Текст книги "Stranger on the Shore "

Автор книги: Josh lanyon

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Brian—Leland Alvin, rather—was seated on the marble bench in the tunnel of trees. He rose as Griff walked toward him, offering a sunny smile.

“New camera?”

“Is there something you want to say to me?” Griff was still too angry to fake friendliness.

“A lot of things. Let’s walk down to the cottage together. I want to make sure my mother’s journal doesn’t leave the estate with you.”

Griff gave him a look of disbelief. But that last had to be Muriel talking. She had always been possessive about Gemma’s journal. She could relax, though, because whatever she feared was in there wasn’t, as far as Griff could tell. “Suit yourself.”

He expected Alvin to launch into accusations about Griff snooping into his past, but they walked a few steps in silence before Alvin said, “Are you going to write the book?”

“Why does the idea of this book make you so nervous?”

Alvin met his eyes and once again Griff had that eerie sense of looking into a distorted mirror. Alvin said, “I’m a private person. Is that so hard to understand? I don’t want my private life dragged out into the open for people to ooh and ah over.”

“That’s going to happen anyway. Every newspaper in the country is going to be covering this story. Reporters with a lot more experience and resources than me are going to be asking questions. You’re news, whether you like it or not.”

Alvin didn’t like it. That was clear from his expression. “Jarrett will have something to say about that.”

“I’m sure he will, but even Jarrett doesn’t tell the New York Times what to print.”

Alvin brooded over this for a minute or two before shrugging it off. “I’ll put my money on the old man. So? Are you still writing the book?”

“I’m taking twenty-four hours to weigh my options.”

“If you don’t take that deal, you’re stupid. Jarrett will pay whatever you like.” Alvin added, “Within reason. Don’t get greedy.”

“I’m not greedy. And it’s not just about money.”

“Then I don’t know what it is about.”

Griff stopped walking and faced him. “Really? Because I thought that was the gist of your story. You didn’t let anyone know you were alive because you were uncomfortable with the idea of inheriting all this.” He waved impatiently at the surrounding parkland.

“I’m talking about you. If you’re publishing a book, you want to make money. Right?”

Griff started walking again. Alvin caught up and kept pace with him.

“So don’t be stupid. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Right? The Arlingtons are powerful people. You don’t want to make enemies.”

“Like I said, I’ll think about it.”

“You’re a bad loser, Hadley.” Alvin was smiling. Confident once more.

Griff said, “You’re not Brian. And we both know it.”

It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to say. Griff couldn’t help it. He was beginning to hate Alvin with a passion that surprised even him.

Maybe that showed because Alvin’s eyes narrowed. He said, “You don’t care if I’m Brian or not. That’s the truth. You wanted this for yourself.”

“You’re crazy!”

Alvin shook his head. “I knew the second I laid eyes on you what you were really after.”

“You’re out of your mind.” Griff spoke with contempt, but he was aware of a niggle of doubt. He had acknowledged to himself that he was too invested, identifying too strongly with this story. So much so that a couple of times it had even gone through his mind—

No.

His heart jumped and he felt that instant wave of cold, sick dread. It was like being confronted with a heavy and forbidding iron door, something absolutely immovable—understanding that somehow you had to get through that door—while at the same time knowing with certainty that something even more terrible waited on the other side. He had been stuck outside that door since arriving at the Arlington estate, and he was starting to feel more and more desperate.

Alvin was still talking, and Griff forced himself to pay attention. “But here’s the truth. I am Brian. Nothing can change that.” He looked at Griff, waiting for him to respond.

Griff didn’t answer. Couldn’t really.

They walked the rest of the way in silence. When they reached the cottage, Griff expected Alvin to barge in, but he waited on the doorstep until Griff got the journal and handed it over. It was not easy. He had come to feel close to Gemma, to feel protective of her, and handing over her most painful, private thoughts to someone like Alvin felt like a betrayal.

Alvin took the journal without a glance. “There’s an expiration date on that deal Jarrett made you. Don’t fuck around, Hadley, or you’ll end up with nothing. Anyway—” he pointed to his own forehead, “—looks to me like your investigation already hit a wall.” He grinned.

“Is that what Dirk told you? Nah. Rough party,” Griff said. “Speaking of which, I’ll see you tonight.”

He shut the door in Alvin’s startled face.

* * *

He packed before he dressed for the party.

It was his last night and he was hoping he would spend it with Pierce. They hadn’t discussed it. Pierce might not even realize Griff was leaving the next day. Either way Griff would be on the road at the crack of dawn. He still had no idea what answer he would give Jarrett.

