Page 56 of Skotos (Of Shadows & Secrets #6)

Thomas

W e made it home.

The evening air in Paris carried that distinctive scent I’d missed more than I realized: fresh bread from the boulangerie down the street, a faint trace of cigarette smoke drifting from café terraces, and something indefinably romantic that seemed to emanate from the cobblestones themselves.

Will had spent the better part of the afternoon arranging our flat with the methodical precision of a man determined to restore order to his world.

Clothes returned to the armoire, and our few traveling possessions were placed exactly where they belonged.

It was as if he was trying to erase the chaos of Rome through sheer organizational willpower.

I watched him from the kitchen doorway, nursing a glass of wine and enjoying the sight of Will in his element.

He was completely focused, his tongue poking slightly out of the corner of his mouth the way it did when he was concentrating.

He’d insisted on doing it all himself, claiming I needed to rest my shoulder, though I suspected he simply craved the ritual of making our space feel like home again.

“There,” he said finally, stepping back to survey the living room with the satisfaction of a general reviewing perfectly aligned troops. “Civilization is restored.”

I raised my glass in a mock toast. “To domestic tranquility.”

“And to not getting shot at for a while,” he added, moving to pour himself wine from the bottle I’d opened.

The sun was setting over the rooftops, painting everything in shades of gold and amber that made the city look like it had been touched by the gods.

Through our windows, I could see couples strolling along the Seine, tourists taking photographs of bridges that had stood for centuries, life continuing in its beautifully ordinary way.

“Dinner?” I asked.

“Chez Henri,” Will suggested, his face lighting up. “God, I’ve been dreaming about their coq au vin since we left.”

We walked the few blocks through streets that felt like old friends welcoming us home.

The café was exactly as we’d left it, with small wooden tables spilling onto the sidewalk, checkered tablecloths, and the owner’s wife arguing with someone over the phone in rapid-fire French that made her sound like a beautiful machine gun.

Henri himself spotted us from behind the bar and bellowed a greeting that drew every eye in the place. “ Mes amis américains! You have returned to us!”

He bustled over with the enthusiasm of a man reuniting with family, embracing us both with wine-scented enthusiasm and rapid commentary on how thin we’d gotten, how tired we looked, and how Rome clearly hadn’t treated us properly.

“Sit, sit!” he commanded, gesturing to our usual table beneath the café’s striped awning. “I will bring you wine and food, and you will tell me nothing about your travels because I know you cannot.”

“It was just a vacation,” Will said, earning a stern reproach and head shake for his effort.

Within minutes we were settled with a bottle of Burgundy and plates of Henri’s magnificent coq au vin , the chicken so tender it fell apart at the touch of a fork, the sauce rich enough to make grown men weep with joy.

“This,” Will said around a mouthful of perfectly braised vegetables, “is why civilization was invented.”

“For French cooking?” I shoved a forkful into my mouth.

“For sitting at a café in Paris with good wine and someone you love, watching the world go by without anyone trying to stab you with ceremonial daggers.”

I laughed, feeling tension I hadn’t realized I was carrying begin to ease from my shoulders. “That’s a surprisingly specific definition of civilization.”

“I’m a surprisingly specific man.”

We lingered over dinner as the evening deepened, watching couples walk hand in hand along the cobblestones and listening to the distant sound of an accordion drifting from somewhere deeper in the quarter.

Our conversation wandered from the sublime to the ridiculous: Will’s theories about why French bread was superior to all other bread, my observation that Henri had been wearing the same apron for at least three years, the way the lamplight made the wine in our glasses look like liquid rubies, and so on.

For the first time in weeks, we weren’t analyzing threats or planning operations or wondering who might be watching us from the shadows. We were just two men enjoying each other’s company on a perfect Parisian evening.

“I’d almost forgotten what this felt like,” Will said quietly, swirling the last of his wine.

“What?”

“Being normal. Being us .” He met my eyes across the small table. “In Rome, we were always performing. We were agents, professionals, men with a secret mission. Here— ”

“Here we’re just Thomas and Will.”

