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A man like him didn’t know peace, and likely wouldn’t know what to do with it. But he took this moment for what it was, a reprieve until the next battle began.
But when Stavros opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out, Daniel slid the knife down for him. So the Greek could get at the rest of the blood. Lick it off and shudder again. Completely insane and obscene.
Stavros was in his head constantly now. Throaty voice goading Daniel into kneeling for him. He’d set out to break the Greek and instead the captive was turning out to be the captor.
Stavros licked his chapped lips at Daniel’s retreating back. “You should know by now, I’m always in fighting form, Daniel.”
He’d wanted Stavros broken. This was the most vulnerable he’d ever get. And instead of wrapping his hands around Stavros’ throat and squeezing the life out of him, Daniel had instead held water to his lips and encouraged the man who killed his wife to drink.
This want. It was wrong. But wrong felt so right, the way it writhed thick and warm along his spine. Like hot, spiced honey.
He tried to imagine how his wife would’ve reacted to that. His betrayal for wanting the man who’d stolen her life.
“You have my attention,” he murmured. “That is what you wanted, yes? But you must know, Stavros…” Stavros inhaled. “You must know you had it from the very beginning. You never lost my attention.”
Something bad couldn’t feel this right, Stavros in his arms, in his mouth, melting like the best kind of confection on his tongue.
“I get in the same fucking room with you, and I catch afire.”
“I underestimated the danger you bring.”
“I’m gonna eat you. The fuck. Alive.” Stavros grabbed him by the hip, pushed one leg backward. And fucking dined.
“I’m looking at you,” Stavros whispered. “And I can barely breathe.”
Forbidden sex, drenched in blood and betrayal. The perversity of it got him harder. Made him even thirstier. Mouth on Stavros, cock inside him, Daniel fell from grace.
What he felt for the man who’d put his wife in her grave and lifted Daniel up out of his was impossible to explain. He didn’t bother trying.
“He is my want, and my need, and my danger.”
Daniel stood right there, hands still in his pockets. Smooth, he had that appearance, from his features down. But Stavros knew better. He knew everything about the man in front him was rough. Untamed. Un-fucking-civilized.
“You’re on my bedsheets,” he told him. “The scent of you, all over my bedsheets. I could wash it, but you’re also in my head. How do I fix that?”
He’d been left before. Had his heart broken, too. That blow had never tossed him on his ass before now. That blow had never hollowed out his chest before today. This love. This loss. Daniel Nieto. Together they slaughtered him.
In all the ways this could be deemed wrong and a betrayal—in all the ways that this connection forced him to choose between past and present, her and him—it was una necesidad. Breath and water and touch. Necessary. It was life.
They were connected, he and Stavros. Connected by blood, by death. By guilt and betrayal too. But also by this crazy unexplainable and emotional need they had to be near each other. Touch each other. Taste each other.
“Your touch kills me,” Daniel confessed through the thickness in his throat. “It’s the sweetest murder, and I want it again and again.”
“This tin man has a heart, diablo. And it is yours.”
“You’re the best man I know, and I’m not saying that because you let me tongue-fuck your ass.”