In fact, all afternoon he struggled with an uncharacteristic but almost overwhelming sense of depression. Twice it got so bad he almost phoned Pierce. He honestly couldn’t think of anyone else to call, which worried him all the more.

He felt caught and confused, and the worst part was he wasn’t sure why. The smart thing, the sensible thing, would be to accept Jarrett’s offer. He had put in enough of his own time and financial resources on this project that it was reasonable to try and recoup his costs. Jarrett wanted to ease his conscience—maybe it was even more than that, maybe he had come to feel some affection for Griff—and why not let Jarrett do that?

Why not just this once make life easy for himself?

Instantly he could hear his mother’s voice warning about being beholden, about selling his soul, about the dangers of accepting anything from anyone, especially rich people, but lately the echo of her dire words sounded more like a rant than wisdom. Why was it only now he was recognizing how much fear had lain behind her anger?

Fear of what?

It was a good thing he was leaving this place. He hadn’t been himself since he’d arrived. Before he had come to Winden House everything had been safe and certain. Now he was confused and worried. So confused he wasn’t even completely sure what he was confused about. Jarrett Arlington was willing to give him a hundred thousand dollars and never bat an eye—and Griff felt like his heart was breaking.

That was about as confused as it got.

And that was before it struck him that he would probably never see Pierce again after tonight. That realization was so painful that he instantly put it aside. There would be plenty of time on the fifteen-hour drive back to Wisconsin to figure out how he had managed to get so attached to someone he spent half the time arguing with.

He spotted his battered copy of The Great Gatsby at the bottom of his suitcase. He hadn’t even had time to take it out yet. Tears stung his eyes.

That was so ridiculous, he laughed, hastily wiping at his wet lashes. Was he having some kind of breakdown? Because he really had not been at all himself this past week.

Stranger on the Shore was dead. But Jarrett was right, there were other stories out there. It was one book out of all the books Griff would one day write. Feeling like it was the end of the world because he couldn’t write this particular story didn’t even make sense. When had this story taken over his life? He wasn’t even sure. Somehow it seemed as if for years he had been trying to get...here. But he’d only learned about Brian Arlington’s kidnapping a few months ago.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, pressing his fingers to his temples. His head was thumping again, though not as bad as when he’d first woken in that barn in the middle of nowhere. Maybe he was having a brain bleed. Maybe he should have gone to see a doctor after all.

Once again he found himself wanting to call Pierce. And tell him what? I think I’m losing my mind?

He lowered his hands, rose from the bed, and went into the bathroom to shower and change for Brian’s Welcome Home party.

* * *

It was dark when he started through the tunnel of rhododendrons. A little way up the path, his cell phone rang.

Pierce, sounding like he was speaking in an under voice, said, “Jarrett told me you were coming to this thing tonight.”

“I am. I’m walking up now.”

“That’s a relief.” There was a pause. “I’ll see you in a few.” Pierce disconnected.

Griff walked slowly on. Leaves stirred, whispering, though there was no breeze. The arbor seemed uncannily alive. Pale petals drifted down like snow, and wings beat the air as birds swooped from one bower to the next. At the base of the trees, frogs’ voices croaked in cheerful disharmony, the changing timbres like the huffing and puffing of different-sized bellows. High overhead the golden moon peeped shyly through the interlace of leaves and branches, now and then its filmy rays catching one of the lurking bronze or marble figures, and a stag or a woman would seem to materialize in the gloom, softly gleaming, almost luminous, before fading once more into the shadows.

Griff continued walking, thinking that it must have been much like this the night Brian had been taken. Of course it was spring now, and much chillier than it would have been in June. But it must have felt like this that evening, with the Chinese lanterns and the black and white figures moving against the trees, a magical and mysterious night. A night when anything could happen.

Anything good or anything evil. Magic being an unpredictable commodity.

He thought he caught the distant notes of “Stranger on the Shore,” and realized that they must be playing music up at the house.

A scrape of sound at the end of the tunnel caught Griff’s attention. He looked up, his eyes straining the dark. A long shadow figure was coming swiftly toward him.

The hair rose on the back of his neck. He glanced around for a tree limb or one of the spiked solar lights he could use to defend himself, and then felt like an idiot when Pierce called, “I thought I’d walk down and meet you.”

What had he been thinking? That Brian was going to hire Dirk to kill him?

“I thought you were a ghost,” he called back. His alarm seemed funny now.

Four seconds later they were in each other’s arms.

