Leftside of the Moon

Dance Wars: Left Side of the Moon Sophia Titheniel All rights reserved. Copyright ©2008 Sophia Titheniel Warning: T...

Author: Titheniel Sophia

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Dance Wars: Left Side of the Moon Sophia Titheniel All rights reserved.

Copyright ©2008 Sophia Titheniel

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is

illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary

gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison

and a fine of $250,000.

ISBN: 978-1-60521-148-0

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Publisher:

Changeling Press LLC

PO Box 1046

Martinsburg, WV 25402-1046

www.ChangelingPress.com

Editor: Margaret Riley

Cover Artist: Reneé George

This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

Dance Wars: Left Side of the Moon Sophia Titheniel The Pony Express Rides Again… On a motorbike. Lachlan enjoys living on the edge, and in a war-torn land rife with savagery, life as a Pony Express Rider puts good cash in his pockets and, on occasion, a roof over his head. Any roof will do. Doesn’t have to be his. Until his path clashes with Adair’s. At the Chlodwig, a ramshackle pub renowned for its dance fights and high stakes betting, Lachlan and Adair’s heated argument turns into something far more raw and powerful -- something neither of them is prepared for. Something Lachlan’s not sure he can recover from. This time, he’s met his match. But beyond the cover of the dance fights, Adair belongs to a group of scavengers, thieves who make Pony Express Riders their intended targets. Is Lachlan prepared to risk his loyalty, his job, and everything he thinks he’s earned -- for a werewolf?

Chapter One Too fuckin’ cold out here. Riding the Pony Express rounds at this time of the year is an absolute, complete bitch. Dark, frozen earth scatters like marbles as Lachlan roars over it, the debris crunching beneath the dusty black tires of his motorbike. Bits and pieces of crap pulled together with iron and brass, an engine that had once belonged to the battlefields held together with black tape, spit and prayer -- mismatched and gloriously so -- Lachlan’s motorbike speeds across the borders of the once-upon-a-time States of the Union. He’s freezing, starving, and exhausted, and there isn’t a single holein-the-wall in sight to take a break. His supply of whiskey ran dry about thirty miles back, right after his last stop in Baltimore to refill the gas tank and drop off a package. The tires screech, nearly worn down to their rims. Lachlan pulls his bike back in balance. He knows he should’ve gotten it checked in Germantown, but the scavengers were on his tail and he only thought about making it out of there and to Baltimore before they could get him. Being a Pony Express rider is a good way to make fast money, but a guy has to have both skills and speed, and you need to be insane enough to risk riding out in the open after curfew. Lachlan is all of the above, and more. He’s got enough cash with him to find a bar, get himself some booze to keep warm with before hitting the road again, and that’s really the only thing that matters to him now. Crazy as his fellow riders might think he is, he’s surely not suicidal enough to spend the night in Washington. Punks, scavengers, crews of outlaws and mutants who have taken refuge in what once was the jewel of the military base don’t qualify the District as a safe environment for a Pony Express rider -- most of their troubles come from the population of the Coast. Lachlan follows the road until he finds himself in what used to be the Navy Yard, then cuts to his right, trying to ignore the looks he’s attracting from the locals. He

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knows they must know who he is -- only Pony Express men ride motorbikes these days, after all. With that in mind, Lachlan accelerates a little. He’s not interested in a pissing contest with anyone who thinks they want to take a shot at an Express rider. Had enough of that in Seattle. Now he just wants enough whiskey to fill his flask and he’ll be as good as gone. Some simple whiskey isn’t too much to ask after a bloke’s busted his ass working non-stop for the past fifty-six hours, is it? Lachlan pushes his protective goggles up on his forehead, eyes narrowing as he looks through the brightly burning garbage barrels and sees people huddled in corners or swarming out of invisible alleys and side doors as they hear the roar of his engine, coming to see the show. Super. The quicker he gets off the main road and into a more secluded section of town, the better. He gives his bike’s handle a sharp turn and cuts across an empty, bleak square down a sloppy lane, pulling the brakes as he slows to a stop. The old condos, those built before the Third War, are nothing but masses of crumbled up chalk and brick. He smiles, wry and humorless, as he stops in front of a ramshackle building with low lights filtering through the boarded up windows. Rusty trucks and re-built cars crowd the stretch of clearing right next to it, a pompous excuse for a parking lot right on the edge of gnarled, tangled trees and grass that’s grown up as tall as his bike. He looks up at the dark, cloudy sky ahead, suppressing a shiver. He definitely needs something warm to cheer him up, and the sooner the better. Propping up his bike, he unfastens the knife from the handle and slides it in his back pocket. He’s seen places like this dive bar before, and usually tries to avoid ’em, but there’s no way in hell he can make it to the station if he doesn’t take care of some basic needs. Arming the security system on his bike always amuses Lachlan -- he grins to himself as he does so. A security code activates a morphic illusion that makes his bike look like a worthless tangle of rusty metal. His friend Eric, an Express rider who designed the camouflage, deserves a medal for that stellar piece of work. Lachlan always thought Eric’s true vocation lay not in riding, but in hacking and coding.

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Lachlan slides his sunglasses into his leather’s front pocket, pinching the bridge of his nose as he does so. An icy draft whips at his face, so he puts his head down and thrusts his hands into his pockets, hurrying to the heavy-looking door and pushing it open with his shoulder. The barroom’s nothing short of dismal inside, dirty and dank, but there’s a fire crackling beneath a wide, finely carved marble fireplace. Lachlan wonders where it came from. Maybe the Pentagon? It was rumored to be on this side of town. His skin tingles at the abrupt but welcome change in temperature. The few people scattered about are playing rounds of cards or nursing their own drinks, each of them indifferent to the new arrival, and that suits Lachlan just fine. He takes off his jacket, throwing it on an empty stool in front of the bar, and raps the wooden surface with his knuckles. “D’ya have any JD?” The barman, a carbon copy of every other barman Lachlan’s met on his roaming around the country, looks at him from underneath a bushy eyebrow and plucks the cigar out of his mouth to speak. “Money up front.” Lachlan slips a hand underneath his jacket, plucks two bills out of the elastic band that keeps his savings together and hands them to the barman. The man eyes him up and down with a slight sneer, then limps off and disappears behind a curtain halfhidden by darkness and dust. Must be where he keeps his stock. Lachlan twiddles his fingers and huffs out a sigh. He’d swear he can hear his frozen, tired limbs purring with contentedness at the newfound warmth. If it weren’t for the fact that he’s at the pit of the known world and to stay safe he needs to keep moving, he’d curl up and sleep for twelve hours straight. “Downstairs.” The barman reappears to deliver that message, popping up practically out of thin air. The unexpected swift movement makes the hair at the back of Lachlan’s neck stand up in discomfort. He nods and grabs the brass token the man’s handed to him, picking up his jacket and walking in the direction the bartender indicates.

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The rickety staircase, illuminated only by naked light bulbs set around the railings, looks dangerous, so Lachlan’s cautious as he descends. As he approaches the bottom of the stairs, he hears the faint thump, thump, thump of music filtering from the latched door. He pulls at the hook screwed in the center that serves as a knob, and blanches at the deafening volume he’s met with the second the door opens. He sets off, eyes peeled, his fingers curled around the handle of his knife. A guy can never be too careful. Pubs and clubs in the cities are a bit of a sanctuary for all those creatures who couldn’t disguise themselves in the “human” world. The clientele in the basement, though, looks exactly the same as the one you would see in any regular bar in the country, and for an instant Lachlan feels a bit let down. With a setup like that, he was at least expecting a couple of vampires. A woman with a red corset saunters over, draping herself over his back. Lachlan goes rigid, his hand tightening around his knife. “Not interested,” he says calmly, the pocket where he’s hidden his money burning. “You here for the fights, sugar?” The fights? “That’s right.” He grabs her wandering hand and pushes her away, none too gently. “And I’m not interested.” The music’s even louder now that he’s fully in the room. An opening lies before him, between the tables, right in front of the bar. People are pushing at each other for the best viewing spots, some of them exchanging money and talking excitedly among themselves. Lachlan frowns, the brass coin heavy in his palm. For fuck’s sake, he just wants a bottle of whiskey already. Instead of making a fuss about it, he takes a seat in front of the bar, craning his neck to try and locate the person he has to hand the coin to. The sooner he leaves, the better. If he makes good time, the Dulles station is twenty-five miles west, and a good night of sleep sounds just about fantastic right now. The barman walks up to him, taking a dour glance at Lachlan’s coin. Either he’s an identical twin of the barman upstairs, or he’s a clone, or maybe all barmen look the same -- Lachlan doesn’t care. It’s even warmer here. A slight sweat’s starting to bead on

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the nape of his neck, and his long hair is sticking to his skin. He rubs his hand over his neck as if to displace an irksome fly. Turning to toss the hair off his shoulder, he stops abruptly when he finds himself looking across the bar into the brightest gray eyes he’s ever seen. They look like molten silver, like shards of moonlight around large, black pupils. Lachlan blinks and leans across the bar for a better look. The guy’s still staring, unmoving, as if he’s waiting for something or someone, and Lachlan fights the urge to turn his head and see if he’s looking at anyone else beside him. “Here,” the barman grunts, the bottle landing in front of Lachlan with a heavy thunk. Lachlan feels like crying in relief. He grabs at the neck of the bottle and tips it back, taking a long, blissfully scorching hot sip. It burns in his throat and in his empty stomach, but he doesn’t mind. Limbs that he hadn’t quite thought were still connected to his body waken, making him feel more alive than he’s been in quite a few hours. Bless you, whiskey. He fills his flask, finishing in a single gulp the glassful left over, and, handing the empty bottle back to the barman, decides it’s time to head back out on the road. If nothing happens, he’ll manage to be at the station in less than an hour. “Want to take a chance there?” Lachlan looks down at a bucketful of dollar bills held by some clown who’s up in his face and frowns. “Take a chance on what?” “Leave it, Riff.” A shiver runs down Lachlan’s back. He knows who the voice belongs to even before he raises his eyes to meet the man’s compelling, liquid gray ones. “He’s one of them bikers,” the man says like it’s an insult. Lachlan smirks, his uneasiness with the stranger’s mesmerizing eyes melting away. He leans both elbows against the counter. When he doesn’t add any money to the pot, the bookie gives him a look of disgust and moves on to take someone else’s bet, but Lachlan’s too used to that kind of crap to rise to the bait. “Envy’s still a sin, innit?” he drawls.

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The man smiles, revealing white, perfect teeth. There’s a thin scar on his upper lip, but his face looks young. He might be around Lachlan’s age. He’s taller, though, and far bulkier, if the arms encased in his clingy red shirt are anything to go by. “Sins were voted out in 2142,” he says to Lachlan, his voice low and smooth. “Good thing, too, or how could whores like yourself still be around?” He slides off his stool to the sound of people laughing raucously, shifty looks thrown in Lachlan’s direction. Lachlan grits his teeth. There’s nothing to be gained picking up a fight in an offthe-road city pub, but the whiskey’s pumping through his system, spurring him to recklessness. He pushes himself up to a standing position, eyes narrowed as he stares down the gray-eyed stranger. “Hey, Riff?” he calls to the bookie, not looking away. “Want to place some money on who’s gonna be flat on his back next?” All around the club, people whistle and catcall. A number of them press in to get a better look at the competitors, already scenting blood, but the man simply smiles at Lachlan, shaking a lock of long dark hair backwards with a flick of his head. “You might want to take a better look at who you’re challenging, biker boy.” Without waiting for Lachlan’s comeback, he pushes through the crowd, four nameless cronies following, and walks directly into the cleared space in the middle of the room. As he does the music kicks up a notch, now just this side of deafening. Lachlan watches, muscles tense as a bowstring, eyes glued to the back of the stranger’s head as he moves, his limbs long and graceful like a predator’s, finding his place at the center of the floor, the four other men following on his heels. “Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen!” Riff yells, waving the bucket as he circles the ring of people around the floor. Lachlan waits, eyes peeled and his focus tight, the whiskey thrumming in his veins. He’s prepared to challenge the man, his arms tense and coiled, ready for a fight. If no one bets for him, it’s even better -- he’s going to raid all their soiled money and get one back on the motherfucker in a single go.

