Page 84 of Out of Control

“Thanks. I think.”

“That’s a compliment, coming from me,” Spencer retorted. “Don’t be a jerk about it.”

Drago shrugged as they hurried along the sidewalk. “I get it. You think I’m loyal. Like a damned golden retriever.”

“You are loyal. And what’s wrong with dogs?” he demanded. “I love dogs.”

“I do too. We can get one when we’re old and married—”

Spencer’s gaze jerked up to his. Shock reverberated in Drago’s stare. “Sorry. Forget I said that. I wasn’t thinking.”

Huh. Maybe Dray hadn’t been thinking. But what did that reveal about his idle speculations, then? Was Drago ruminating on the idea of a forever between them? Hell, washe?

Awkward silence fell between them.

“Here we are,” Drago mumbled, sounding relieved. “And use male pronouns.”

Ditto the relief of having a distraction between them. “Got it. Male.”

Spencer looked up at an impressive townhome four stories tall. Wider than most of the other homes, it was updated and modernized with a sleek white stucco finish trimmed in black.

Drago jogged up the steps and rang the bell.

A spare, elegant man opened the door, wearing a flowing caftan and impeccable makeup a drag queen would envy. His hair was long and pale and straight, hanging down his back in an ascetic ponytail. He reminded Spencer of what an elven prince might look like.

“Drago! My love. You look fabu—” René broke off, spotting Spencer. “Oh my. What have we here?”

Spencer smiled politely as Drago said, “This is Spencer. He’s mine. Exclusively.”

“Oh, mon chèr Drago. Can you not share just this once? My God. The perfection. Come in, come in. Let me look at you in the light, you delicious boy.”

As the door closed and a stark, magnificent foyer opened around them, Spencer spotted what looked like an original Mondrian painting—a collection of black lines and blocks of deconstructed color.

He ventured a look at their host, who, in bright light, was older than Spencer’s first impression but still somehow ageless. Dang. The man must have a killer moisturizing regimen.

René tsked. “Drago. You’ve been holding out on me. Here I thought you were saving yourself for Mr. Right.”

Spencer’s gaze snapped to Dray. Saving himself?

“Ahh, but René, perhaps thisisMr. Right,” Drago said smoothly.

Spencer held himself still as René moved past him, trailing his palm lightly across Spencer’s stomach.

“Mmm. Luscious,” their host purred.

“When you’re done fondling my boyfriend,” Drago said dryly, “we need a favor. Or rather several favors. In the form of personal protection. Weapons.”

The transformation on René’s face was immediate and stark. The lascivious warmth was replaced with cold intelligence. Calculation, even. “What has happened that you are without… resources, mon ami?”

“We unexpectedly had to leave my flat.”

“Why can you not go back?”

Drago shrugged, and Spencer registered appreciation of those powerful shoulders flexing under Dray’s shirt. “Someone placed surveillance devices all over my apartment.”

“How rude,” René replied blandly. “Of course I shall help you. Come with me.”

Spencer trailed behind Drago and René, listening to the men trade small talk in French. René stopped in front of a door and surprised him by pulling a key off his belt on some kind of thin retractable steel cable.