Lovely to kiss in the wavering moonlight. Pierce’s mouth was hot and he’d had a drink. Griff was getting to like the taste of Black Velvet on Pierce’s tongue, and he liked the feel of Pierce’s hard arms around him. He kissed Pierce back with equal hunger, running his hand through the sleek softness of Pierce’s hair. It seemed like he could never quite get enough of Pierce.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” Pierce said, when their lips reluctantly parted.

“Same.” It felt right standing here in the circle of Pierce’s arms. Too right to move away, really, and Griff wondered what Pierce would say if he suggested they go back to the cottage.

“I was afraid you weren’t going to show up,” Pierce said. “Jarrett told me he tried to buy you off. Obviously he didn’t phrase it like that.”

“It’s funny hearing you phrase it like that.”

“I know how you think now.”

Griff laughed briefly. “Yeah, but I may take him up on it.”

He could feel Pierce trying to read his face in the hazy light. He rested his forehead on the solid ridge of Pierce’s shoulder and said, “I don’t know what to do.”

Pierce stroked his back, his hand a warm weight through Griff’s blazer. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

Griff shook his head. “Everything was so clear at first. Not anymore. I had a talk with Alvin today. He swears he is Brian.”

“Did you believe him?”

“No. But I’m not sure what I’m doing anymore. Or why I’m doing it.”

Pierce didn’t say anything, just continued to stroke Griff’s back in that almost absent, soothing way.

Griff raised his head. “Can I come back to your place tonight? It’s my last night.”

“Of course.” Pierce’s expression altered. He said in a different tone, “Your last night?”

“Yeah. Either way it’s my last night. I’ve got to leave tomorrow to be back at work on Tuesday.”

Pierce was so still he didn’t seem to be breathing. Then he said, “True.” He drew back from Griff, though his hands still rested on Griff’s shoulders. “Then let’s go up to the house. You can give Jarrett your answer and then we can get out of there. I don’t want to waste tonight welcoming Leland Alvin into the family.”

They didn’t talk on the trip back to the house. Pierce seemed lost in thought and Griff had plenty on his mind already. They held hands in a loose, casual clasp as they walked.

Leaving the tunnel of trees, Griff studied the moonlit checkerboard of the sunken garden. In the green-blue distance two of the statues looked like they were playing volleyball with a glowing gazing ball.

Pierce said, “We can cut through the library.”

Griff smiled, nodding. Of course Pierce would not deign to enter and exit through the kitchen. He followed Pierce along the unlit side of the house. Pierce opened a pair of French doors that led into a small reading room. Griff had a quick impression of petit point chairs and a low bookshelf topped with a forest of silver-framed photos of the Arlington children. A crystal vase with freshly cut roses sat on the drop-down leaf of an old-fashioned secretary.

“This was Nicole’s sitting room.”

Freshly cut roses in a room no longer in use seemed to Griff to perfectly exemplify everything good and bad about the Arlingtons.

Pierce led the way through the moonlit room to a side door. He opened the door and a yellow rectangle of light from the library fell across the carpet.

Griff followed Pierce through the doorway, which turned out to belong to the small door beside the fireplace that Griff had noticed the first day he worked in the library.

The library blazed with light. It smelled of furniture polish and old books and fresh flowers. Yet it smelled wrong. Off.

Pierce stopped short. Griff nearly walked into him.

Pierce didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

“What is it?” Griff glanced at him and then followed the line of Pierce’s silent stare.

At first all he saw was the broken clock. The smashed cage, the crushed blue and red feathers. His gaze traveled.

Brian—Leland Alvin—lay sprawled in front of the fireplace. He was lying facedown, but it was unmistakably him. The back of his blond head was matted and dark with gore. A few inches away from the hand he had raised in protection was a blood-smeared poker.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Pierce sucked in a sharp breath and started forward.

“He’s not alive, Pierce,” Griff said. How was it that Pierce didn’t instantly realize that?

“He might be.”

“No.” Griff caught Pierce’s arm, stopping him, drawing him back a step. “No, he isn’t. Don’t touch him.”

Pierce looked at him in disbelief, his eyes black in his white face. Griff realized that although Pierce was older and more experienced in almost every conceivable way, this was not one of the conceivable ways. Griff was the expert here. Griff had all too much experience with the dead, starting with coming home from college one afternoon to find his mother had overdosed on sleeping tablets.

Griff shook his head. “No. We don’t want to contaminate the crime scene more than we’ve already done.”