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He’s almost reached the cleared space when four other people march out to meet the man and his cronies, and he frowns. He wants the chance to take the gray-eyed bastard out on his own. Why so many people? The music stops for a beat, then picks up in tempo, and what Lachlan sees brings him screeching to a halt just as if he’s been slammed into a brick wall. All of the men move like wild animals, graceful and dangerous and fast, their legs spread and arms thrown wide at perfectly calculated angles. A steady thump, thump, thump of feet and heels slams into the floor in sync with the bass beat reverberating from the amps, all shooting straight to Lachlan’s gut. The man’s long, dark hair falls back as he tosses his head, his arched neck exposed, his body swaying to the music along with those who surround him. His moonlight-colored eyes are half-closed, beads of sweat crowning his forehead as he bows backwards, hips thrust out, until he can place both hands down on the ground and flip his legs up, causing an uproar from the watchers. Lachlan’s mouth is as dry as the plains around Orlando in August. He’s never seen anyone dance like this. It reminds him of the old Maori war dances. Dangerous. Yet the music doesn’t fit. Not even the steps, if they can be called steps. Lachlan’s never been interested in hanging out at music clubs like his coworkers seem to -- all you could pick up if you went out and about were skanks and giggling girls, and Lachlan’s not really a ladies’ man. All the same, this is dancing the way it should be. It’s art. Lachlan can’t stop watching. He doesn’t give a damn about the other guys moving along with the darkhaired stranger. He’s obviously the team leader, the one who catalyzes the energy of the cheering, yelling crowd, and rebounds it on his mates. The thought simmers underneath Lachlan’s skin, a liquid heat that spreads from his gut to every cell of his body. He’s surprised to feel disappointed as the four of them move backwards to one end of the floor, arms around each other, eyes shining from the adrenaline rush. The

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men he’d seen move into the open space before the stranger began to dance slide to their knees in the middle of the floor, starting to dance as well. It’s like they’re rebutting the other crew’s dance, Lachlan thinks -- and then it hits home and he understands. These are the fights. The two crews are challenging one another, their routines getting wilder and wilder as the battle grows in intensity. Dance Wars. Lachlan’s blood thrums in a mad rush in his ears, his limbs tingling. There’s no contest as to who is going to win this battle, and as much as a part of him detests that it’s the gray-eyed man’s crew who’s going to kick the others’ asses back into the crowd and collect the watchers’ uproar of triumph, another part of Lachlan can’t keep his eyes off him. “Midnight’s Crew wins again!” Riff yells among the mingled cries of victory when it’s done, all too soon. “Put your hands up for Adair and his men, c’mon!” Adair. The man had a name.

Chapter Two The music slows down now, the volume decreasing. People talk excitedly among themselves, collecting their earnings, laughing, slapping each other’s backs, but for all Lachlan cares, he could be in an empty, silent room. Those eyes are looking at him, mirth and smugness dancing in the clear irises, and before Lachlan can do so much as take a step, he’s gone. Lachlan blinks and jerks himself out of his reverie. He cuts through the mass, elbows colliding rather painfully into ribs and shoulders, dashing up the stairs as quickly as he can. The floor level’s empty now. Figures everyone had gone downstairs to watch the battle. Out in the open, the icy cold wind that whips his face works to clear his head better than any cold shower could. He slows down, wills his heartbeat to do the same. What the fuck has gotten into his head? This Adair guy was just a city punk, nothing different than the dozen others he’s seen every time they send him to cruise the Coast. They’d had it harder. Wars started there, radiation, mutants, blah fucking blah. Lachlan’s heard the story a million times from a million different people, and he’s even gotten tired of repeating he doesn’t give a damn. War’s over, time they buck up and deal. He never could stand whiners. Not like times had been easy for them out in the country, either. He shrugs on his jacket, pulling the knife out of his pocket and strapping it over the handle of his bike. He’s lingered too long. He should already be off to the Dulles Station, a bed and a warm body tucked in next to him. He’s easily satisfied. “Running off, biker boy? Headin’ back ta court, tail between your legs?” Lachlan’s back goes rigid. He turns, eyes narrowed to try and see through the nearly complete darkness, only to find out there was no need. Those gray eyes shine like glowing silver in an otherwise shadowed face.

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“Don’t come back,” Adair says, low and smooth. “This ain’t a place for a street whore like yourself.” “Oh, really?” Lachlan’s blood rushes white-hot in his ears. “And I suppose you think you’re going to make me regret it if I do?” He bares his teeth in a feral grin of his own as he circles his bike, leaning against it with his ankles crossed on the gravel. “Think I’m scared of you?” Adair smiles, the white of his teeth gleaming under the washed out streetlight. “You should be.” “This is even more pathetic than the three little moves you showed off in the basement. By the way, impressive how quickly you got hold of the winnings. Now, who’s the whore again?” Adair moves so fast Lachlan doesn’t see him coming, not until he’s right in his face, the liquid silver of his eyes boring into him. “I wouldn’t run amok challenging people you can never win against, biker boy,” he whispers, a thin cloud of breath misting his face from Lachlan’s vision for an instant. “Scary dangerous, that’d be.” “I’m shitting myself here,” Lachlan shoots back, his full lips curving in a sardonic smile. “It’s really a pity you couldn’t follow up your threats if you tried.” The slivers of gray around Adair’s pupils get almost completely swallowed by black. He shifts even closer, their bodies pressed chest to chest, hips to hips, the seat of the bike digging in the small of Lachlan’s back. Lachlan swallows, a tiny tremor running down his spine, own eyes dilating as he stares in Adair’s gray ones. “You really don’t want to piss me off, biker boy,” Adair whispers, his breath hot and damp against Lachlan’s lips. “Cause I can promise you, I wouldn’t be the one flat on his back.” Lachlan’s hand shoots out, and he grunts when instead of meeting his target, he’s blocked by Adair’s forearm. A hand sneaks out and grips his other wrist, pinning it to the seat of the motorbike and preventing him from reaching for the knife. Whiskey spurring him on, Lachlan grabs at Adair’s bicep to keep balance and slams his forehead

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against the bridge of Adair’s nose. Adair grunts, fingers around his wrist tightening painfully as he pins him down against the bike, his body weight nearly twice Lachlan’s. Lachlan lunges at him with his free arm, and before either one can think they are falling backwards, the bike digging painfully against Lachlan’s back as it slips in the gravel and hits the ground. Adair snarls and tries to yank him back, but Lachlan kicks out, wild and reckless, and hits his target. They hit and claw at each other until Lachlan can feel the blood running from his nose and see the blood dripping from Adair’s split lip, until Adair pushes him face first in the ground, both wrists trapped in one of his large hands, gravel and bits of leaves scratching at Lachlan’s face. He groans in frustration, trying to buck Adair off him, but Adair’s strength is unyielding. “You might want to think about who you’re measuring up against before you do something rash,” Adair breathes against his ear, and Lachlan can feel his smirk against his own skin. Suddenly he’s turned around, air leaving his lungs in a rush as he spins and falls down on his back again. Adair holds him fast, his breath only slightly labored as he grins ferally down at Lachlan’s struggles. Lachlan swallows, a rush of heat spiraling from his gut to the rest of his body. “Or what?” he whispers, all his nerves endings raw. “You’re gonna make me beg?” “You can count on that.” Their mouths mash together. Lachlan can taste blood, coppery iron, and he groans, his hands twisting in Adair’s grip. He can feel the rigid of Adair’s dick against his own and he spreads his legs, the heels of his boots digging into the ground. Adair chuckles. The sound reverberates against Lachlan’s lips, and Adair bites into Lachlan’s lower one, tongue lapping at the droplets of blood spilling from the cut. “Such a slut,” Adair murmurs, nudging Lachlan’s head up with his chin, teeth pulling at the tender skin of his throat. Lachlan gasps, jerking underneath him, but there’s something about Adair, a solid strength that he’s never met in anyone else. The thought is both scary and hot as hell at the same time. Lachlan’s blood rushes southwards, pumped up by booze, filling him with wild, unaccustomed daring. “Hark who’s talkin’,” he spits back, his ankle

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twisting around Adair’s leg. He manages to make Adair lose his balance, his chest falling heavy on Lachlan’s with a grunt. “Least I’m not shaking my ass out there for a few bucks.” The comeback doesn’t take long -- Adair’s growl travels down Lachlan’s neck to his rapidly hardening cock, and he’s pushed down onto the ground so hard he can feel gravel cutting through his jacket. Adair covers his mouth with his own again, the clash of teeth on teeth bordering on painful, and tightens his grip on Lachlan’s wrists, hard enough to leave bruises. Lachlan groans, tongue tangling around Adair’s as he tries to give back as good as he gets. He’s never been this turned on in his whole life, hips jerking up, striving to try and get the upper hand and growing harder as he realizes he can’t. Adair pushes himself up on his knees, shifts until he’s straddling Lachlan’s face, his crotch hot, heavy, smelling like musk and sex as he shoves it against Lachlan’s mouth and nose, the denim rough over Lachlan’s lips. “Lick it up, slut,” Adair growls, his fingers digging painfully into the skin of his wrists. “Get it nice and wet cause that’s all you’ll be getting.” Lachlan keens, breath cut off by the powerful, heady weight of Adair’s dick, senses flooded with the thick feel of arousal. He struggles to suck in a breath, all his blood rushing southwards at an alarming speed as he chokes against the pressure, his own cock diamond hard inside his leathers. Adair pulls back a split second before it gets dangerous, and air burns down Lachlan’s throat as it fills his chest. He gasps and swallows, eyes glazed as he looks up into Adair’s face, his dark gray eyes burning like molten glass, watching as he pulls his zipper down, the head of Adair’s dick shining wet, and fuck, Lachlan can barely suck in a breath before he’s pushing past his lips, rigid and unrelenting, the girth stretching and filling his mouth more than he could’ve thought. “Fuck,” Adair groans, his hand bruising the tender skin of Lachlan’s wrist, his other hand going to cup Lachlan’s cheek, feeling the shape of his cock pulling his mouth wide open. “That’s it.”

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Lachlan gags, the thick length filling his mouth and sinking in his throat, and holy fuck, he can’t breathe -- Adair holds him down fast with his knees against his shoulders, his hand binding Lachlan’s arms above his head, palm tilting his face up to have his dick slide just a bit deeper. “Look how you take it, God, such a fucking slut, just waiting to be used.” Lachlan’s throat closes around the tip of Adair’s cock, and he swallows convulsively as he fights to breathe through his nose, hips thrusting up into nothingness as he twists on the harsh ground. Adair slams, rams, pulls back again, fucking him rough and hard, the line to painful blurring deliciously as he lies there and takes it, because there’s nothing else he can do. Adair’s hand leaves his face to tangle in his hair, and Lachlan arches up, gasping harshly when Adair pulls his dick out, his throat burning, lips wet and bruised. Adair slaps the head of his cock against his cheek, fat dollops of pre-come trailing down the side of his jaw and on the corner of his lips. Lachlan darts his tongue out to collect it, half-mast eyes glazed with tears. “Not so snarky anymore, are we?” Lachlan yanks at his wrists, groaning when the iron grip of Adair’s hand just won’t budge. He narrows his eyes, delivers one of his sharpest sneers. “That’s all you got there, big man?” he spits, and fuck, fuck, he can still feel Adair’s huge dick on his tongue, on the roof of his mouth, filling him, sliding down his throat. He’s grasping at straws here, because he’s never been this turned on in his life, but he’ll be damned if he lets Adair know. He cries out, pain and surprise blending when he’s yanked back up by his hair, blond strands falling loose. Adair’s shifted his knees so he’s not pressing Lachlan down by his shoulders, but it takes him a few seconds to actually process that, muscles sore and still throbbing. Adair’s eyes are almost completely black now, looking down at him with the kind of hunger that makes Lachlan feel lightheaded with want and need.

