Page 111 of Blood Stone

Chapter Twenty-Three

Garrett locked the back door and checked it was secure, then carefully hung the key back on the nail driven into the frame. It may have been meant to allow employees access to the sunroof, but it had the nice secondary benefit of giving him access to the streets and alleys so he could hunt and feed without advertising that he was leaving the building.

He checked for observers, but it was after midnight and the few cast and crew that were living temporarily in the hangar seemed to be sober, sensible types that turned in early and got plenty of sleep. No wild Hollywood parties while principle photography was in session. It created bags under the eyes.

He moved carefully anyway, as he made his way back to the trailer, keeping close to walls and objects and out of the sightlines of the security cameras, which he had made a point of spotting and memorising the first night he had roamed the hangar.

So when Roman’s arm snaked out of the dark and wrapped around his neck, and the point of a blade pressed under his ear, Garrett was annoyed. He hadn’t made allowances for someone as sneaky as him and he should have.

He kept still. “Are you still pissed at me about…oh, I don’t know. The list is long and distinguished now. Or have I added another transgression to the tally that you forgot to inform me about?”

Roman’s grip around his throat tightened. “Back up,” he ordered.

“Okay, we’ll play it your way.” Garrett backed up a few steps and Roman turned him, backing him further into a short blind alley – more a pocket – made by three twenty-foot piles of scenery flats. It was dark in there.

Roman pushed him face-first up against the side of the flats. Then he jammed the knife into the frame of one of the flat, at Garrett’s eye level. “Recognize it?” Roman asked.

Garrett turned his head to look at the six inch single-sided blade. It was serrated and gleamed dully in the low light. The handle was black and there was a jewel buried in the hilt – put there to give the knife better balance for throwing. Garrett knew that because it was his knife. It was a sgian-dubh, the knife all Scotsmen owned.

“I thought I had lost it.”

“In a way, you did. You left it behind, in Greece. When you left me.” Roman’s body pushed up against Garrett. Hard, driving him against the flats, pushing the air out of him.

Garrett shoved back, pressing on the flats for leverage. “You told me to go. Remember pressing that musket against my chest and threatening to cut out my heart and watch me bleed out if I didn’t get the fuck out of your sight?”

Roman’s hands reached for his belt buckle, sliding it undone. Pressing his hips back so his ass was pressing against him. Garrett clamped his jaw against the flare of arousal. “You don’t get to pretend that never happened,” he ground out.

“You ran like a frightened rabbit.” Roman pushed his jeans down to his ankles in one sweep.

Garrett closed his eyes, giving up the fight. He was primed, his body aching. His cock and balls were congested, swollen. It’d ever been this way. His jeans were removed and his legs spread and that made his cock pulse with the possibilities.

“You ran,” Roman breathed in his ear. “Didn’t it occur to you I needed you most just then?”

“Even I can only fight you so much,” Garrett whispered back. “A man will fight forever on nothing but daydreams and hope, if you give him a glimpse of a possibility. You never did.”

Roman slipped his hand between Garrett’s cheeks, teasing and exploring. The sensation was achingly familiar. Garrett gripped the frames, unwilling to groan aloud and demonstrate just how easily Roman was affecting him.

Roman’s other hand took the place of the first, and this one was slick with lubricant. Garrett’s pulse skyrocket. His hips pushed back, opening him up, easing access. It was old habit, instinctive and without intention on his part.

Roman eased his fingers inside him. “The heat of you.” He let out a breath. “Jesus, you’ve just fed.”

Garrett didn’t answer. Roman, who was still drawn to humans, had always liked it when Garrett had freshly fed, for he was human hot then. Roman made a sound in his throat. It might have been a groan, choked off. His fingers withdrew and were replaced by the tip of his cock.

Garrett stood still and let Roman take him. He wanted it. His body ached for it.

Roman slid into him with so little resistance it might have been yesterday they had done this, with no two hundred year hiatus between.

The only sounds between them now were their breath. Both of them were breathing hard, with little hitches and catches as their excitement rose.

Roman’s hand curled around Garrett’s cock and began to stroke in time to his thrusts and Garrett threw his head back in an agonized pleasure. This would end him, end both of them, too quickly.

And abruptly, he wasn’t willing to end this.

But his climax was rushing at him. It had been far too long. The delicious friction, the feeling of fullness, the internal pressure and Roman’s hands on him…it was too much.

He came with a hard rush and it felt like it was pulling from his toes. He could feel his pleasure triggering Roman’s climax, the choked sound he made as he came and the little uncontrolled, helpless thrusts as he poured his essence into him.

Garrett folded his arm against a flat and rested his head on his arm, feeling his heart slow and his body quieten. Roman stayed inside him, his body touching Garrett’s back, just lightly enough to let him know he was there, as if his cock wasn’t enough.