Pierce’s Adam’s apple jumped. Without another word, he got his phone out and dialed the Muttontown Police Department. He began to speak in a thick voice, and it was clear to Griff that Pierce had not called 911. Maybe his own perspective had changed over the last week, because that seemed like good thinking on Pierce’s part.

A woman screamed. The sound seemed to ricochet off the marble fireplace and tall windows.

Muriel stood in the doorway. She pointed at Alvin’s body, and as she continued to scream, her plump hand bounced like a child pretending to shoot with her finger. The red-rimmed O of her mouth seemed to swallow the rest of her face. Dreadful sounds poured out.

Pierce hastily finished speaking into his phone. “Muriel.” He went to her, widely skirting the scarlet spill of Alvin’s blood, and tried to walk her out of the room.

She wouldn’t be budged. She gripped Pierce’s arm with her free hand and continued to scream. Griff was surprised the windows didn’t shatter.

Pierce threw him a harried look. “We’re going to have the entire party down here,” he said.

That snapped Griff back to life. He nodded, giving the corpse a wide berth, squeezing past Pierce and Muriel, and sprinting down the long marble hall to the drawing room.

Laughter and talk greeted him before he reached the door, the volume of voices explaining why no one seemed to be responding to Muriel’s shrieks. No music. Why had he expected music?

The room was packed. Jarrett’s idea of a small party for family and close friends being a little different from Griff’s.

Griff scanned the crowded room, searching for a familiar face. He spotted Marcus in the alcove bar—and couldn’t blame him for that—and Diana and Chloe, heads together by the fireplace with another older woman who looked strikingly like Diana.

No, no, no, and...no. Jarrett was the only person really capable of dealing with a disaster of this magnitude, but Griff didn’t want to be the one to break this terrible news to him.

Mike. That’s who he needed. Say what you liked about Michaela’s wild past, she seemed pretty unflappable, and unflappable was what he needed.

“Hey, where’s Pierce?” Diana suddenly appeared at his shoulder, Chloe in tow. “He said he was going to meet you.”

“He’s, uh, in the library—” Where the hell was Mike? He said to Chloe, “Where’s your mother?”

Chloe said, “Who?”

“Michaela.”

“She’s being funny,” Diana informed him. “What we want to know is where is the guest of honor? I think he has stage fright. We’re taking bets on whether he’ll show.”

“I...”

“It’s like the Emperor’s New Clothes.” Chloe nearly spilled her drink as another guest jostled her arm. She glared at the woman. “I feel like I’m the only person in this house who can see how butt naked this guy is.”

“Excuse me.” Griff was relieved to spot Michaela and Ring deep in conversation with a woman he vaguely recognized as a celebrity chef. He left Diana and Chloe, edging his way through the crowd to Michaela’s side.

“Can I see you for a second?”

Michaela looked surprised, but excused herself to her companions and followed Griff out into the hall.

“There’s been an accident. Can you—”

“What do you mean?” Michaela interrupted. “What accident? Who’s had an accident?”

“Could you just make sure Jarrett—”

Michaela’s head shot up. She froze, listening intently. “That’s Muriel. That’s my sister. Where’s Muriel? What’s happened to Muriel?” She was away and running, her heels tapping down the marble hall.

A meaty fist closed around Griff’s bicep. “What is it? What’s going on?” Ring confronted Griff. “What’s wrong with Mike?”

“There’s been an accident. Wait. Someone has to talk to Jarrett—” But again he was talking to empty air as Ring shot after his wife, calling her name.

Griff went back into the drawing room and was met by Diana and Chloe, who now looked frightened.

“What the hell’s happening?” Chloe asked. “Something’s going on.”

Diana said, “Where’s Pierce?”

“Pierce is fine,” Griff said. “It’s not—” This time he was faster. He grabbed Diana’s arm and Chloe’s hand before they too darted away. “No. Listen to me. I need your help, Chloe. I’ve got some bad news. Can you get your uncle out here?”

“What news?” Her eyes widened. “Has something happened to Brian?”

He couldn’t help noticing how hopeful she sounded. “Yes. Can you get Marcus? The police are on their way. They’re going to be here any minute and I want your uncle to talk to Jarrett before they get here.”

Chloe looked around the room. “There he is.” She moved away.

“Brian’s dead, isn’t he?” Diana asked. She looked pale but calm.

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. It looks like it might be homicide,” Griff said.

“Murder? Oh no!”

