Under the Rushes Page 8

  Oh, that was hard on the inside and silken on the out, and dripping with precome too.

  “You’re ready!” Taern murmured, thrilled. “You’ve wanted me this whole conversation!”

  The Nyx took a step to the other side, deeper into the alley, and Taern followed him. He took another step in the opposite direction, like that last was just a feint, and Taern gripped his prick hard enough to make him moan softly, and brought him to a stop.

  “How long?” he asked, sinking down to his haunches and nuzzling that soft, furry belly. “Brother, how long has it been since someone touched you like you needed?”

  “I need to get out of here!” the Nyx muttered, and Taern grinned up at him, seeing that his eyes were screwed closed and his mouth was pulled back, almost like he was in pain.

  “You could, if you really wanted,” Taern said softly. “You took a steam spear to the gut—you could go if your life were in danger or if you thought this was bad. I’ve had to fight my way clear a few times, and I know you could get out, if you wanted. You especially. But you need this.” Taern set the Nyx’s cock free and stuck out an experimental tongue. The skin at the head was clean as it peeked from the foreskin, and his precome tasted sweet, like he ate fruit. Taern smiled because this was his best sort of customer, the kind who was clean and healthy and who cared what his whore thought of him. And he’d saved Krissa, and probably a lot of other girls as well. Oh yes, Taern could sink to a squat and blow a hero with a lot of gusto, especially if he bathed like this one did.

  He looked up again and saw that the Nyx had stopped breathing. Those gloved hands came up to Taern’s head and the Nyx burrowed his fingers through Taern’s hair. It was a caress more than an urge, but Taern took it as a signal to proceed. He opened his mouth and clamped his lips over the head of the stranger’s cock, then sucked it deep into the back of his throat.

  The low, soft moan started at the base of the Nyx’s stomach and shuddered its way out of his mouth. Karanos, how long had it been since someone had touched this man?

  Taern pulled his head back again, those fingers tightening in his hair gently. Oh, he wanted, oh yes he did, but this man was reluctant to take. It made Taern even more determined to give. He lowered his head again, as far as he could go. Not far enough to tickle his nose on the dark curled hair—no, this cock was too long and fat for that—but far enough that with a little help from Taern’s fist, he could make the Nyx groan again.

  Oh yes, the man liked it. His stomach fluttered with the force of aroused breath, and Taern put the hand not wrapped around his cock up to his chest, past the bruise, and petted him gently. He wished abruptly for a bed because he wanted to touch all of this man, wanted to stroke his nipples and see what color they were, but he couldn’t. He could just pet him softly up near his sensitive ribs and keep him in place so Taern could give him the best alleyway blowjob in Thenis.

  He moved his head and his hand faster, because this wasn’t going to take long. The Nyx didn’t make a lot of noise, which was probably a habit from his occupation, but the way his body tensed in waves told Taern he wasn’t that far from climax, not at all.

  Sure enough, when Taern moved his hand down to the man’s balls to cup them and massage them just a little, he gasped and shuddered, his cock pumping hard into Taern’s mouth. Taern was a pro, though. He’d practiced on Yael for a week, learning not to gag on a man’s seed, and to swallow every bit. It wasn’t even hard with the Nyx—his seed was a damned sight sweeter than most johns’, that was for damned sure.

  Eventually the Nyx was done, his breath still sobbing but his cock growing soft, and he offered Taern a hand up. Taern took it and put the man’s smallclothes and shirt to rights before he fastened the armor again and pulled his torn tunic over the gap. His own cock was aching and aroused, but he was a whore and he’d offered his service for free—he was certainly not going to ask this man to relieve him when the man was embarrassed about being serviced as it was.

  The night had grown colder as it closed in on morning, and Taern shivered, his body acknowledging that it had been too long in the chill. Without warning, the Nyx wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him in to warm him. His armor was heated with his body, and that helped, but Taern was struck by a desire—so strong it clawed at his chest—to see this man naked and vulnerable, sprawled on a bed for Taern’s taking.