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“I’ll show ya what I got,” he promises him, his breath fanning Lachlan’s swollen lips, and Lachlan shivers, fighting to suppress a moan as his head falls back on the ground. Adair settles between his spread legs, the hand that isn’t occupied in keeping Lachlan pinned to the ground skidding down his torso and twisting in the straps of Lachlan’s leather pants. He rips them open, pulling them down past his knees, cool air whipping across heated flesh and causing a full body shudder to whack through Lachlan as he jerks up, desperate for contact. Adair chuckles, dark and low, cups Lachlan’s tight balls and pushes them hard up against his body. “Seriously,” he muses, voice rough and slightly breathless, “I knew you were easy the moment you walked in, but I didn’t know how easy.” Lachlan opens his mouth to answer, but Adair squeezes his sac, extracting a long keening noise from his lips, his dick leaking hotly against his belly. Adair repeats the movement once, twice, three times, leaving Lachlan gasping and writhing on the ground, his dick on fire. “See, takes nothing to have you moan like the whore you are,” Adair whispers, letting go of his balls and slipping his hand down between his legs. Lachlan groans and arches up, trying to rub his dick against something, trying to release some of the wicked pressure building in his belly. Adair twists his wrist, molding his palm over the crease of Lachlan’s ass, dry fingers riding the smooth crease. Lachlan grits his teeth together, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool night air as he tries to fight the urge to rock against the tantalizing touch. Adair screws his fingers up and pushes two of them past the tight ring of muscle at the entrance, hurting so good, and Lachlan cries out, twisting his wrists against the grip of Adair’s hand, legs spreading out wide open. Adair rams them in to the knuckle, then pulls out, then straight back in, quick, rough, painful, not a means of preparation but a promise of what’s to come. He’s fucking Lachlan with his hand, not letting him adjust, not trying to go for his prostrate, just thrusting into him over and over, a slight

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sheen of sweat breaking over Adair’s forehead as he shifts his wrist and exchanges two for three. Lachlan moans and bucks up, neck and back straining, all his nerves on fire. Adair dips his head and bites down on the blossoming bruise on Lachlan’s throat and Lachlan lets go of a groan, his dick blood-heavy and neglected, throbbing between his legs. The fingers in his ass twist and stroke, leaving him burning inside out, aching, sweating, wanting more. “Fuck -- you --” he manages to grind out, eyes screwed shut as he rocks against Adair’s fingers. “That’s all you got? Get on with the program already!” Adair pulls his fingers out, scratching on tender skin, and spits in his open palm. He strokes his dick once, then pushes Lachlan’s thighs up against his chest, aligning himself and plunging steadily forward, the thick, wide girth stretching him almost impossibly open. Lachlan cries out, back going rigid, the burn too raw, too painful, chest heaving as he fights to keep breathing. His arms feel like lead, heavy and sluggish after being restrained so long, and it takes him a while to realize that Adair’s not holding him down anymore, his hand flitting across his face lightly, too lightly. Lachlan whimpers, his tongue sneaking out to lick at his dry lips, eyes glassy as he looks up at Adair. For a moment everything stills, quiet, immobile, the full length of Adair’s dick filling him up completely, more than he’d thought possible, hot, huge, and fucking perfect. He moans, long and guttural, eyes rolling back in his head as Adair tilts his face up, baring his throat as he pulls out, leaving Lachlan aching and empty before driving back in again in one smooth, quick thrust. Another cry wrenches from Lachlan’s lips as he rocks back on Adair’s dick, but Adair’s drawing out again, not giving him time to adjust, to feel, the shock of being empty only adding to the boiling hot pressure when Adair rams back in, over and over. “Fuck, so fucking tight, dear Lord, made to be fucked.” Adair’s voice is scratchy hoarse. It travels down Lachlan’s neck to his belly and thighs, hot coals of need and want curling up at the base of his spine. Adair’s fingers slip past his lips, index and middle, and Lachlan suckles greedily, lips closed around the knuckles, cheeks hollowed

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out as he looks in Adair’s face through lowered eyelashes. His cock’s bobbing up and down on his belly with every new, powerful push-pull-slide of Adair’s thick, stiff dick in his hole, pre-come pooling sticky hot on the stretch of skin below his navel and on the hem of his shirt. “Look at you,” Adair murmurs. “Look how you open up for my cock. Like your hungry little hole can’t get enough of it.” Lachlan twists his hips up, the heels of his boots digging in Adair’s back, and Adair’s pace falters, face screwed tight. “So fucking hungry for this,” he grunts, slamming back into him to the hilt, making Lachlan moan deliriously around the fingers in his mouth. Adair looks down at Lachlan, plump lips wrapped prettily around his fingers, and swears under his breath, hips snapping hard, driving his dick deeper into Lachlan’s pliant body. He grunts and fucks, his fingers mimicking the pace he’s keeping with his cock, grabbing at Lachlan’s thigh and hooking his leg over his elbow to get him to spread wider. Lachlan mewls, every nerve on fire, bolts of pleasure shaking him, turning him inside out with each hard push. His dick is nearly exploding with sheer need, and he winds his tongue between Adair’s fingers, sucking on them as if they were Adair’s cock as he gets fucked well into the ground, his hands grasping at the handle of the bike behind him, fighting to hold onto something. Adair pulls his fingers out of Lachlan’s mouth, trails them down his throat, leaving burning wet trails on the reddened skin. Lachlan arches up, back leaving the ground, trying to follow the touch of Adair’s hand, his skin tingling white-hot in its wake. Before he knows it, the tips of Adair’s fingers brush against his outstretched hole, wet and clenching around his dick. Lachlan’s eyes widen for an instant and he’s opened his mouth to speak when Adair pushes his fingers right in alongside his dick. All his breath leaves him in a keening cry, body jerking violently as Adair slams into him again, and again, the change in angle and pressure making him hit the soft bundle of nerves inside of him with every single thrust. “So full of cock,” Adair rumbles, fingers leaving bruises on the tender skin of Lachlan’s thigh, hips snapping with a vengeance, reducing Lachlan to a shivering,

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moaning mess underneath him. “Bet I could push my whole hand up there and you’d still be begging for more.” Lachlan groans, tossing his head from one side to the other, Adair’s words washing over him in waves. He needs to come, needs it, wants it, can feel it at the back of his throat, nerves singing and stretched to breaking point. He bites through his split lip, the blood tasting salty on his tongue, trying to keep inside the one single word fighting to burst free from his throat. He lets go of the bike’s handle and brings one trembling hand down between his legs, but Adair’s quicker than him. He grabs his wrist in his grip again, pinning his hands down beside his head. “No way,” he whispers, mock-sweet. “You don’t get to, not till I say so.” Lachlan growls in frustration, fighting to try and wrench his hands free, his body tightening like a bowstring. Adair huffs out a laugh, breathless and low, screws his fingers just right, cock driving deep, fast, hard, prodding time and time again on Lachlan’s prostrate until all Lachlan can manage are broken sobs and pants, cock so hard every move is painful. He looks up through eyes misted with exhausted tears, his arms shaking weakly in Adair’s grasp. He needs to come, he has to, he’s going to explode if he doesn’t -Adair pulls his fingers out, snaps his hips forward, Lachlan’s head banging against the gravel as he bucks up with a scream. Adair cups his face, thumb smearing the taste of sex above his lips, sweat falling from his brow and hitting Lachlan’s parted mouth. “Now let’s hear that pretty voice of yours,” Adair whispers, breath damp, warm over Lachlan’s sweaty skin. “Beg.” Lachlan shivers, licks at his lips, tongue catching on the rough pad of Adair’s thumb. He swallows, tries to work his throat around the words. “Please,” he whispers, broken with need. “Please…” The response is immediate. Adair’s hands are everywhere, on his face, on his legs, grasping at his dick and pulling, and that’s it, that’s fucking it, Lachlan cannot take

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it anymore. He comes, so hard and fast he blanks out for a few, blissful instants, his body writhing on the ground, shaking uncontrollably in the throes of orgasm. Adair pumps him through it, hips driving his cock home so forcefully he lifts a boneless Lachlan off the ground once, twice, the rhythm breaking into a staccato until he, too, goes rigid and comes with a howl, spurting hot and thick inside Lachlan’s ass. Lachlan’s fluttering in a haze, his body feeling raw, as if he’s been turned inside out, or outside in. One or the other. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to stand, ever, even without the weight of Adair’s spent form pressing him into the ground. Walking -- and shit, even riding the bike -- is going to be a painful affair for a few. Adair stirs, keeps him still as he pulls out, come trickling slowly down Lachlan’s thighs. The night’s almost over, sky above them swabbed with gray, the same dark gray light of Adair’s eyes boring down into his own. Lachlan feels like smiling, but doesn’t. “There’s a lot you gotta learn,” Adair’s voice rings in the still quiet of the clearing, and it goes through Lachlan’s chest as if he’d etched it on his skin with his hands. “Don’t come back here.” Lachlan doesn’t speak. He doesn’t think he could have if he tried. There’s come cooling on his stomach and over his legs, sticky as it dries stiff, seeping through his clothes. He’ll be smelling like sex and Adair until the next stop, and the thought sends an electric jolt down his back. Adair pushes himself up on his knees, tucks himself back in. Lachlan watches, as if through a haze, knowing he should say something, anything. He knows how he must look like, thoroughly fucked out, his clothes torn and dripping with come, as if he’s some poster child for a brothel. Adair is still staring at him, with the same light in his eyes, and it’s like something reaches inside his gut and grabs hold, desperate and inexplicable at the same time. Before he can move, Adair’s turned his back on him and vanished.

Chapter Three Driving to the next stop had been excruciatingly painful. Every bump and turn in the road accentuated the aching of his backside, as if Lachlan could still feel Adair riding deep inside of him. The biting early morning cold hadn’t even been taken into consideration as he sped toward Dulles Station, keeping southwest. There, he’d thankfully dismounted from his bike, secured it in the garage and proceeded to collapse on his cot, back and thighs burning, the ghost of Adair’s hands still dancing on his skin. He hadn’t really fallen asleep. He’d dozed, fitfully, glimpses and frames from the night before going off in front of his mind’s eye. Going into Washington, dodging the street corners, the stares, ending up at the ramshackle bar. Adair’s look burning at the back of his neck, Adair’s body swaying to the music. His eyes, his mouth on his own. The fierce strength he’d showed as he’d manhandled Lachlan where he wanted him. God, the mere thought of that is enough to get his cock to harden again. He’d thought he wouldn’t get it up for days after being so thoroughly fucked, but thinking of Adair’s enough to get him worked up to the point where he has to turn on his belly, hips jerking thinly as he humps the mattress underneath him, biting his lip to keep in his moans. It doesn’t take long -- he’s coming in about two minutes, sticky wet inside his pants, adding to the mess he’s not yet washed from his skin. Lachlan can’t explain it to himself. It’s not even all about the sex. He’s never grown attached to any of his sex partners -- and he’s had his fair share. Come to think of it, he’s not even attached to Adair. Attached is not the right word. You don’t get attached to someone who’s insulted you, someone that you launched yourself at in a full on body fight. You don’t get attached to someone who has fucked you hard enough to still feel him after hours had passed.

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Sure, it’d been great sex, but it was just sex. Adair’s a city punk, one of those that Lachlan has always despised. He doesn’t mean anything. So why, why can’t he get him out of his mind? He turns on his belly and dismounts from the bunk, wandering toward the showers. There’s no one else around, so he can take all the time he needs. He drops his clothes in a pile on the floor, grimacing as he peels the leather off his legs, dry come sticking to his skin like a bandage. He walks under the trickling lukewarm spray, palms splayed against the wall, groaning when the water hits his sore muscles. Lachlan probably won’t go back to the Coast till next year, and anyway, Adair told him not to come back. The thought manages to spark up a flame of anger inside of him. Who is Adair to tell him what he can or cannot do? Things he’s gotta learn? Lachlan’s not a kid. He’s twenty-six, he’s a fucking Pony Express rider. He goes where his job takes him, and if his job takes him back to Washington, there’s nothing Adair can do or say about that.

*** Lachlan likes Dulles Station. It’s one of the biggest stations, so it doesn’t really feel like they’re in the pit of the world, but it’s removed from the ruins, so it’s not as depressing as many of them are on that side of America. Plus, the few friends he’s managed to keep through his adult years are all in one way or another stationed around the area, so it’s as a good excuse to get wasted as anything. He parks the bike in the garage, grinning to himself when he spots Thorn’s fluorescent orange one in a corner -- trust the man to be as stealthy as a rampaging rhino. Now that he thinks about it, it’s all down to pure, dumb luck that Thorn hasn’t gotten snatched yet. That bike equals a “Follow Me” cardboard nailed on his ass. Lachlan walks through the common area, mindful of making as little noise as possible as he passes the bunks where his fellow riders are all but passed out after a run, and smirks when he spots a familiar mohawk on a man sprawled on a rundown couch in the corner of the hall. “Hey, you son-of-a-bitch.”

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Thorn grins in greeting, and Lachlan swats his head just to mess up his hairdo, getting a growl in response. “You be careful, kid, or I’mma kick your ass.” “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Lachlan flops down next to him, puts his boots up on the opposite armchair. “Good to see you alive. I saw that piece of trash you call a bike, dude.” He smirks and glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “I’m surprised you can even get out of the garage without every scavenger of the Coast on your tail.” “Speak for yourself,” Thorn says lazily, waving a hand at him. “I’m not the one who’s been caught with his pants down in Washington. Seriously, what were you thinking?” Pants down. Pun not intended. Lachlan grins and scrubs at his stubbled chin thoughtfully. “Let me see… that I don’t drive the bike equivalent of a set of traffic lights and I’m good enough to escape Washington unspotted?” Thorn rolls his eyes at the slight on his bike and kicks Lachlan’s feet off the armchair. “Word was out that you were seen at the Chlodwig, which is, like, safe haven for all the scum we try so hard to avoid. How’s that for unspotted?” “I needed whiskey.” “And you go to scavenger headquarters to get it? Smart move.” Thorn grins and gives him the two thumbs up. Lachlan gives him a dismissive hand-flap. “Got back in one piece, didn’t I? And the only thing I’ve seen worthy of notice are those Dance Wars -- not a scavenger in sight.” Thorn actually rolls his eyes at him. Preachy motherfucker. “Scavengers don’t come out with a sign on their forehead saying ‘Hello, I’m here to rob you and leave your body on the side of the road…’” “That sounds dramatic.” “They’re unstable, fucking dangerous pricks, they’re festering at that fucking place, and they’ve been asking about you.” Lachlan’s brain brakes and he puts both his feet on the ground, turning on the couch to look at Thorn. “What do you mean, asking about me?”