Griff finally spotted Jarrett laughing and talking with two older couples. The sounds of alarm and anguish from down the hall were mounting as Michaela reached the library. He watched Chloe reach Marcus and speak to him, saw Marcus’s smile turn bewildered and then wary.

“Hurry,” he whispered.

Jarrett spied Griff hovering indecisively in the doorway. He came toward him, smiling. The happiness on the old man’s face seemed to shrink Griff’s heart in his chest.

“Griffin, my boy, you decided to join us. Excellent!”

Griff tried to think of something he could say, something that would prepare Jarrett.

Jarrett’s expression changed almost at once. “Is something wrong?”

Oh God.No. No, he did not want this task. Did not want this awful responsibility. It should be Michaela or Marcus. At the very least it should be Pierce. It should be someone who knew Jarrett, was close to Jarrett.

He licked his lips and said, “I think Marcus is going to—”

The wail of approaching sirens drowned him out, drowned out everyone, and the guests began to look at each other in surprise and then unease. It sounded as though the police had parked on the front lawn. Maybe they had.

“What is it?” Jarrett demanded. “What’s happened?”

To Griff’s relief, Marcus appeared at Jarrett’s side. “Father,” he intervened. He sounded out of breath. His face was ghastly.

Jarrett looked from Marcus to Griff then, ignoring Marcus, grabbed Griff’s arm with startling strength. “What’s happened? Tell me.”

“It’s bad news,” Griff said desperately. He covered Jarrett’s bony hand with his own, gripping him tight. “I’m sorry. It’s the worst news. Brian’s dead.”

Across the room Mrs. Truscott dropped a large silver tray of canapés. Her face was bloodless, her eyes black and hollow as she stared at them.

Jarrett gave a wounded sound. He reached for, but missed, the arm of a wingback chair and pitched forward.

Chloe squealed in alarm.

“Father!” shouted Marcus, dropping to his knees beside Jarrett’s prone figure.

Griff stared at the ring of stricken faces. “Call 911!” he yelled.

* * *

The ambulance had come and gone.

As had the coroner’s wagon.

The police were presumably still prowling the stately halls of Winden House. After being thoroughly questioned, Pierce and Griff, along with the other guests, had finally been allowed to leave.

Pierce had been on the phone since they’d left the estate. Ordinarily Griff would have been too. He had an exclusive on one of the biggest crime stories in the country and he was just lying here watching Pierce, cell in hand and clad only in pale blue silk pajama bottoms, stalk up and down the football field of his bedroom. But Griff had been through a police investigation before. It was different being on the inside. Even when everyone agreed you had nothing to do with it, told you not to blame yourself.

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do,” Pierce said crisply. He disconnected and set his phone on the bedside table. “Jarrett suffered a mild heart attack,” he told Griff. “They think he’s got a good chance of pulling through.”

Griff nodded. He wasn’t convinced of that. Jarrett had been living for Brian’s return, and now that dream had been taken from him.

Pierce climbed into bed beside Griff. “I guess this is proof you were right,” he said wearily. “Whoever got Brian out of the way the first time wasn’t about to sit still for his triumphant return from the grave.”

“I don’t know, Pierce. I’m still not convinced that Brian’s kidnapping is linked to Alvin’s murder.” In fact, Griff was almost sure the two crimes weren’t connected. Slowly, blindly, he had been feeling his way to this revelation from the moment he had arrived at Winden House. But how the hell could he begin to explain to Pierce? Pierce was going to think he was crazy. Or that he was another conman like Leland Alvin. He might even think Griff had a motive for murder.

Because this time it was murder. Of that, there was no doubt. On that score everyone was agreed. They would have to wait for the Medical Examiner’s official report, but preliminary findings indicated that between five and seven o’clock that evening, a person or persons unknown had repeatedly and fatally struck the man believed to be Brian Arlington over the head with a fireplace poker.

Pierce frowned. “I don’t know how you can stick to that theory in the face of everything that happened tonight.”

Griff sidestepped. “Because they were all so happy and relieved at Brian’s return. With the exception of Chloe, and Chloe couldn’t have had anything to do with Brian’s disappearance. She was a baby.”

“Are you saying you think Chloe killed Alvin?”

“What I’m saying is, Chloe was the only one who didn’t believe Alvin was Brian. The others did believe it, and they were happy. Heck, they were joyful. I don’t believe anybody was faking that joy.”

“So you do think Chloe killed him.”

“She doesn’t have a motive. She didn’t believe he was Brian.”