“Exactly.” He smirked with his glass almost to his lips. “Although I would say, ‘Will and Thomas.’ It has a better cadence.”

“For what? A waltz?”

Will laughed. “I love a good waltz. Makes me think of a certain Baroness we know.”

I shook my head. “Wonder what she’s up to.”

“Probably deconstructing the Soviet Empire single-handedly.”

I snorted, nearly spewing wine across the table.

The check arrived with Henri’s usual theatrical protests about payment. “My friends do not pay for food; they pay for my company, which is priceless!”

We eventually negotiated our way to leaving enough francs to cover both the meal and Henri’s wounded dignity. The man was a master of reverse-psychology—a battle he rarely lost.

Our walk home was leisurely, our steps naturally synchronized after years of moving together through friendly streets and hostile territory alike.

Will’s hand brushed mine as we walked, a casual touch that sent warmth spreading through my chest. I let my fingers graze his, gently stroking his skin.

His warmth, his touch, they were everything.

They gave my heart music and light. His warmth was the art that filled my soul.

“Thank you,” I said as we turned onto our street.

“For what? ”

“For getting us out of Rome, for making Manakin send us home.” I paused under a streetlamp, studying his face in the golden light. “You were right. I wasn’t ready to let it go.”

“You never are.” He reached up and brushed a curl of rebellious hair off my forehead and then cupped my cheek.

“It’s one of the things I love about you—and one of the things that terrifies me.

” Then he stepped closer, close enough that I could smell his aftershave mixed with wine and the night air.

“But sometimes walking away is the bravest thing you can do.”

“Is that what we did? Walk away?”

“We lived to fight another day,” he said simply. “That’s victory enough for me.”

We climbed the stairs to our flat, and I was fumbling with the key when Will suddenly grabbed my shoulders and spun me around, pressing my back against the door we’d just closed behind us.

“Will, what are you—”

His mouth covered mine, cutting off whatever question I’d been about to ask. His kiss was hungry, desperate, and full of all the fear and longing and relief we’d been carrying since Rome. I tasted wine on his lips and felt the urgency in the way his hands gripped my jacket.

When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, his eyes were dark with an intensity that made my heart race. “I almost lost you,” he whispered, his forehead resting against mine. “In that chapel, on those rooftops, every time you threw yourself between me and danger. I thought I might lose you.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No.” His hands moved to cup my face again, thumbs brushing across my cheekbones. “But I need you to know— really know—how much you mean to me.”

I barely knew what to say. Will and I had been together for nearly a decade, and still, this man stole my breath. His words . . . dear God . . . they were life.

I fumbled with the keys again, finally getting the door open. Will shoved me through, gripping my coat and yanking it over my shoulder the moment we entered the flat.

The door couldn’t shut fast enough behind us.

Hands gripped, clothes fell, and before I could catch my breath, we were both naked, smothering each other with kisses. Will led me to the couch, where he lay down and pulled me atop him. His body was warm, and I felt his heart racing as we pressed together.

There was such depth in his gaze.

Such love.

Such unabated desire.

I stared down for the longest moment, gently stroking his cheek, enjoying the simple presence of his body pressing into mine .

Then he twitched . . . down below . . . where no doubt lived, and even deeper desires stirred.

Our lips met, and the world fell away.

There were no missions, no nations, no leaders or assassins.

There was only us.

Only us.

And finally, after so long, I let go and gave myself to Will.

His hands gripped my back, fingers digging into the muscles, trailing up and down my spine, one landing on my butt to squeeze so hard I nearly winced.

Pain didn’t matter.

Only Will did.

I kissed him as deeply as the first time we’d lain beneath the ancient tree in Boston’s fabled garden. With the stroke of his tongue against mine, the taste of his breath, the growing heat and sweat between us, I stiffened.

And, dear God, so did he.

I felt him hardening, growing, leaking into me. The feel of his slickness as I moved against him sent a shiver across my skin. The thought of his life spreading across my stomach filled my soul.

For all the beauty in the world, none compared to what I saw in Will Shaw, what I felt in his arms. He transported me to another place and time, another life, and another world . . . and I never wanted to return to normalcy, never wanted to let him go.