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The joke melts from Thorn’s almond-shaped eyes and he pushes himself up from his sprawl, both elbows set on his knees as he stares intently at Lachlan. “There’s a guy. Damn dangerous one at that. He’s known to camp at the Chlodwig, and word has it you’re on his radar.” “How?” “Beats me. But,” he starts ticking off his fingers, “he knows you now, knows who you are, and he’s been asking about you. From Washington. Trust a fool, man. You’ve done your good deed of the year, now go back up north to the Lakes. You’ve been lucky once already.” Lachlan falls back on the edge of the couch with a heavy thud. His pulse is racing under his skin, hot tingles spreading from his gut to the very tips of his fingers. It has to be him, Adair. There’s no other explanation available. For all his “Don’t come back,” and “Things you have to learn,” Adair’s been asking questions about him. “Things you have to learn.” Well no kidding, Lachlan thinks with a snort. Pretty fucking big thing to go unnamed if you ask him. Still there’s no denying the rush of heat that had risen up in him at the mere thought that even after weeks had passed, Adair’s been obvious enough to let word travel. Why? To intimidate him? To let him know part of all of those things he had to learn? “Well, well.” He stands, dusts the back of his thighs and gives Thorn a small, mock salute. “I gotta go. Don’t pass out drunk before your next stop, man.” “Where the fuck are you going now? Lachlan -- Lachlan! For Christ’s sake, haven’t you listened to a word I’ve said?” “Oh, I listened, all right,” Lachlan shoots back, waving at him as he walks through the flapping curtains to the expedition counter. More than Thorn knows.

*** “You want to go back to the Coast?” Lachlan shrugs. “You always say no one wants to go there.” “And with good reasons. It’s a hell of a risk getting close to the Cities.”

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Lachlan shrugs again. “I’ve been to Washington and nothing earth-shattering happened.” Unless you count the best fuck of my life. Connor, the Head of Dulles Station, looks at him as if he’s suddenly gone insane. Or, well, more insane than usual. “Because it has already!” he explodes, throwing his hands up in the air. “Because what isn’t wasteland is now swarming with scavengers, punks, and mutants. You already risked it once, and being the lucky bastard you are, you just got back with a few bruises. What if they got the bike?” “They won’t get the bike,” Lachlan says patiently. “Connor, c’mon man. You have anyone else willing to take the job?” Connor shifts impatiently. “That’s not the point.” Lachlan smirks. “Really? I thought a Pony Express joint was meant to get shit across the borders.” He grabs the packages over the top of the desk and winks at his boss as he walks away, blood picking up pace as it rushes through his veins. “We’re not coming to get your dead body, you hear me?” Lachlan laughs.

*** Getting back to Washington D. C. hadn’t been as easy as Lachlan had planned in his mind. Sure, he had to travel the Coast, toward the old Canadian borders, but no one ever had any business in the Cities. Not the kind of business that would give Lachlan a good excuse to make a stop in Washington. The full moon illuminates the might-have-been I-395, throwing the rocks and holes along the road in sharp relief. It gives Lachlan more speed, to be able to see exactly where he’s going, and he angles his bike closer to the ground, skidding around a sharp turn in the road that ended in nothingness and hills. He remembers driving through the very same stretch of road two weeks earlier, remembers passing the rundown gas station, and his stomach tightens as he accelerates. He’s close to the Walls now. Or at least, the rubbish packs that once were the Walls of the city. The survivors have stripped them down again to patch up the

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destruction left behind in their homes. Lachlan overtakes them, not looking back at the graveyard of Western Civilization, one single thought alight in his mind. He’s gotta find the Chlodwig. He remembers the forest that had shadowed the graveled parking lot, he remembers looking down and seeing the Walls in the distance. If he can get there without crossing into downtown, he’d be grateful. He doesn’t want to risk his neck -- a Pony Express wildly roaming the streets of Washington after curfew twice in such a short time span. Not that he’s carrying anything valuable this time around, but after what he’s found out on Adair and the activities of the Chlodwig, no matter how crazy Lachlan is, he knows he has to be way more careful than usual to make it out in one piece. He kicks his bike to further speed, climbing along one side of the hill, the moonlight clearing his path. His heartbeat picks up speed when he distinguishes the edge of the forest, and the roofed, square ex-palace with the boarded up windows. There are a few trucks scattered about the nearly empty parking lot, and a shiver goes down Lachlan’s spine. He thinks about hiding the bike in the forest and waiting, but Eric’s security measures work just fine, and the parking lot’s ten times safer than any possible hiding place he could’ve found. Plus, he doesn’t want to crouch and hide. They’re the outlaws. They’re the ones stupid enough to bust their covers. He wants to walk right in, he wants to challenge them. He wants to watch the fights, he wants to find Adair. He wants to. He wants. And he’s going to get. The inside of the bar is identical to the way it was two weeks ago. The same barman, the same fire cracking beneath the marble fireplace. This time, Lachlan doesn’t stop to chat. He heads directly downstairs through the trapdoor, feeling the music thrum and increase in volume, the steady beat of the bass vibrating through the rickety staircase with every step he takes.

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He’d come in later than he had the first time around, and the blast of the sound system is close to deafening. The fights are at their peak, one crew taking up half of the circle as they demonstrate their routine to their opponents, the yells and cheers of the crowd dispersing under the wave of music. Lachlan’s eyes narrow, scanning the dancers, and those who wait in position in front of them to answer to their challenge. He looks twice, lets his glance flit across the rest of the pack even if he knows it’s pointless. He’d have felt him before seeing him. His visual is just a confirmation to the disappointed, hollow feeling that has taken hold of his stomach. Adair’s not there. Frustrated, twitchy and irritable, Lachlan makes his way to the bar, elbowing several people and earning himself more than his fair share of curses. He’s got some spare cash -- going twice in one month to the Coast has upped his income generously -and the least he can do before he leaves is to get a drink. He watches over the rim of his JD glass as one crew steps back, and the other advances. There are two women among these, and even though they’re good (as far as he can tell), none of them have the charisma Adair had on the dance floor. Adair exuded sex, danger, strength. Lachlan takes a sip, the whiskey thick and rich in his mouth, his eyes half-mast as he thinks back on the first time he’d been at the club. Adair’s hands on him, gripping tight enough for Lachlan to wear bruises on his hips and wrists for days -- his mouth, his cock, the way he’d tasted, how he’d felt fucking him senseless, his cock thick and huge and fucking perfect inside of him. Lachlan licks his lips and lets his hand drift to his crotch, feeling his dick already fully hard and pulsing under the fabric of his pants. He watches the fights without seeing, whiskey numbing his tongue as he swallows, thoughts of Adair and his sculpted body swaying tantalizingly to the music clouding his mind. He’s been jerking off to that image more times than he cares to count, two fingers in his ass as he fists his cock with his other hand, wanting more, seeking more, each orgasm leaving him shaking and breathless as he comes harder than he ever remembered.

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Hot embers burn in his belly, and he motions to the bearded barman for another glass, music and smoke thickening in around him. The fight seems to be over, but another crew steps up to take the place of the losers and challenge the winners, in a continuous swirl of bodies and colors that smells like sawdust and sweat. Lachlan presses the heel of his palm against the bulge in his pants, stifling a groan in his glass as he watches on. Why isn’t Adair here? He’d been certain he’d find him where he’d found him the first time… Adair and his crew had seemed the usual winners, had they not? Why wasn’t he here? Where else could he be? Is he out there in the dark, waiting for some fellow rider, to strip him of his steed and of his packs? The thought makes Lachlan’s skin crawl, and for a brief instant he wonders if Thorn was right -- he’d been lucky once. Why risk it again? Is it really worth it? Lachlan finishes his glass, but doesn’t stand to leave. There’s something primitive, powerful and incredibly erotic in the exchanges on the floor, the routines growing wilder with each step. He doesn’t know he’s yelling and spurring the crews on until he finds himself on his feet, whooping as the winners get defeated by another crew, Riff’s croaky voice shouting like a whistle above the roar of the crowd, “Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen, place your bets.” The fights are still going when Lachlan decides it’s time to go. Admitting defeat sucks, but he can’t spend the night here -- again -- without being suicidal. He might be a little drunk -- no, tipsy, not drunk, Lachlan doesn’t get drunk, that’s rule number one when you have to ride a bike through eighty states -- but surely he’s got enough wit left to understand that waiting around in the hope of getting a glimpse of Adair, or some inkling as to where he is, definitely qualifies as being whipped, and he’s got more dignity than that. The night air whips his face the moment he steps outside the stifling club, sobering him up a little. The bike’s where he’s left it, waiting. The round, perfectly full moon throws the shadows in sharp relief, painting a game of light and dark on the

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uneven gravel that stretches to the very edge of the forest. Lachlan rubs at his face with both hands, the leather of his gloves sticky on his sweaty skin. It’s time he turns his steed around and gets back to Baltimore. Maybe he’ll find someone there who will fuck Adair out of his system. He straps the knife to the handle of the bike, already counting in his head the miles that separate him from a warm bed, when a blood-chilling growl makes all the hair at the back of his neck stand up to attention. Lachlan waits without moving. If it is what he thinks it is, he’s safer not to take a breath. Another growl follows the first, closer this time. It feels like it’s circling him, studying, waiting. As slow as he dares, Lachlan turns around, nerves singing with tension and just enough fear. The Cities are not safe -- that’s an understatement. There’s more to be scared of than scavengers and city punks, and Lachlan knows it. Hell, everyone knows it. Silver, gleaming eyes blink at him from the darkness of the trees, moonlight slashing through and reflecting in the slanted orbs. Without warning, they pounce forward, and Lachlan’s barely got time to register fangs, fur, and it’s on him, toppling him away from the bike, claws settling in the leather of his jacket and crashing him on the ground with a painful, cut out scream. The wolf is huge, way bigger than a dog, his jaws snapping viciously as they both roll away from the graveled soil and over dry, stiff grass. Lachlan tries to raise his arms and protect his face, blood trickling down his cheek from where the beast has scratched the skin, bits of tree trunk and leaves digging painfully in his side as he struggles to turn over and fight off his attacker. Darkness paints the wolf’s fur in inkyblack streaks, his claws digging into Lachlan’s jacket and cutting through it. Pain barely registers as the primordial instinct of survival kicks in, adrenaline spurring Lachlan’s recklessness on as he takes a mad swing at the wolf’s tender belly, sending him with a crash against the nearest tree. The wolf wails, jaws grinding with a snarl. It springs back up on its rear legs, knocking the breath out of Lachlan as it lands straight above him, the thick fur nearly

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choking him. Lachlan can’t see anymore, the darkness almost complete now in that hour that divides night from dawn, but he can still feel the weight of the canine above him, the blood-chilling growl cutting the silence like a blade. He crosses his arms in front of his face, elbows pointing out and ready to strike again when the wolf tosses its head back with a howl, fur blowing against its face as it sweeps the forest’s floor, dust and earth flying and clouding Lachlan’s vision. The wolf looks back down at him, his eyes wide and shining in the now graying sky, and Lachlan’s heart trips, head spinning as he watches, enchanted. The fur’s receding, the fangs and claws retreating back as the grip on his shoulders shifts, turns lighter, long fingers curling over the curve of his biceps. Miles of naked, beautifully sculpted muscle tower above him, long mane of hair vanishing on a broad, wide back, turning into messy, dark brown locks that shadow the eyes that have haunted Lachlan since that night. “You…” “I told you not to come back.”