Pierce gave a disbelieving laugh. “That’s no alibi. Jarrett was changing his will in Alvin’s favor. So fake or not, Alvin was going to inherit everything. Which I think may have considerably reduced the universal joy at Brian’s return.” Pierce took his watch off and set it on the nightstand. “Maybe this is going to sound brutal, but Jarrett brought some of this on himself by changing the terms of the will so many times. For the last decade Muriel, Mike and Marcus all believed they were splitting the estate three ways. Not to mention all the other behests and bequests in that will. Then suddenly it’s all going back to Brian. I told Jarrett I thought he was making a mistake.”

“That’s the problem with that kind of money.”

Pierce looked at him. “I call bullshit,” he said. “We both know there are people out there who will cut your throat for lunch money. There is no specific dollar amount that turns people into killers.”

“You don’t think everyone has a price?”

“Do you have a price? What’s your price?”

“My price isn’t money.”

Pierce studied him for a moment. He smiled faintly. “I believe you.” He said lightly, “Do you want to know what my price is?”

“Yes.”

Pierce’s eyes darkened. He reached for Griff and Griff was happy to respond. He wrapped his arms around Pierce’s broad back and opened his mouth to Pierce’s tongue. Pierce kissed him deeply, sweetly, and Griff’s heart seemed to melt in his chest. Already this felt so familiar, so natural, so right.

He could taste the words as Pierce whispered, “Would you want to...? Would you let me?”

Griff swallowed so hard his throat hurt as though he had gulped down river rock, and the sound that came out was an inarticulate moan. Yes. Of course yes.

Pierce covered his mouth, pushing Griff’s pliant weight into the mattress. Griff arched up, Pierce slammed back and for a minute they were awkwardly out of sync, Griff zigging, Pierce zagging, the knock and poke of knees and hip bones and ribs where there should have been hot flesh and hard muscle.

Pierce made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a gasp, pulling back, and Griff moaned again, only this time in frustration.

“I’m right here,” Pierce said breathlessly. Which sounded promising but was not exactly accurate since he was moving away, groping for the bedstand drawer, rifling through its contents.

“Pierce.”

“Coming...”

“Well, you’re the only one who is.” Griff’s hand moved to his cock, stroking comfortingly.

Pierce laughed and flung himself down. “Don’t start without me.” He tore open the condom packet and Griff watched, fascinated, as Pierce pulled the flesh-colored hood over his thick, rigid cock. It gave him a fluttery feeling in his belly knowing in seconds Pierce was going to be inside him, was going to fuck him.

Pierce’s lashes lifted. He met Griff’s eyes and he smiled with such unguarded affection that Griff’s heart ached. Pierce unscrewed the cap from the tube he held, and Griff got a whiff of something than reminded him of vacations, a faint woodsy scent with a hint of orange and sandalwood.

“That’s nice,” he said huskily.

Pierce nodded. “Lift your knees.”

Griff obeyed, bringing his knees up, stretching out his arms, waiting, eyes closed. He felt the coolness of the lubricant first and then the first delicate brush of Pierce’s fingertip pushing into his anus. His heart hammered against his ribs. Just this, the feel of Pierce’s finger entering his body, was almost unbearably exciting. His own cock was painfully hard, bobbing against his belly. Pierce touched him with bone-melting expertise, knowing the exact place that made Griff catch his breath and bear down.

Pierce said, “Do you like this?”

Griff nodded frantically.

Pierce said, his voice soft, the words startlingly frank, “I like watching your face when I do this to you. I like the way your throat moves and I like those little quivers your eyelashes make when I do this.” He pressed the spongy nub of Griff’s prostate and Griff gave another of those ragged gasps.

“Pierce...”

“And that. I like that too. The way you say my name. And I like watching my finger moving inside and out of you. Your skin is so pale. Except for that little pink circle. There. I like the weight of your balls resting against my hand.”

Levi had done a lot of talking during sex, but Griff realized now that Levi had never really said anything. Maybe that was why he had never been able to come up with the answers Levi wanted. He had never completely understood the question. Now Griff’s entire body felt flushed and alive with a mix of physical response and pleasurable confusion as Pierce spoke to him, touched him with silky-slick fingers. It was almost dizzying to have this much attention focused on him. Appreciative attention, that was the difference. Who knew appreciation could be an aphrodisiac?

“You’re going to make me come,” he warned, opening his eyes.

“You want to come like this?” Pierce asked. “Or when I’m fucking you?”

Griff almost lost it, but managed somehow to hang on, to plead thickly, “Fuck me, Pierce. Please fuck me.” More, right there, than he had ever managed with Levi.