Page 6 of Corruption
“What... what are you?”
Grimes’ face twisted so angrily that Tenrael flinched. “I am Lieutenant Charles Grimes, a field agent with the Federal Bureau of Trans-Species Affairs.”
Tenrael had heard of the Bureau. It was created shortly before he was captured, but he’d never feared it. From what he understood, the agency concentrated on bigger threats, while he did nothing worse than bring unease to people’s slumbers—although he’d prided himself on being very good at it.
Then he’d lost his freedom, and next his will, and finally his dignity. His pride had been the last thing to go, struck down like a tree felled by an ax. Now he had nothing but a faint hope for an end.
“Destroy me,” he pleaded. He dropped his head.
Grimes came closer, until he was near enough to tightly grasp Tenrael’s chin and pull it up. Tenrael’s eyes were swollen from the beating he’d received, and he blinked to clear his vision, examining Grimes as the man inspected him.
Grimes was tall and lean. He wore grubby farmers’ clothes like the rest of the rubes, but Tenrael could easily imagine him in a suit—not a flashy one like Donovan’s, but one with clean, spare lines. Grimes’ face was narrow and angular, his mouth paradoxically wide and lush-lipped, and his striking eyes were topped by eyebrows almost too light to see. Although the hour was late, his pale cheeks were as free of stubble as Tenrael’s.
“You don’t have to shave, do you?” Tenrael blurted.
With a low growl, Grimes gripped his chin hard enough to hurt. But he didn’t deny the words either. “You stink of them.”
For the first time in decades, Tenrael felt shame. He wished he could have washed himself. Which was ridiculous. Grimes had come to destroy him, hurt him, or abandon him. None of those required that he be clean. But despite the absurdity of it, he wanted to please Grimes. Wanted Grimes to take him and fill him and make him feel alive again. He hadn’t wanted anything in years except to die. This felt good, even if he knew he wouldn’t get what he longed for.
Shocking even himself, Tenrael wrenched away from Grimes’ hand and lurched to his feet. He put his hands on the back of Grimes’ head—knocking his hat off in the process—and tugged him close for a kiss. He’d never done such a thing before and was surprised he was able. But then Davenport had never specifically forbidden it.
Even more surprising, Grimes didn’t move away. The opposite, in fact. He grabbed Tenrael’s horns hard and invaded his mouth with a passion and ferocity that made Tenrael weak in the knees. None of the marks ever wanted to kiss him.
When Grimes finally broke the kiss, Tenrael braced himself for a blow. Instead, Grimes breathed raggedly in his ear. “Thought you’d taste bad. Corrupt. You don’t.”
Grimes himself tasted wonderfully bittersweet.
Then the long-fingered hands were all over Tenrael’s skin, dragging, prodding at bruises, the nails scratching at lash marks. It hurt very nicely, especially paired with Grimes’ teeth on his nipple.
In all the years of his captivity, all the thousands of times he’d been used, Tenrael had never once been aroused. But now his cock grew as hard as the iron bars of his cage, and for once, his moans were of pleasure rather than pain. He plucked at Grimes’ shirt. “Please... skin.”
Grimes backed away, but only long enough to shrug off his jacket; then he pulled his shirt impatiently over his head and tossed it aside. He was thin but sinewy, his hairless skin the color of fresh milk—except for his pink nipples. Unlike Tenrael, he had a navel. Without really intending to, Tenrael fell to his knees, grabbed Grimes’ hips, and tongued the neat little divot in his belly. Slightly lower down, Grimes’ erection was clearly visible through the fabric of his thin jeans. Tenrael wanted to lick that too, so he fumbled at Grimes’ belt, only to have his hands batted away.
“No,” Grimes rasped. With unforeseen strength, he hauled Tenrael to his feet; then he kissed him again, driving him back and back until Tenrael was pinned against the wall, his wings grinding into the rough wood. More importantly, though, Grimes was grinding against him, providing sweet friction to Tenrael’s aching cock. All the degradation and agony he’d experienced that night—and hundreds of nights before—faded away; even his torn skin and bruised bones became meaningless as he bucked his hips and tasted sugar and acid on Grimes’ tongue.
But when he laid his palms on Grimes’ back and felt the two long scars along the shoulder blades, Tenrael froze.
Grimes stilled too, and then took a step back. His jaw was clenched so tightly the tendons of his neck stood out, and his eyes sparked green fury.
“Please,” Tenrael whispered.
Very slowly, Grimes turned. The scars were vivid red against his white skin. Angry.
“They took them away?” asked Tenrael, feeling the anguish in his own wings.
Grimes spun, lunged forward, shoved Tenrael back into the wall. “I got rid of them,” he snarled.
“Why?”
“Useless.”
For a long time, Tenrael’s wings had been useless too, except as proof to the marks of what he was. Sometimes he’d almost wished they were gone, because they seemed to taunt him, reminding him of lost freedoms. But sometimes they gave him comfort as he lay curled in his cage, the feathers his only insulation against bitter cold.
Tenrael carefully reached behind himself, plucked a single feather, and presented it to Grimes on an open palm. He expected Grimes to refuse it, perhaps even beat him for offering. Grimes did neither. His face twisted oddly before he grabbed the feather and stuffed it into his pocket.
The kiss that followed was tender. Grimes pulled him against his chest and stroked a furled wing with one hand, smoothing Tenrael’s sore ass with the other. Tenrael let his weight rest against Grimes, and oh, that was lovely—having someone hold him up, just for a few minutes.
With his head swimming and his tears leaking onto Grimes’ shoulder, Tenrael barely noticed when Grimes moved his hand to Tenrael’s cock, gave a few firm strokes, and stopped kissing long enough to whisper, “Come.”
