switch.

Soft radiance illuminated the large, elegant room. Back in the day, the white built-ins around the fireplace had been crowded with Archie’s books and belongings, but he’d taken everything with him when he’d left for Alaska. There were several art books, antique vases, and a large beautifully detailed replica of John’s yacht, the El fantasma blanco.

The frosted globe of the overhead lamp was etched with vines, and the shadow tendrils twisted across the pale blue walls. In that tentative light, Beau’s smile was rueful. “See? I haven’t forgotten anything.”

Archie set the Glock on the nightstand. The room looked pretty much as he’d left it Saturday night. His bloodstained clothes had been removed. He started to ask Beau about them, but decided against it. He didn’t want to think about anything but here and now and Beau standing a few feet away, his blue eyes shining. He wanted—needed—this moment for himself.

They undressed with swift efficiency, maybe a little self-consciously, given that the frantic lust of earlier had passed and they were now making deliberate choices. Each time their glances caught, they smiled instinctively, quickly.

Beau tossed his uniform and shorts to the blue and gold wingback chair next to the tall dresser. He laid his weapon on the nightstand. He’d always been comfortable in his own skin, and why not? It was smooth, satiny, summer-brown stuff. If Disney princes ever got naked, they’d pretty much look like Beau Langham: tall and athletic; lean in all the right places, muscular in all the right places. The perfect physique for modeling underwear or hanging out with Greek gods.

Archie was nearly as tall, but he had always been fine-boned and, after living in what amounted to a training camp for nearly two years, he was honed to bones and wiry muscle. His tan had faded during the weeks in the hospital, and his latest set of bruises stood out in stark contrast.

Beau’s brows drew together. “Jesus.” He reached for Archie, drawing him cautiously into his arms. He was much more careful, much more gentle, than they’d been downstairs. “What I should be doing is driving you to the ER.”

Archie grimaced. “You’re killing the mood, Langham.” He shut Beau up with a kiss.

Oh, yes.

How had he forgotten how very nice it was to kiss Beau? All of it. The warm pressure of Beau’s mouth, the shape of his mouth—like he was always about to smile—the way he smelled, the way he tasted, those little delicate tricks, like touching the tip of his tongue to Archie’s upper lip—there was no way to refuse entry to that persuasive request for access. Archie always opened up like a flower’s petals spreading for the sun.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t kissed anyone else in seven years. But usually kissing was simply a preliminary to sex. With Beau, kissing was an end in itself. Kissing Beau was lovely.

Lovely.

A soft laugh, a softer kiss.

Archie blinked, gazed blearily into the blue eyes smiling into his own. His eyes widened in realization. He lifted his head. He was lying in his bed at McCabe House. The bedside lamp was on. Beau was in bed beside him.

“Did I fall asleep?”

The last thing he remembered was stretching out on this bed and reaching for Beau.

Beau was still smiling down at him. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not!” Archie rubbed his face impatiently. For the love of God. What in the hell was wrong with him?

Beau said calmly, “I don’t mind. I’m not sleeping well either these days.”

Archie noted that for future reference, but protested, “All I do is sleep.”

He tried to sit up, and God help him, even now, it was hard to make the effort, hard to shake off that heavy, almost engulfing, lassitude.

Beau tugged him back down without much effort. “Crane, relax.” He leaned over, kissed Archie again. “This is nice, right?”

“Well, right…” Archie kissed him back, automatically. “But I don’t want to waste tonight.”

There was something about Beau’s smile. He looked older, a little rueful. “Is it a waste?”

“You know what I mean.”

Beau shook his head, though it seemed like resignation not denial. He reached back, turned out the lamp. Resettling, he slid his arm beneath Archie’s shoulders, pulling him closer. “You know what? We’re not twenty anymore. You’re tired. I’m tired. We’re allowed to sleep.”