He groaned beneath me as our cocks slid together, and my own wetness joined his, making a sticky slickness that drove me wild.

“I want you so bad,” he breathed.

“You have me, now and always.”

He squirmed and ground against me.

“I’m going to fill you so full tonight.”

His eyes opened wide, and a wry grin curled his lips. “Promises, promises.”

“Bedroom. Now,” I ordered, pushing off the couch and leaving him staring up.

He didn’t move.

I cocked my head and raised an eyebrow.

“Can a guy not have a minute to stare at his gorgeous man?”

Damn him. I blushed.

His grin widened. “When did you turn shy?”

“Shut up and get into the bedroom before I shove something in your mouth to keep you quiet.”

His eyes danced. “Now there’s an idea. Why don’t you come bend over my face?”

I hadn’t thought of that, but since he offered . . .

His slurps were loud, and I was sure saliva dribbled everywhere, but I didn’t care.

One of his hands gripped my balls, tugging them down, while the other squeezed the base of my shaft.

I couldn’t have been harder if I’d been made of stone.

Will’s head bobbed up and down, up and down, sending pleasure streaking through me like fire.

“Fuck, Will, that feels so good.”

His hand reached around and gripped my ass, shoving me so far down his throat I wondered how he didn’t gag.

My little pro. I was so proud.

His head bobbed faster.

Waves of heat rushed through me.

“Damn it, Will. You’re getting me close.”

He stopped immediately, craning his head back so my dick fell free.

“Not a chance. I haven’t had you in a month. You’re fucking the life out of me tonight.”

A laugh flew out. “Aye, aye, Cap’n.”

He shoved my chest, making me stumble off him. “Get your pretty Navy ass into the bedroom and grab the lube. You’re gonna need to slick that ship before it docks.”

I laughed again. “You really have to stop the nautical references. They’re about as sexy as chipped paint.”

Will got to his feet, grabbed my hand, and began leading me toward the bedroom.

“If the paint was on you, it would be hot as hell.”

I kissed the back of his neck, and he cooed. “Keep talkin’, sexy boy. You can have my ship or paint or whatever you want. ”

Will fell onto the bed, his gaze following me as I walked around to the nightstand, opened the drawer, and retrieved our sacred bottle of slimy goodness.

“Come here,” he instructed, holding out a hand.

I took it and climbed onto the bed, straddling him.

He reached up and grabbed the bottle, popping the top. Before I could react, he squirted a healthy amount all over my chest and stomach.

“Will!”

“Shut it. I want you glistening.”

His hand smoothed and spread the oil, coating every inch of me in shininess that reflected the lamplight, as though I was some skin-covered fun-house mirror, reflecting my light in every direction.

It might’ve seemed silly at first, but the way his fingers slid across my skin fanned the flames of his touch into a blaze across my body.

When I leaned down and smothered his frame with my own, and his skin became as wet and slick as mine, I thought I might explode right there.

“God, this feels good,” I said between kisses.

“Looks amazing, too. You should see yourself.”

I ducked my head into his shoulder. I’d never been one to get embarrassed, but Will’s praise was threatening to paint my ears a permanent red.

“Look at me when you kiss me,” he said, and we stared into each other as our lips met again. I swore I could feel his heart filling and growing, pulsing in a way that it only did for me.

My hands roamed his sides as my weight pressed him down, and he squirmed beneath me, shoving our cocks together, sliding them up and back. I could barely tell where he began and I ended. And that was perfect.

He spread his legs, putting one atop my shoulder, an instruction that needed no words.

I reached down, guided my cock, and slid into him.

His head flew backward, pressing into the pillow, his eyes squeezed shut as the first wave of pain settled.

I pushed in deeper.

He groaned and clenched his teeth.

With one last motion, he took all of me inside him.

His eyes opened.

His hands gripped my ass, and he held me still as he stared.

“You’re mine, Thomas Jacobs. Now and forever.”

I smiled. My heart swelled. My cock throbbed inside him.

“Now and forever, Will Shaw.”