Chapter Four Adair’s voice is raspy, scratchy, as if he hadn’t used it for too long. Lachlan can’t speak, can’t think. He can feel the sting from where the wolf’s claws have scratched his chest, but it’s irrelevant, trivial, as if it belongs to someone else. He raises one hand, tentative, as if he wants to reach for Adair’s arm, but Adair snarls, so animal-like it freezes Lachlan’s gesture mid-air. “I couldn’t,” he whispers, letting his hand fall on his own stomach with a wince. There must be more bruises than he’d imagined. The sky is tinted with gray now, the moon washed away like a shadow as dawn rises and casts its light on Adair’s translucent skin. The thick scar over the left side of his hip looks raw, blood-red, as if the fangs that had etched it in Adair’s skin had let go of their grip mere seconds earlier. Lachlan swallows, looks into Adair’s eyes, gray like the wolf’s, emotions chasing each other in their depths, ever-changing, swift, so that Lachlan has no idea what Adair is thinking. He only knows that he’s not scared anymore. “You have to leave,” Adair speaks again, his voice cold like the night. Lachlan shakes his head, holding his gaze. “I can’t. I’m here now. And you’re here. I’m not --” “I said, leave,” Adair grinds out, and even though he’s completely naked above Lachlan, there’s no doubt as to who’s the exposed one here. “And never come back.” “No.” Lachlan knows he’s pushing his luck, but then again no one ever said he knew when to keep his mouth shut. “I’m not going anywhere.” He raises his hand again, but this time he doesn’t stop, brushes his fingertips over Adair’s scar, up his side until he can rest his palm against Adair’s neck, tilting his head down. It’s like soothing a wild animal, and for a brief instant the accuracy of the description gives him an

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irrational urge to laugh. He doesn’t, though. He holds Adair’s face, hopes, breathes, their eyes scorching. Adair’s fingers digging into Lachlan’s upper arms. “I could’ve killed you.” “But you didn’t.” “Doesn’t matter.” Adair’s jaw is tense, clenched as if he’s trying to keep everything in. “The wolf doesn’t understand, doesn’t recognize. I could’ve killed you.” And just like that, Lachlan knows he’s done the right thing. He strokes his thumb along the tightness of Adair’s jaw line, the tips of his fingers tangling in the hair at the base of his neck. “You didn’t kill me.” Adair doesn’t speak, eyes boring into Lachlan’s as if he could read through his soul. Lachlan shifts, barely, so that he can twist his other arm around Adair’s back, his hand curving on the wing of Adair’s shoulder blade. “You didn’t kill me.” Adair’s hands leave his arms, and for a split second Lachlan panics -- then Adair’s pulls apart the folds of his jacket, finding the rips on his shirt, the blood clumped and mottled over the scratches his claws left on Lachlan’s skin. They’re not very deep, they sting more than hurt, but when Adair lays his palms above them he moans, the heat from Adair’s touch shooting through his veins like electricity. “Please,” he whispers, voice threadbare thin. He’s aware he’s begging already but there’s no way he can hold back. “Please, fuck, please --” Adair slides his hands to the side, the red swipes he leaves in his wake looking like war tattoos, brands into Lachlan’s skin. He looks down at him, his eyes blazing, chest heaving with every breath in, and Lachlan tightens his arm around Adair’s back, pulling him closer, his legs kicked out to the sides to make room for Adair to settle between them. “Adair,” he groans, his cock rapidly filling with blood, heavy and pulsing in the confines of his pants. “Adair, please…” “You don’t know what you’re begging for,” Adair says, thumbs smoothing out the claw-like slashes on Lachlan’s chest. Lachlan’s hand grabs hold of his hair, forcing Adair’s face down lower, their breaths caressing each other’s mouth, so close, close

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enough for a kiss, but not quite, just hovering on the edge, slippery with anxiety and pent-up need. Lachlan holds his gaze, arches up against Adair’s body, pupils wide and black in want, yearning. “I think I do,” he murmurs, and he covers Adair’s mouth with his own, moaning desperately the moment Adair’s hands grip at his back and yank him upwards, teeth biting into the plump curve of Lachlan’s lip, tongues fighting for dominance against one another. Lachlan’s blood rushes south so fast it leaves him lightheaded, eyes rolling in the back of his head as he ruts up against the strong, naked body above him, his hands sliding and clutching at sweaty skin. He’s never gotten worked up so dizzyingly fast, his heartbeat loud and rushed in his ears. The cuts on his chest throb, the friction against Adair’s torso blurring the line between pain and pleasure, driving him to want more, more, always more. Adair growls in his mouth, and it spurs Lachlan on, Lachlan’s hips canting upwards, grinding against the fullness of Adair’s balls, his cock rigid and leaking against his stomach, beautiful, and huge, hard for him, because of him, and fuck, Lachlan’s ass clenches in anticipation. The glow of sunrise cuts through the highest peaks of the forest, dancing on the miles of strapping muscles above him. Lachlan couldn’t see Adair properly the first time. It was so dark and they were both close enough to fully clothed. Now he can look his fill, his hands mapping out the expanse of Adair’s back down to the scar on his hip, caressing it reverently before shifting to his ass and legs, Adair’s thighs flexing under his touch. Adair grunts and sucks Lachlan’s tongue into his mouth, his arms holding him up and off the forest floor while one of his hands skims down Lachlan’s side and slides past the waistband of his pants to mold against his dick. He curls his long fingers around the base, squeezes hard, extracting a long, delirious moan, Lachlan leaning up and striving to get more contact. He struggles to hold himself up as Adair begins to stroke him, rough and fast, and he breaks the kiss with a soft, keening cry, head thrown back to bare his throat in submission.

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He wants Adair to take him, wants him to bite and mark him all over, own him, fuck him so hard he’ll be feeling him inside for weeks after. He wants to be able to push his fingers inside his hole and feel the hot burn of Adair’s cock all along the walls of his channel. He garbles out a moan, pumping up in Adair’s fist, the slick beads of pre-come making the movements slippery, smooth. Adair’s palm is scorching hot and painfully tight around his dick, makes Lachlan whimper and thrash on the uneven ground. Adair drags his mouth from the side of his face to the column of his throat, teeth raking down the tender skin, sucking at the juncture of his neck and collarbone, licking up the sweat and the specks of blood that he’s drawn against his chest. “Fuck,” Adair groans, bites into Lachlan’s nipple, pushing him down on the ground and sucking at the tiny bud until it’s rock hard and aching, the slashes around it not even bleeding anymore. Lachlan bucks up, the head of his cock pushing up past Adair’s fist, swollen and leaking pre-come. Adair smothers a line of kisses over the scratches, soothing, quieting, his hand slowing down as he shifts on his knees between Lachlan’s legs. He lets go of Lachlan’s dick with a smacking sound, and Lachlan jerks up helplessly, a cry tearing from his throat. “No, God, please,” he begs, tossing his head from one side to the other, his hips pumping up helplessly. He’s close, so close, spikes of heat curling at the base of his spine and zinging his every nerve, sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat, down the curve of his chest, over his thighs. “Please, Adair -please, fuck -- please --” Adair grabs hold of his hips, twists Lachlan’s pants down and past his knees. The chill whips at the heated flesh of Lachlan’s ass and he squirms, his breath leaving him in a gasp when Adair pushes him up and wide, his legs on each side of his waist. “You just can’t get enough, can you,” Adair’s voice grates, scrapes, goes down in Lachlan’s gut and shoots back up again, his hands framing Lachlan’s narrow hips, fingers finding the ghosts of the bruises he’d left on his flesh their first time, and he watches, as if enthralled, how his palms span the whole width of Lachlan’s hipbones.

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“No,” Lachlan groans and rakes his fingernails over Adair’s back, feeling the skin burn where Adair holds him. “C’mon, just do it, please, just fuck me, gotta feel you, need you, c’mon, Adair, please --” There’s a beat where they just look at each other, a flicker of something unintelligible going off within the bright silver of his eyes, then Adair takes hold of his dick, smears Lachlan’s pre-come over it before pushing the swollen head right past the guardian ring. Lachlan chokes on a scream, his breath rushing out of him and leaving him gasping for air, the burn spreading from the center of him to his thighs and stomach, muscles quivering with the strain, his cock full and angry looking on his belly. Part of him wants to beg Adair to just get it over with, bury deep inside of him until his balls slap against his ass, but part of him wants to wait, wants to taste the feeling of Adair spreading him open on the back of his tongue. There’s nothing else, no one else that can make him writhe and moan like he’s starving for it, like he’s going to die if he doesn’t get something, soon, and he doesn’t even mind. “Please,” he groans, voice cracked and thin. He wants, he just wants. He digs his nails in the wings of Adair’s shoulders, leaving half-moon marks in the hard flesh. “Please, God -- please --” Adair pulls out, leaving him aching and empty, his fingers holding him bruisetight over his lap. Lachlan gives a cry of frustration, tossing desperately in his hold and scrabbling for purchase on Adair’s back, legs trembling where they rest over the crook of Adair’s elbows. He wants to scream, but before he knows it Adair’s pushing back in again, just the head, keeping Lachlan on the edge, keeping the pressure building in the pit of his stomach but not giving in, not giving enough, not even close. “So fucking tight, good Lord.” Adair’s voice cuts through the haze. It laps up at Lachlan’s sweat, blowing wisps of cool air on his skin. “Clamp down so hard, fuck, you’re gonna break me.” His tongue dips out to lick the perspiration on Lachlan’s chest, brushing over taut nipples, soothing the raised welts on his skin, his hands keeping Lachlan still and preventing him from just pushing up and forcing him all the way in.

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Lachlan groans, his hole wide and stretched on the head of Adair’s dick. He needs it, he can’t take it anymore, he needs Adair to move, his whole body shaking, nerves pulled tight with anticipation. Adair keeps still, mouth and tongue leisurely mapping out Lachlan’s chest, sending liquid fire spiking through Lachlan’s veins. Lachlan’s pretty sure he hates him, hates the iron-clad self-control he seems to have -- it makes him feel weak, pitiful, like he’s the only one affected by it, like he’s the only one who’s frantic with need. “Fuck, look at you, spread open and wanton, fuck…” Adair grunts, sucking kisses into skin and muscle and bone, making him moan and arch up. Lachlan keens, his eyes rolling in the back of his head as his cock bobs on his stomach, leaking fat, white beads of pre-come. “I can’t, God, please, fuck me like you mean it, please, c’mon, Adair, please…” Adair rams into him, his balls flush against the back of his ass, and Lachlan can’t even scream out the pleasure that borders on pain, all his limbs locked tight as he damn near writhes on Adair’s dick, his mouth open and his eyes glazed over as he looks up in Adair’s face. His eyes are wild, lips glistening with spit, his unruly hair sticking to his forehead and doing nothing to shadow his almost surreal beauty. Lachlan wants to reach up and cover the distance that separates them, to run his tongue over Adair’s lips, taste him, suck his tongue in his mouth again as Adair fucks into him. He doesn’t know how much of it he’s said out loud, but something must have escaped him because next instant, Adair’s mouth is on him, tongue running over his gums and past his teeth, rubbing up on Lachlan’s tongue, and Adair groans deep in his throat as Lachlan fights against him to be able to lick inside his mouth, the kiss messy and possessive and downright amazing. Adair shifts one of his arms, spreading Lachlan even wider as he drags his leg to the side, his hand running up Lachlan’s chest to cup his cheek, deepening the kiss further. He holds him down as he begins to pull out, Lachlan’s tiny moans dying into his mouth, his ass squeezing his dick like a vice, trying desperately to keep him in. Adair wrenches free from the kiss, his breath hot and ragged over Lachlan’s lips, eyes

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hooded and drowning in lust. He pauses once he’s almost all the way out, muscles tense and taut, and he lifts Lachlan’s ass up on his knees before driving in again, the smack of skin on skin louder than the rough groan that he pulls from Lachlan’s lips. “Is that what you want?” Adair whispers, keeping him still and powerless as he slides out again. “You want to be fucked like a slut?” He slams back in to the hilt, Lachlan’s body shaking with the force of it, his fingers scraping for purchase on his broad back as he moans and shudders. “Yeah, God, fuck, yeah,” Lachlan groans breathlessly, his dick leaking bout after bout of pre-come, neglected and heavy against his stomach. Adair’s set up a punishing rhythm, and it hurts, it hurts so good, Lachlan never wants it to stop, his voice failing him as he can do nothing but whimper and hold on for the ride. His groin is on fire, pleasure and pain blurring together, coursing through his legs and lower stomach, sweat making his thighs slide and smack on Adair’s slick flesh. Adair grunts, pulls him down on his balls with every thrust, fucking him with intention, his own pre-come getting the passage slicker and wetter with every push. “You want to be fucked like an animal?” he growls low in his ear, the words fanning Lachlan’s skin and making the soft hair on his neck stand up with a bone-deep shiver. His cock twitches eagerly, sticky hot on his abs. “Down on all fours with your tight little ass in the air as I take you from behind until you can’t see straight?” Lachlan whimpers helplessly. The image is too much. He’s gotta do something or he’ll implode. He hooks one arm around Adair’s neck to keep himself up, brings his spare hand down between his legs to pull his balls tight against his body and squeezes, trying to release some of the constant pressure in his belly without just grabbing hold of his cock and pumping. He moans, voice cracked in the middle, and Adair bites his neck as he picks up pace. He’s so close, God, so close, he’s going to come without a hand on his dick, just the feeling of being so stuffed full of cock as Adair fucks him into the ground, filth and curses spilled in his ears, slut, whore, and he can’t hold back anymore, he can’t.

