Page 115 of Skotos
He reached up and grabbed the bottle, popping the top. Before I could react, he squirted a healthy amount all over my chest and stomach.
“Will!”
“Shut it. I want you glistening.”
His hand smoothed and spread the oil, coating every inch of me in shininess that reflected the lamplight, as though I was some skin-covered fun-house mirror, reflecting my light in every direction. It might’ve seemed silly at first, but the way his fingers slid across my skin fanned the flames of his touch into a blaze across my body. When I leaned down and smothered his frame with my own, and his skin became as wet and slick as mine, I thought I might explode right there.
“God, this feels good,” I said between kisses.
“Looks amazing, too. You should see yourself.”
I ducked my head into his shoulder. I’d never been one to get embarrassed, but Will’s praise was threatening to paint my ears a permanent red.
“Look at me when you kiss me,” he said, and we stared into each other as our lips met again. I sworeI could feel his heart filling and growing, pulsing in a way that it only did for me.
My hands roamed his sides as my weight pressed him down, and he squirmed beneath me, shoving our cocks together, sliding them up and back. I could barely tell where he began and I ended. And that was perfect.
He spread his legs, putting one atop my shoulder, an instruction that needed no words.
I reached down, guided my cock, and slid into him.
His head flew backward, pressing into the pillow, his eyes squeezed shut as the first wave of pain settled.
I pushed in deeper.
He groaned and clenched his teeth.
With one last motion, he took all of me inside him.
His eyes opened.
His hands gripped my ass, and he held me still as he stared.
“You’re mine, Thomas Jacobs. Now and forever.”
I smiled. My heart swelled. My cock throbbed inside him.
“Now and forever, Will Shaw.”
53
Epilogue
The windowless chamber felt more like a vault than a meeting room, its thick stone walls bearing the weight of centuries and secrets. A single lamp cast harsh light over the heavy wooden table where three men in dark suits sat wreathed in cigarette smoke, their faces bearing the satisfied expressions of hunters who had successfully stalked their prey.
The eldest of the three raised his crystal tumbler, the clear liquid within catching the light like winter ice. “To Sacred Spear,” he said, his accent cultured and precise. “And to the perfect irony of turning their own zealots against them.”
The other two men lifted their glasses in response.
The one with scarred hands spoke with quiet satisfaction. “To Cardinal Severan,” he added with dark amusement. “May his righteous conviction burn bright wherever he’s hiding.”
The youngest among them chuckled as he drained his glass. “The poor bastard never suspected a thing. He genuinely believed he was purifying Europe and the Church while doing our work for us.”
They drank again in unison, the alcohol burning down their throats.
The elder immediately refilled their glasses from an unmarked bottle—the kind of premium spirit reserved for those who moved in circles of power and spoke in whispers.
“The man’s fanaticism was absolute,” the scarred one continued, settling back into his chair. “When we provided evidence of Vatican corruption, of papal compromise with Western powers, he embraced our cause without question.”
