Page 40 of All Saints Day
Dennis turns his face to the side, pearly canines flashing as Seb offers him the tender flesh of his left wrist.
As soon as Dennis bites down on Seb, I feel the explosion as Seb, Quentin, and Dennis all fire into orgasm—like a massive building collapsing in on itself all at once on demolition day. Seb’s knot disappears inside of Dennis’ ass as Seb sinks his teeth into Dennis’ left shoulder—both of them howling their orgasm as Seb unhinges his bite and Dennis’ knot is sucked inside of Quentin.
I feel my body threaten to shake apart as I roll through my own earth-shattering orgasm—the hot full feeling of cum pouring inside me as Dennis empties his balls inside Q; Seb’s knot slamming home inside of Dennis—Seb decanting himself inside the alpha as his teeth sink into the meat of Dennis’ left trapezius muscle.
Suddenly everything shifts—and I’m not in the cabin with the other Saints and their bonding bites—nor am I back in the sterile white of my cell. Instead, I am in a luxury hotel in Washington DC—a fabulous art déco room outfitted in black, white, and gold. It isn’t as bright and clear as the reception from my bonded fated mates, but more like the grainy, static-laden tracking of an old VHS tape.
Vaguely, I understand that it must be one of Dennis’ memories that I’m experiencing vicariously down the line between me and my bonded mates Frank and Mike Duboze fucking Dennis raw—the two of them cumming inside the young, green Dennis once each before he slips out of their hotel room—bowlegged and delightfully sore, into the balmy summer night.
Then everything loses that specific focus—that resonation of the shared memories of the mating bond becomes hazier, further away—like watching a reflection in a fogged mirror you’ve done your best to wipe clear with the blade of your hand; a smeared andmisty image of Frank and Mike Duboze making love against the windowsill as they look out at the lights of the city at night. Mike’s teeth make the tiniest of tears in the cartilage of Frank’s right ear—Frank sinking his teeth deep into Mike’s forearm—braced against the window-frame.
My body flies apart—across time and space as I submit to the sublime pleasure of so many lovers, past and present—and I ascend to the stars, the borders on myself temporarily lost.
Chapter 14
Dennis
After the unexpected move-up of our timetable, it was clear we’d have to extract Louie as soon as possible.
With the cable Caz provided along with my unfettered access to Compton, we’ve been able to extract a great amount of data to inform our break-in.
Not only have we learned the location of the facility where Louise is being kept, but we also now know the schedules for many of the staff members within the Windmill who are involved in maintaining her captivity; along with those who would be attempting to glean information from her while Louise was still at the Windmill’s mercy.
It has long been decided that I would initiate the grab of Compton himself.
Ever since Louise’s supposed death, Compton’s been changing gears, preparing me to become the new BSU fall-guy—the figurehead to install as a puppet or patsy after Compton himself can no longer play section chief. He’d been grooming Louise to be his successor according to the wishes of Lowry—but with Louise no longer an option, apparently they think I am a worthy substitute. As a result, Compton and I have been spending many more late nights together at the office usually followed by even longer nights at the bar, mostly listening to Compton complain about his wife or about the fact that he’dnarrowly missed being a part of a pack with his own omega; due to the nature of his potentially dangerous career.
More than once Compton asked me why I myself gave up the potential for a pack life in favor of becoming a field agent and federal employee; who may or may not have even had time to go on anything more than just mandatory reproductive leave with a single partner.
Apparently, I’d been convincing enough in my explanations of cool disinterest, since he did not press the issue any further.
That sort of stoicism was the kind of thing that guys like Compton looked for in another man they could ‘trust.’ Their uncompromising view of masculinity: no feelings except for anger, hatred, cold composure, or being horny. That limited range was all we were allowed.
I coordinated with the others after the bonding. The plan was to get Compton to our usual drinking spot after hours, but this time I would pretend to be really in need of advice and support that only he could provide. I would insist that we take our after-hours drinking to another smaller dive after our more respectable location shuttered its doors.
In addition to information about the Windmill, accessing Compton’s phone and laptop yielded many colorful details of Compton's personal life. We learned all about Compton's vices, the little things he couldn't say no to—the little guilty pleasures he couldn’t help but indulge in.
Compton had a weakness for expensive booze, well-curated cigars, and sex workers ofallkinds.
I’d been able to ingratiate myself with him through gifts of expensive spirits and Cuban cigars before he started taking me to some of his favorite strip clubs. We weren’t so close yet that he’d brought me along with him to any of the brothels he frequented—and he never mentioned any of the escorts or call girls he sampled while at home or on the road; but his phone records had already revealed those secrets to me and the other Saints.
It wasn't hard to get Compton to agree to go to the strip club.The small “Lamplighter’s III” bar was more like a windowless cinder block than a real building, complete with a flickering neon sign advertising “live girls 24/7.”
Once we sidled into our corner booth, I pretended to spill my guts. I complained about a recent breakup that never actually happened, before I began expressing some fabricated fears about both my career and my love life or lack thereof—all the while slipping doses of an oral suspension of Caz’s own night-night juice into Compton’s $37 glass of bourbon.
By the end of his second lap dance, Compton was snoring so loudly in his seat that the dancer simply gave up, happily taking a fistful of bills from me as a tip and slipping away to rejoin the other girls.
“Sorry, he's just had too much to drink,” I make the excuse, whipping out my phone to give the others a call.
Q and Seb make their way into the nightclub to help me unload the unconscious Compton under the auspices of friends helping their boss—who’d had one too many to make his way home from the strip club to his wife.
In actuality, we bundle Compton away into the back of our nondescript panel van and make our way immediately for the city limits.
As soon as Caz gets his hands on Compton's phone, he sets immediately to the work of making it appear as if Compton is en route to Windmill headquarters for a rendezvous between him and Susan Lowry.
Once we actually arrive at the top-secret facility, there will be a very limited amount of time to get into the depths of the holding cells to liberate Louise and make our exit.
From what we can tell from Compton's phone data, the Windmill facility Louise is being kept at—known internally as “The Country Estate”—is a converted mansion deep in the woods of West Virginia. An architectural marvel surrounded by nearly two hectares of undeveloped, private land.