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With a cry, Lachlan comes, and comes, and comes, spunk covering his belly in ropes, some of it hitting the underside of his chin. He shakes and sobs, his breath coming in gasps as Adair rams into him over and over, impaling him on his stiff dick. He pushes Lachlan’s thighs back against his chest, pulling out completely before slamming back in to the hilt. Lachlan wails, the change in angle having Adair drag relentlessly over his prostrate, an overload of pleasure and pain zinging through Lachlan’s veins, heat building anew in his stomach. Adair grunts above him, hips stuttering against the back of his ass, sweat falling from Adair’s forehead and hitting Lachlan’s parted lips, the acrid smell of sex and wild grass around them heady and potent. Lachlan’s arms tremble as he fights to hold onto Adair’s back, whimper after whimper slipping past his lips as his oversensitive cock stirs from the mess of come on his belly. He can’t think, can’t even speak, his senses flooded with the feel of Adair around him, in him, gripping him tight and guiding him into every thrust until he can dazedly feel him losing his rhythm. Adair’s fingers slip on reddened skin, nails digging over the dip of flesh and bone as he goes rigid, smothering an animalistic growl in Lachlan’s chest as he fills him up with his come. Lachlan’s head swims in a haze, his ass and thighs throbbing steadily, his cock now fully hard and damn near painful, curled and flushed over his belly. If he had any strength left he’d take care of it himself, but he can barely move, his arms flopped on the ground like a string-less doll. Adair’s lapping lazily at the sweat cooling off on his collarbone, his dick still held snug by Lachlan’s ass. He doesn’t pull out immediately, his mouth dragging down Lachlan’s chest to suck and lick, Lachlan shaking violently with over-stimulation. “Adair…” He winces, his voice rough and fucked out, so raw he can’t even recognize it himself. Adair smiles, looks up at him through dark, molten eyes, holding him still as he pulls out of him, a groan escaping his lips to echo Lachlan’s own. He shuffles back between Lachlan’s legs, pushes them up high and apart, eyes zeroing in on Lachlan’s abused hole, come leaking out of it to pool over the back of his ass and onto the dry grass underneath him.

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Sun’s rising in the sky, making Adair’s skin glow through the canopy of leaves above them, throwing the marks Lachlan’s left all over his arms in sharp relief. Lachlan squirms, the weight of Adair’s eyes on him physical, a deep flush suffusing through him as he tries to imagine how he must have looked. He’s about to give speaking a second try when Adair dips his head low, and an embarrassing loud shriek leaves him in a rush at the first swipe of Adair’s tongue over his clenching hole. Lachlan kicks his legs out, pushing shamelessly back on Adair’s face and mewling like a cat in heat as he scratches at dry grass and twigs beside his head to try and grab on to something. Adair’s tongue winds around the puckered entrance, dipping in briefly before following the trickles that slide across the rounded curve of Lachlan’s ass, to the sides, over the juncture of thigh and hipbone from Lachlan’s own orgasm. His eyes roll in the back of his head, the path of Adair’s tongue leaving scorching fire in its wake, arousal spreading thick from the center of his body to every other pore. Adair makes an appreciative noise halfway between a groan and a growl, big, strong hands grabbing a better hold of his ass, thumbs spreading his opening and stroking teasingly over the quivering ring of muscle. “Fuck,” Adair grunts, his tongue running along Lachlan’s crack and collecting yet more spunk. It takes a few seconds for Lachlan’s sex-addled brain to realize that Adair isn’t, in fact, licking his come up, but dragging it down, rolling it up on the tip of his tongue before pushing it flat back inside of him. Lachlan cries out, his legs shaking violently as Adair’s tongue slips out and back in again, fucking his own come inside his ass, filling him up to the core. He’s never felt as undone in his life, nor as dirty, Adair’s tongue up his hole, keeping all his spunk in, hot and slick and fucking amazing. His cock’s full and heavy against his belly and he tries to rock back, screws himself on Adair’s tongue with a pained moan. “So fucking wet,” Adair groans as he pulls back, two long fingers taking the place of his tongue, and Lachlan wails as he crooks them up against his prostrate,

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Lachlan’s cock weeping on his stomach. “I could just slide back in and fuck you unconscious.” Lachlan groans, clenches his ass around Adair’s hand and hears him curse breathlessly as he drags his digits out and rams them back in again, robbing Lachlan of breath. He doesn’t think he’d survive coming once more. Tears of exhaustion cloud his vision as Adair swaps two fingers for three, sliding in and out of him as hard and purposefully as he would do with his cock. Lachlan sobs brokenly, his nails digging down against earth and soil, chest heaving with each shuddering breath he draws as black stars dance in front of his eyes as he feels his orgasm rush through him in a whirlwind of colors from the base of his spine up. “C’mon,” Adair whispers, his breath fanning Lachlan’s cheekbone as he lowers his mouth close enough to brush over Lachlan’s lips. “C’mon, do it, I know you wanna, c’mon.” He thrusts his tongue into Lachlan’s mouth, the heavy taste of sex and himself sending Lachlan’s brain short-circuiting as he comes with a long, drawn out groan, vision whitening out with the sheer intensity of it. When he manages to open his eyes again his first thought is that he’ll never manage to get to Germantown on a bike. He’s completely, utterly spent, covered in come and bits of leaves and grass, bruises and teeth marks. Pretty fucking impressive, he thinks with a lazy grin. It takes him half a minute to locate Adair, and when he does he’s surprised to see him walking back toward him dressed in a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt. He doesn’t ask where he’d got his clothes. He supposes this isn’t the first full moon for him, but at the same time he doesn’t want to risk the apparent quiet with an inappropriate question. He stretches and winces with a groan as he forces himself in a sitting position, searching Adair’s face to try and decipher what’s going on in that head of his. Adair sits on his haunches next to him, his elbows resting on top of his knees as he looks at Lachlan, eyes shining behind his bangs with the hint of something in the gray irises that Lachlan can’t quite place.

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“Don’t come back here,” he whispers, voice surprisingly soft. “I’m not the only freaky monster around here. You won’t be so lucky a third time.” “You’re not --” his voice scrapes on his throat and Lachlan coughs violently in his fist. “You’re not a monster,” he says then, holding Adair’s gaze. He sees Adair’s hand fall unconsciously over his hip, where the bite scar lies hidden by the folds of the T-shirt. He stands, and Lachlan feels a sudden urge to grab him, hold on to him, keep him there. “Leave,” says Adair as he turns east. “There’s nothing for you here. If they catch you, there’s nothing I can do.” “You mean if you catch me,” Lachlan whispers, staring hard at Adair to gauge his reaction, the stiffening of his shoulders as he turns to give him a slanted look. Lachlan’s heart trips in his throat and for an instant, he’s sure Adair’s going to pounce again, but the next moment, Adair’s turned his back on him, walking away. “Adair…” Lachlan tries to stand, but Adair’s already at the edge of the trees, melting through the deeper shadows of the forest with not so much as a backward glance.

Chapter Five “You’re certifiably insane, you know that, right?” The baseball rolls in the air and falls back on Lachlan’s palm. He flicks his wrist and tosses it upwards again, watching it soar higher before catching it once more. “Is it possible?” “No, it damn well is not,” Eric emphasizes, looking up from where he’s plucking at a computer processor on his desk to the bunk bed Lachlan’s currently occupying. “Get it out of your head, mate.” Lachlan flicks the ball again. “Lachlan!” “What?” “You’re not going back to Washington.” “Why?” “Because they’ll kill you, that’s why!” “He’s not said that,” Lachlan shrugs. “He just said --” “I know what he said, you’ve been repeating that for the past two weeks.” Eric throws down a memory card and looks at him with clear exasperation in his eyes. “You’ve gone around the bend, mate. It’s not like you to be this hung up on anything. I get it might have been pretty good sex --” “Fucking spectacular sex.” “Yeah, whatever, I don’t need the details.” Eric waves an impatient, gloved hand. “He told you not to come back. He’s a werewolf. He’s a scavenger. You want him to kill you? Or worse, turn you?” Lachlan doesn’t answer. He watches the arc the baseball makes as he tosses it up again, thinking. He hasn’t been able to wrench Adair out of his thoughts ever since. He

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tried picking up some tricks when his job took him southwest, but nothing he did erased the memory of Adair’s hands on him, his mouth, his perfectly shaped body overpowering him so easily. Lachlan’s not a small guy. He’s lean, sure, but he’s in good shape, and he’s fast. The idea that he couldn’t get free from Adair’s grasp if he tried is enough to have him press the heel of his palm down on his crotch, his dick twitching with interest inside his pants. “Lachlan.” “What?” “I can smell testosterone. Quit that.” Lachlan sighs and puts both hands behind his head to resist temptation, staring up at the ceiling. “You can’t go back there,” Eric presses on, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Nothing good comes out of the Cities, you know that. And he’s a thief and a mutant on top of it. They’re not like the rest of them punks. They go for the kill, that’s how they survived the Purge.” “You didn’t see him,” Lachlan argues. “He’s not like them. He was completely freaked when he realized he might’ve killed me if the moon hadn’t set right then.” “Right, a fucking saint.” Eric snorts, shaking his head. “I cannot develop a security system powerful enough to ensure you don’t get your head chopped off the next full moon.” “Did I ask?” Lachlan snaps, irritation getting the best of him. It’s not Eric’s fault, his friend’s only trying to help and Lachlan knows it. But he doesn’t understand, he can’t understand. He’s never been across the wastelands that once were the most powerful empire in the world, hasn’t seen all Lachlan’s seen. Finding something so raw and passionate at the outskirts of one of the most dangerous cities on the East Coast is as close to unthinkable as it can get, and yet it’s happened. No matter what everyone would say on the matter, Lachlan can’t let it go.

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“It’s asking for trouble, mate.” Eric speaks again after a few minutes of silence. “You got your job, your money, your life. Why do you need to go after trouble, when he’s made it clear he doesn’t want you to?” That’s a very good question. Unfortunately, the fact that Lachlan has no answer does nothing to daunt his spirit. “I just have to find out,” he says at length, swirling the ball toward Eric, who catches it with a frown. “You’re completely crazy, you know that?” Well shit, tell him something he doesn’t know.

*** Getting back to Washington though ain’t as easy as Lachlan had imagined. With gas being so restricted and winter rolling on, more and more deliveries are to the Outlands -- Mexico, mostly, but occasionally even further south. No room for detours toward the Coast, not if he doesn’t want to get busted for dawdling on a delivery, and the whole of fucking America is a pretty big run to do just for a booty call. Well, what he hopes would be a booty call. It’s not like he’s got any means to contact Adair, or vice versa. Come to think of it, Lachlan doubts Adair even knows his name, and that stirs something deep in his gut, half foreboding, half longing. It’s weird, yeah, and insane, and a number of other things that are mostly in the thesaurus. Lachlan knows it all, and when the sandy wind whips at his face as he shoots down toward the Bay, he asks himself the same questions, a tiny voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Eric’s nagging at him mile after mile. Lachlan has no family, no strings attached. He’s always been a loner, he’s always been the one who cared about nothing other than how much they paid him and how far he could push his bike. To feel so restless and frantic about seeing someone again is not like him. His friends are few and far between -- Eric, Thorn, Connor -- and if he goes months without seeing them or talking to them because of his runs, it has never bothered him. He doesn’t understand this need, this yearning to turn his steed around and get back to Washington. Eric made a hell of a lot of sense, and so did Thorn, and Connor.

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Dangerous, life-threatening, mad, suicidal -- deep down he knows they’re right, but it does nothing to qualm the fire burning deep in his gut. It’s like a siren’s song, distorted though it might be, and Lachlan doesn’t know what to do about it. It’s not like it boils down to the sex either, that much he knows. Hell, he’s had sex before, he’s had sex after, and he’s gone without for a while. He’s not yet crazy enough to go to these lengths only to get laid. First time to Washington had been dire need. So had been the second, even though in a complete different way. Now it’s something as of yet unnamed, could be want, could be lust, hell, maybe he’s just looking for answers. Eric would say Adair has already given him plenty, but Lachlan gets rid of the voice with an abrupt shake of his head, as though to displace a fly. Two hundred more miles.

*** Lachlan spends two nights in Orlando, fucking and drinking and fucking some more, and in the morning he jerks off thinking about Adair, his release leaving him achy and spent. A new year’s rolled around the corner, with no improvement whatsoever, other than the fact that soon the weather’s going to get warmer, and traveling will get easier. He picks up smoking, only to quit it two weeks later, his constant antsy state not in the slightest dimmed by sucking on a tobacco stick. At Houston station he gets a message relayed from Connor, telling him to stay as far away as he can, because there have been more and more raids around the Caves’ areas, near the Code Red swamps of NYC, and even though Lachlan knows his friend means well, he feels irritated, as if he’s being reminded not to take shortcuts through a certain city. He crumples up the message and lets the flames of his lighter lick it up until it’s nothing but cinders, and gets back on his bike to speed across the Mississippi. Riding is good. Doesn’t give him time to think, he’s got to watch his back and watch the road, there’s just no room to wonder how long it has been, how even the memories of their last encounter are fading. Those thoughts are only acknowledged at

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night, between the twilight hour of sleeping and waking, and even then they leave him with a sort of void that he doesn’t know how to fill. Lachlan’s not used to feeling like that, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He keeps changing routes, trying to stay away and get closer to Washington at the same time. The soil is still hard and burned, it still screeches under the new tires he’s had to put on his bike after going through the Canyon, but for some reason the only thing he can really think about is how much colder and how much more alive he’d felt back in the wild, in a werewolf’s embrace.

