Page 9 of Shaman

“What’s up?” Ghost asked, and Ian wanted to think there was a note of concern in the man’s gruff, hyper-masculine voice.

Ian took another drag. Another fast sip. Cleared his throat. “I need an opinion, actually. Let’s say, hypothetically of course, that you encountered someone from your past. Someone whom you despise…but someone who wants to do business with you. And who knows certain unsavory things from your past. Let’s say, just to be crude, that they had you over a barrel, as it were. What would you do?”

It was quiet a beat. “Hmm,” Ghost said after a moment. “That’s a really specific hypothetical.”

“Isn’t it?”

“What I can’t see is how anyone could getyouover a barrel, you slippery fuck,” he said with a snort of amusement.

Ian smiled a little. “I appreciate the confidence.”

Ghost became serious. “You in trouble, kid?”

“Possibly quite a lot of it.” He felt his smile turn bitter. “It won’t affect the club.” He hoped not, anyway. “No worries.”

“Hey,” Ghost said. “I’m serious. You alright?”

Ian sighed. “I have to be.”

~*~

In retrospect, adding alcohol to the situation wasn’t the best idea. But it was too late for that.

It took two tries to swipe his keycard at the door before Bruce took it gently from him and did the honors.

“Brilliant,” Ian told him. “You’re capital, Bruce.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You can go away now to your own room. I’m going to have a nice row with my boyfriend.”

“Yes, sir,” Bruce said, sounding distinctly sad.

The man looked downright hangdog when Ian turned around and shut the door in his face. Poor oaf. Ian was too buzzed to care. He put his back to the door and let it bear his weight, surveying the living room of their suite.

It was after five and night had its hooks in the sky beyond the window, the lamplight welcoming and golden. Alec sat on the sofa, reading a book, down to his trousers and shirt-sleeves, socked feet tucked up beneath him, hair mussed from passing his fingers through it. He was a regular bookworm, and he got so invested in the stories he read that he curled up, and finger-combed his hair, and became this rumpled little librarian sort that pushed all of Ian’s buttons.

He’d been resisting this look diligently over the past weeks, but now, inhibitions lowered by vodka, lonely, frightened, aching, he had no guards against Alec’s gaze when he shut his book and looked across the room at him.

His brows tucked low. “You okay?”

Ian closed his eyes and tipped his head back against the door. “No. Not at all, darling,” he admitted with a groan.

He heard the book land on the end table. Heard the rustle of clothes as Alec got up, the light scuff of socks across plush carpet. If Ian was going to stop him, push him away, this was the moment to do so.

And he reallyneededto do so. What would happen to his poor sweet boy if the business collapsed under the Breckinridges’ threats? He’d given up his whole life to be with Ian, and if Ian fell…well…

He felt a warm gust of breath against his throat. His skin tingled in response to the warm proximity of another person, a person he loved and wanted and knew.

Soft lips brushed his jaw. His chin. “Baby,” Alec whispered. “Please.”

Ian tipped his head, and they were kissing, warm and sloppy, fueled by weeks of distance. Alec’s hands landed on his shoulders, slid down his chest, his stomach.

And it was good, so good.

Ian was just fuzzy enough that he allowed himself to reach for his lover, gripped him at the waist and reeled him in close, their bodies pressed together, heated and urgent.

“Oh, please,” Alec breathed against his mouth. “I’vemissedyou.”

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