*** A chase by scavengers delays Lachlan’s stop by about thirty hours. Once in Baltimore, he collapses into the first empty bunk he finds and passes out, physically and mentally exhausted. He’d had to push his bike through swamps and mud, calling forth all his skill of stealth to evade pursuit, and leg it for another twenty-two miles up north alongside the caves, not a gas stop in sight. The only thing he wants now is to sleep for about twenty-four hours straight. Which is why when he wakes up and the night’s velvety darkness is broken by the glow of the full moon, he drags himself out of bed and into the garage. He’s saved his neck and the medicines he was carrying, he fucking deserves a break. His bike is being checked and patched up, so he unplugs the security code from one he recognizes as Thorn’s usual, and kicks it into life with a grin. His friend’s probably zonked out in the nearest brothel. He won’t be running any delivery until well past noon at the very least. Two hours coming, two hours going. They won’t notice. Or if they will, they’ll assume he’s joined Thorn and he’ll be back after he’s warmed up. Lachlan has to grin at that. Quite the word choice. After trudging through pebbles and sand for a day, the speed and the cold breeze blowing on his face feel heavenly. The tires roar underneath him, accelerating with his heartbeat as they devour mile after mile, the low rumble of the engine spurring him on to go even faster. Moonlight gets misted by clouds, but Lachlan knows every

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crack in the road by now. The Walls, the hills, the forest right on the edge of the rocks. He sucks in a lungful of night air, feeling sharper and more alert than he’s been in weeks. He must be suicidal after all, he thinks as he turns off the bike and guides it by hand through the contorting trucks of the forest. Adair has said it -- the wolf doesn’t understand, doesn’t recognize. He could very well attack him again, and this time he’d finish the job. Or worse, (did he really say worse?) Adair’s crew could snatch him, and then he’d really understand the meaning of wrong time, wrong place. Then why isn’t Lachlan scared? “It’s become an obsession, mate. You’re fucking obsessed with the werewolf, that’s what you are.” He sighs and shakes his head. Yeah, maybe Eric has a point. Lachlan leans against a tree trunk, squinting at the rundown bar. He can hear the thumpa thumpa filtering from the boarded windows, sign that the fights are in full force already. For a moment he’s tempted to go check inside, but he knows it’s pointless. With the full moon, there’s no chance of Adair being there, and he’s not interested in anyone else’s crew. They wouldn’t win if Adair were there anyway, so what’s the point? He kicks his legs out and closes his eyes. The cold keeps him awake, even though he knows he’s got a flask of whiskey tucked inside his jacket, he doesn’t want to risk it - if he’s learned one thing is that he’ll need all his nerves sharp and ready if Adair shows up. Lachlan waits. And waits. And waits. The moon wanes. Soft rays of sunrise are paling the stars above his head, and no sign of Adair yet. Lachlan’s limbs are achy and taut with suppressed tension, not to mention disappointment. He’d been so sure he’d find him here… he’d been prepared for a fight, even to run for his life if need be, only to be able to see Adair. The sunrise

Sophia Titheniel


- 50 -

feels anticlimactic, and it makes him feel stupid. He’d not thought beyond going there, seeing him -- maybe talking to him. He’s surprised to realize that sex hadn’t really been taken into account at that point. It’s not the reason why he’s there -- it’s not the reason behind this sadness that takes hold of him and grips him and holds on tight. Lachlan pushes himself up to his feet, dusting off the back of his thighs, not even bothering to try and restrain his discontent. There’s no one around to see it anyway. The crash into the nearest tree trunk is so sudden and violent it knocks the breath out of him, strong hands pressing on the back of his neck and over the base of his spine. He instinctively throws his hands out, trying to push back and away from the trunk, groaning in frustration when he can’t do more than squirm, the hold on his neck tightening and making him choke. “Are you catering to some impending death wish? Because that can be arranged, trust me.”

Chapter Six Elation, something that definitely should not be arising in his chest, seizes hold of Lachlan and he smiles. He must be crazier than he’d thought. “Hey, stranger.” “This isn’t funny.” Adair’s breath is raspy hot against his ear. “They saw you coming. They’re going to get you and I should just fucking let them.” “I’ve had them on my tail for days,” Lachlan retorts. “I know how to do my job.” “Not that well or they wouldn’t know you’re here,” he snarls, pressing him tighter against the tree. “Do you want to die?” Lachlan laughs. It’s crazed and high, and it probably should worry him more than it does. “I’m not going to,” he whispers, cheek squashed against the tree. “You’re not going to kill me. You didn’t last time. Or the first time.” Adair’s hands loosen a little on his neck, and Lachlan sucks in a long breath before turning halfway to look at him, his eyes hooded and dark. “That’s why you followed me outside, ain’t it? You wanted the bike. You were going to finish me off.” Adair’s bangs are in his eyes, and it’s difficult to see past the dark barrier of hair, but Lachlan presses on all the same, “Why didn’t you?” Adair doesn’t speak, doesn’t move. After a split second he wraps one arm around Lachlan’s waist and hoists him up over his shoulder with a grunt, not heeding Lachlan’s squeal of surprise. “Not a sound,” he growls as he tears off through the forest. Lachlan shuts his mouth. He should be afraid, he knows this much, but the way his heart’s running fast in his chest doesn’t belong to that feeling. He covers his face as they tear through the wilderness, branches and leaves scratching at his back where his jacket has rucked up, but he doesn’t say a word, holding on for the ride, blood rushing wild and loud into his ears.

Sophia Titheniel


- 52 -

In a matter of minutes, or maybe more, Lachlan’s not really counting, Adair steps down a narrow slope between pine trees, a rush of water somewhere nearby. He clings to Adair’s back as he feels him drop to a crouch underneath a low set of branches, then the world spins back into focus as a door creaks somewhere and he’s dropped down on a messy, unmade bed. It hits him stronger than a kick in the gut. He’s inside an old, wretched cabin. He’s inside Adair’s house. “What if I had?” Adair seethes, looking down at him. He’s as beautiful as Lachlan remembered him, maybe more, the thin scar over his upper lip pulled in a tight, straight line. “If I killed you, would anyone even come looking for you? Hell, would anyone have missed you?” Adair had brought him to his house. Trying to digest the rollercoaster of emotions chasing away inside of him, Lachlan tilts his head to the side, rubbing a kink in his neck. “I’d have thought you would,” he says at last, voice surprisingly soft. Adair stares at him as if he’s never seen him before. “You’re crazy,” he says, and he sounds almost awed. “You’re completely unstable.” Lachlan grins. “Maybe.” When Adair still says nothing, Lachlan throws his legs off the side of the bed, leaning closer to him. “You had so many chances to off me but never did. You knew your friends were after me and you brought me here. Why?” Adair keeps looking at him without speaking. Lachlan knows that pressing might be a bad idea, but then he thinks of the first time he’d challenged Adair, and the memory brings a flush of heat to his groin. “Been thinking about you all this time,” Lachlan whispers, sliding off the bed and down on the floor. He crawls on all fours toward him, tall and strong in the middle of the single-roomed hut. Adair’s not moving, not saying a thing. He’s only looking at him with the same light in his eyes he wore that first time, the one Lachlan doesn’t know what to do with. He puts his hands over Adair’s hips, looking up at him through lowered eyelashes, all his blood rushing south already. “Ruined everyone else for me.”

Sophia Titheniel


- 53 -

Adair grabs hold of his hair, tilts his head up, a flash of heat going off in the silver of his eyes. Lachlan swallows and licks his lips, getting them wet and glistening, and reaches up for the heavy silver buckle of Adair’s pants. Adair sucks in a harsh breath, his hand tight into Lachlan’s long blond locks, his other hand going to frame the side of his face, tilt his head back. His huge cock is already hardening, the skin sweaty and musky scented, and Lachlan’s own dick gives a valiant throb. The fingers in his hair yank him forward, and Lachlan goes willingly, saliva thick in his mouth as he parts his lips to lap at the smooth, silky skin on the underside. “That’s what you want?” Adair grits out, voice rough and edgy. Lachlan smirks at him, dragging his tongue wetly down the length of his dick and over his balls. “Isn’t it what you want?” Adair’s eyes go black, his palm spanning the whole of Lachlan’s cheek, thumb dipping between his lips. Lachlan shudders and laps at his finger pad, tasting dirt and sweat over the calloused skin; inching forward, tongue sneaking out to lap at the web between his fingers, then over his palm before pushing past Adair’s hand and going after the leaking slit, sucking in the intoxicating taste of the first bead of pre-come oozing from the tip. Adair groans and tugs at his hair, forcing him to take more into his mouth, the thick shaft heavy and pulsing hot on his tongue. Lachlan whines low in his throat, his own pants uncomfortably tight over his erection. He breathes heavily through his nose and hollows his cheeks as he bobs his head down lower, one of his hands braced across Adair’s abdomen to keep him from pushing up too hard and making him gag. “Fuck, so good,” Adair whispers, and it’s the first time he’s ever said something like that. Lachlan feels the thrill of it run down his spine, his cock twitching in its restraints. A thin pink flush covers his cheeks. Both Adair’s hands are clutching at Lachlan’s hair, fondling and flexing against his scalp as he guides him over his erection, the pressure not painful, but still rough enough to have yet more blood fill Lachlan’s cock. “Wanted to fuck your mouth from the moment I saw you.”

Sophia Titheniel


- 54 -

Lachlan groans, the sound reverberating from his throat down the thick cock filling his mouth, and he has to reach down into his pants to squeeze his dick, dampness spreading from where the tip tents his leathers. “Wanted to drag you up and fuck your pretty little whore mouth right in front of everyone,” Adair grinds out, voice raw like whiskey on gravel. He snaps his hips forward, shoving almost all of his length past Lachlan’s lips, and Lachlan garbles out a strangled sound as he feels the head of Adair’s cock against his throat muscles, pre-come flooding his mouth. The mental picture Adair’s words paint him wash over him like a crashing wave, heat kindling all over his skin as he fights to keep breathing and suckling at the same time. The hands in his hair are hard, unrelenting, controlling the length and the depths of the thrusts in and out of Lachlan’s mouth, his jaw aching with the force of Adair’s hips snapping against him. Lachlan can only curl his fingers around a solid waist and lose himself to the thick cock stretching him wide, his other hand squeezing his balls rhythmically inside his pants, enough to keep the pressure burning but not enough to give himself release. It’s nothing short of torture. He’s already teetering on the edge of orgasm with nothing but the constant squeeze of his hand, the feeling of Adair fucking his mouth and the continuous string of filth spilling from his lips. One of Adair’s hands leaves Lachlan’s hair, a finger briefly tracing the line of his dick disappearing through spit-soaked lips before his head is jerked back with a sharp tug, Lachlan choking at the abrupt move. He looks up at Adair with a coy smile, licking his swollen lips and running his hand over the scar underneath Adair’s shirt with a light caress. “I never think about anyone,” Lachlan rasps out, his voice fucked six ways from Sunday. “Ever.” Adair tilts Lachlan’s head backwards, gripping tight at the longer locks over the back of his head, his eyes smoldering black. His dick is flushed red, curled up against his stomach from the open V of his pants, leaking and beautiful, and Lachlan’s mouth waters a little.

Sophia Titheniel


- 55 -

He wants it, wants him, all of him. It’s crazy insane, Lachlan knows and doesn’t give a damn. He wants Adair and fuck the consequences. He’s never felt like this, never this desperate, this craving, and he’s not about to give up, not until he gets what he wants. He licks a swathe up Adair’s wrist and forearm, feeling the muscles taut and trembling when he twists his head to the side and moves up to suck his fingers into his fucked out mouth. Whatever it was that Adair had been waiting for up to that point snaps, and he’s lifted up into the air again for three wild seconds before he crashes back down on the bed, Adair’s hands pinning him down and his mouth crushing down on his own. Lachlan can’t gasp, can’t scream, can barely draw a breath as his pants are ripped off him, a clear stripping sound that tells him only too clearly that he’s not walking out with them back on, Adair’s tongue fucking his mouth as roughly and urgently just as he’d done with his cock. The sudden frenzy throws Lachlan in overdrive and he manages to wring out his arms from under Adair’s weight pressing him down and he wraps them around his back, his nails raking down Adair’s spine and leaving red, raised welts over the smooth expanse of skin. Adair grunts, his dick riding the dip of skin and bone of Lachlan’s hip, his hands skidding over his thighs, pushing them wide and apart. He bites his lower lip, tongue following to soothe the sting, his eyes darkened in lust and blown wild, frantic. Lachlan moans in anticipation and cants his hips up against Adair’s, all his nerves bared raw and oversensitive. It’s like his skin is too tight, too hot for his body, like he can’t wait, not even a second. He wants Adair’s cock and he wants it now, please, please. Adair sucks kisses into his neck and the side of his face, mumbling unintelligible words against his salty skin. Lachlan keens and angles his hips until he aligns their dicks together, the hot, slick friction making the both of them groan loudly at the same time. “Fuck me, c’mon, do it.” He digs his fingers hard at the small of Adair’s back, pulling him closer. “Do it, Adair, please, c’mon, fuck me -- just fuck me.”

Sophia Titheniel


- 56 -

He doesn’t care if it’s going to hurt. It has never been a smooth ride and the thought of it makes Lachlan’s dick throb and leak excitedly. He wants it to burn, wants to keep the feeling with him for weeks, months, until he’ll be able to see him again. “Fuck me like you said you would, like you want it,” he whispers, fixing Adair with a lustful glaze. “Fuck me like an animal.” Adair’s possessive growl races down his back and spirals through his gut in the form of liquid heat. “You don’t know what you’re begging for,” he brands into his neck, over his collarbone, voice thick and rough as sandpaper. Lachlan writhes underneath him, his hands splaying down his ass, then the back of Adair’s thighs, arching his body up as if he was trying to melt into him. “Just do it already,” he grits out, desperation cutting his voice dry. “C’mon, just fucking do it.” Adair’s hands grip his waist tighter and he’s swiftly spun around, until Lachlan’s face is pressing down on the bedding, his back’s flush against Adair’s chest. His jacket is pushed up and above his head, his shirt going with it until he’s naked underneath Adair’s strong, powerful body, miles of unyielding muscle fitting to him like a key in a lock. He trembles underneath him, breath coming in pants, his dick heavy between his legs, pulsing in time with his heartbeat, and he barely has time to adjust to the switch in position when his ass is being pushed wide apart, each of Adair’s hands on his cheeks, and the head of his cock nudging at his hole. “You’re so fucking hot, Lord, begging like you’re dying,” Adair groans, his forehead falling against Lachlan’s nape as he smears the pre-come oozing from his slit down on Lachlan’s crack. “Fuck, the things you do to me…” Lachlan moans, curves back against him for the little he can, Adair’s grasp on his back unrelenting. He can feel the width of Adair’s dick spreading him open, wetness trickling between the tender skin of his ass cheeks and over his clenching hole. He whines, low and impatient, kicking his legs out and spreading himself further to accommodate him, and smothers his wail down in the sheets as Adair pushes past the tight ring of muscle. He fights to keep breathing, the edge between pain and pleasure never thinned as dangerously as Adair keeps pushing in, not giving him time to adjust

Sophia Titheniel


- 57 -

and not stopping until he’s buried in to the hilt, his balls hot against the back of Lachlan’s ass. “Fuck,” Lachlan moans dazedly, overwhelmed, his limbs quivering as he fights to relax. “Fuck.” He can feel Adair’s lips at the base of his neck, the hot rasp of his tongue following every bump of his spine as he descends lower, the heat and pressure and the urge eating him up like a ravenous lynx. He whines, his mouth parted around his breathy moans, and bucks weakly, trying to get Adair to move. He knows that in the position he’s in, Adair could keep him on edge for the rest of the day and he could do nothing but lay there and take it. The thought sends a bolt of electricity down his back, and his dick leaks copiously on the sheet underneath him. “Please,” he begs quietly, his voice wrung out as if he were on his last breath, “Adair, God, please…” Adair’s right hand grabs hold of his shoulder, his stubbled cheek rubbing over the wing of his shoulder blade, thumb digging in the juncture of his neck and collarbone, his left hand spanning the width of Lachlan’s hips and grabbing on, bruisetight. “Hold on tight,” Adair whispers, and he’s pulling back, his stiff dick stretching and dragging against the walls of his channel until only the plum-shaped head keeps Lachlan open and shaking underneath him. He holds him still, his own breath ragged and damp on the symmetrical line of Lachlan’s back for about a second before he slams back in, dragging Lachlan down on his dick and filling him up so completely and suddenly it takes his breath away. Lachlan wails, sound drawn out and thin, his fists curling into the sheets as he’s pulled back into Adair’s hard thrusts, each one of them leaving him shuddering and moaning noisily into the bedding. Adair snaps his hips ferociously forward, knocking Lachlan’s knees farther apart as he lifts him off the bed and forces him down on his balls, the change in angle making the both of them groan simultaneously, a breathless string of curses leaving Adair’s hips as he grunts and fucks, Lachlan’s tight little ass clenching down on him every time

Sophia Titheniel


- 58 -

he rams into him balls-deep, the passage too dry, too hot, burning the both of them from inside out. Adair’s not even near to slick enough, the friction too much, and it hurts, but Lachlan’s past caring, head thrown back, breathy little noises leaving his lips in a rush as he rocks his hips back best he can, pushing back on his palms as he impales himself on Adair’s stiff dick. “Like that,” Adair groans, his hands slipping on Lachlan’s sweaty flesh, the loud smack of skin on skin and their panting breaths the only sounds in the room. “Fuck, yeah, go on, fuck yourself on my cock.” He licks at Lachlan’s neck, bites, sucks a bruise into the tender skin, Lachlan’s pulse point fluttering underneath his lips. He pushes back again, eyes wide, desperate and pliant underneath Adair’s assault, pre-come leaking from his own, untouched cock. “Grab onto the railings,” Adair whispers, raw command in his voice, and Lachlan gives a tiny whimpery moan before lifting his trembling arms and curling his fingers over the bars of the headboard. Adair’s hand runs through his hair, grabs and pulls him back, arching his neck backwards and making him choke as he rams into him again. The heat of the friction’s painful, exquisitely so, and it burns Lachlan from within, his legs shaking violently as every powerful thrust hits that sweet spot inside of him that has him moan and beg like a cheap whore. His hands slip on the headboard and he tightens his grip, feeling Adair’s fingers fit over the groove of his hip as he pulls him back on his lap, body arching above him as he fucks him rough and hard and deep, the rattling sound of the bed skidding on the floor mingling with gasps and pleas. “Fuck, so fucking tight.” Adair grinds out, his teeth pulling blood to the surface as he sucks and nibbles at Lachlan’s throat. “That what you needed?” “Yes,” Lachlan cries out, body taut and rigid as liquid fire shoots through his veins and spirals down his groin. “Yes, fuck, yes.” Adair’s mouth finds his own and he fastens their lips together, tongues tangling messily as Adair’s thrusts get erratic and short inside of him. Lachlan mewls and licks at Adair’s tongue until stars explode behind his eyelids and his whole body tightens, clamps down hard as his orgasm ripples through him in a whirlwind of wind and

Sophia Titheniel


- 59 -

colors. His eyes roll back into his head. He’s coming fast and messy all over the messed up sheets, his bones liquefying with the force of it. Adair’s hips stutter, cock pulsing hotly inside of him, and he lets go of a soft, muffled howl between Lachlan’s shoulder blades as he spills inside of him. They collapse gracelessly down on the ruined sheets, bodies sticky with sweat and come, hips and backs and chests joined and curved in one being. Lachlan’s heart is racing with leftover adrenaline, eyes half mast, looking sideways at Adair’s blissed-out face. Time loses meaning, neither of them moving or really wanting to. Come leaks out of Lachlan’s ass when Adair shifts, pulls out his softening cock with a hiss and rolls on his back next to him. Lachlan blinks him into focus, smiling lazily at him, his chin propped up on his elbow, and his heart trips when Adair smiles back. “You didn’t kill me after all.” “Not for lack of trying.” Lachlan snorts. “At least I’d have gone off with a bang.” Adair shakes his head, reaches out with his hand to brush Lachlan’s sweaty hair off the side of his face. “You’re cracked,” he says, his voice quiet. Lachlan would say “awed” if it wasn’t such a ridiculous thought. “They’d have got hold of your bike by now.” “They won’t find it,” Lachlan dismisses with a snobby shrug. “And it’s coded. Top security shit. A friend of mine programmed it. You can’t crack it, can’t unplug it. They can’t even get rid of the tires. It’s basically a useless wreck until I enter the code.” Adair chuckles. “Pretty smart, biker boy.” “Lachlan,” he says, his eyes finding Adair’s silver ones and melting in their depths. “It’s Lachlan.” “I know.” Adair’s eyes sparkle. “You’re not the only one who has intel, ya know.”

Sophia Titheniel


- 60 -

“If you think that was smooth, I’m sorry man, you so failed.” Lachlan punches his arm with a grin. “Been told you’d been all over the place looking for me three weeks after I was in town the first time.” “Knew I should’ve killed that fucker.” Lachlan laughs, short and carefree, before falling quite serious again. “What?” Adair asks at length, a frown creasing his forehead. Lachlan averts his eyes, chest rising and falling with his deep breath. “We could do this,” he murmurs, voice barely there. “I mean…” He looks up at Adair again, beads of sweat breaking on his forehead, and he fidgets under the intense scrutiny. “You know it’s not possible,” Adair says, his voice awfully final. Lachlan bites his lip, covers the scar on Adair’s side with the span of his hand. “Yeah, well, you know I’m crazy, but -- I know it’s not -- ideal, but beats nothing, right?” he adds, and he hopes, really hopes that he’s not sounding as desperate to him as he does to his own ears. “People ’round here know me,” Adair says, his thumb running in the hollow of Lachlan’s throat. “They know what I am. Who I am. And the guys in my crew…” he trails off with a frustrated sigh. “It’s how I get by,” he adds in a whisper, and for a crazy instant he sounds like he’s trying to justify himself to Lachlan. “I can’t just disappear, they’ll find me. And you. They’re always going to be on the lookout, that’s how it works. They’re after you, after anything that can make a living.” Lachlan tries to interrupt him, but Adair’s fingers fall on his lips. “It’s mad, Lachlan.” “I never said I was sane, did I?” Lachlan’s mouth traces the words on Adair’s fingers. He leans closer, close enough for the color of Adair’s eyes to blur around the edges. “Just… we could try. I could, I dunno, only come round when your crew’s not around, not fighting at the club.” “You’re willing to come for the full moon?”

Sophia Titheniel


- 61 -

“Didn’t turn out that bad, did it?” Lachlan grins, stroking his side absentmindedly. “Most people don’t find the perspective of being torn to shreds by an uncontrolled werewolf arousing.” “I’m not most people.” Adair sighs and leans in to nibble at Lachlan’s lower lip. It gives him hope, a small, tender glow spreading from his chest to every bit of his mellowed out body. “That I figured out.” He pauses, looks intensely at Lachlan. “I thought you were never going to come back,” he confesses quietly, a wry smile quirking the corner of his lips up, the thin scar above his upper one twitching slightly. Lachlan tightens his hand over Adair’s waist to stop it from shaking. “I would. I will.” “I know now,” Adair whispers, and he smiles again, tugging at something deep in Lachlan’s gut. “I have to get back to Baltimore,” Lachlan says after a few beats of silence. “Thorn’s gonna want his bike back.” “Yeah.” Lachlan grins, pushes Adair on his back and swings one leg to each side of his hips, both his hands over Adair’s shoulders and a wicked grin on his lips. “But I’m sure he can wait a while.” Adair laughs, for the first time, and wraps his hands in Lachlan’s hair, pulling him down to kiss him. Not ideal, not perfect, fucked up on every single level, but Lachlan shuts Eric’s voice out and twists his tongue inside Adair’s mouth. Still beats nothing.

Sophia Titheniel Shy, bashful, Sophia Titheniel -- NOT! She’s part Elf, part video editor, part photographer. She likes her men feisty, snarky, and getting it on with one another! Originally from Italy, Sophia’s now hopping the Atlantic to land in Vancouver, Canada, and looking forward to giving her professors a heart attack with her M/M projects. Obsessed with caffeine, M&M’s (pun very much intended) and with everything supernatural, she’s known to carry her laptop to the most improbable locations (those include, but are not limited to, beach, bathroom, train, and day-job) to be able to finish whatever she’s writing at the moment. Spirit

Boys,

her

ongoing

free

serial,

makes

its

home

at

http://titheniel.livejournal.com. Want to harass her to hurry things up? Drop her a note at [email protected] -- Sophia would like to add she takes full responsibility for any thigh-clenching and changing of panties that might occur. Enjoy!

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