  “You should go home, boy. I can walk you to within sight of your house, if you like.”

  Taern looked at him and smiled a little, and to his surprise, the stranger dropped his head and pressed a careful kiss against Taern’s mouth.

  Taern opened immediately, thrilled with the advantage, and invited a heated exploration. He tasted the Nyx’s tongue, and the Nyx tasted his own spend on Taern’s, and when the Nyx pulled back, his mouth was twisted in a pained line.

  “You’re sweet, boy,” he said gruffly. “You’re sweet, and I’m beyond grateful, but it’s time for all smart boys to go home.”

  “I’m a whore,” Taern said boldly. “Good whores go back to a whorehouse. Good boys need to find a home.”

  The Nyx sighed. “Well, maybe we can arrange that,” he said thoughtfully. “Now lead the way.”

  It was not far; Madame Matiya wouldn’t have wanted them strolling too far from safety as it was.

  “This your house, boy?” the Nyx asked as they approached the neatly painted two-story white structure, with the columns and the porch and the stately gracefulness from another time and another city.

  “Yes,” Taern murmured. “So you can find it again if you need to.”

  The Nyx made a grunt. “Does your Madame M—does she have girls who can dish out pain?”

  Taern turned toward him, indignant and sickened. “You don’t even like girls!” he protested in a hoarse whisper. “And I know you don’t like pain!” No—this man had needed all the gentleness Taern had to offer. Pain wasn’t on the table, which was good, because pain was Yael’s thing, not his!

  “Not for me!” the Nyx replied in an annoyed whisper. “And I’d need to buy her contract. Does your madam have anyone like that?”

  Taern shrugged. “There’s a few. Krissa might go—but the offer would need to be sweet. She’s almost got enough saved to buy her own contract, and she doesn’t mind getting smart with a whip if you ask pretty. Is that what your friend wants?”

  He was concerned when the Nyx closed his eyes, looking in more pain from the question than from the truly glorious bruise blossoming on his stomach.

  “Bimuit, oh gods, yes, I truly hope so.”

  Taern was not surprised then, but he was charmed as the Nyx, scourge of the gangs and the drug lords of Thenis, bent stiffly and kissed him on the cheek through his cowl and the armored mask he’d put on as they’d walked. “Thank you, boy. It’s been… sweetness. Sweetness I’d not expected. I’m grateful.”

  And with that he turned and disappeared into the alleys of Thenis.

  Taern watched him go, still hard and aching but now also wondering, hoping. Karanos! How long before Taern saw him again?

  THE next afternoon a stranger walked into Madame Matiya’s. A Forum member, judging by the tiny gold star on his lapel. (Some of the Forum members wore their stars large, on thick, ostentatious chains. Taern was fascinated by that tiny pin. He wanted it, wanted to push it through his ear like a stud and claim it for his own.) The stranger was tall, with shoulders as broad as a rabbit’s backside, dressed finely in a black suit with tight black breeches, a coat with long tails, and a black cravat, tied simply at his throat.

  He bore himself quietly, as quiet as smoke, and bowed slightly to the girl who greeted him at the door as he asked to speak with Madame Matiya by name.

  His voice was deep and gruff and left a little chocolate thrill in the pit of Taern’s stomach when he was done speaking, and Taern gasped from his place at the top of the stairs.

  The eyes that flicked up to him widened in recognition. Set in a fine, handsome face with a wide, long jaw and a b
old, once-broken nose, they were a warm, kind, familiar shade of brown.

  Familiar Beginnings

  DORJAN hadn’t gotten a good look at him in the dark. He’d seen the pale oval of a face, with the high cheekbones and the pointed chin, and glimpses of eyes that were dark enough that they were probably brown.

  They weren’t. They were blue. And the hair was black and curly and silky looking, silky enough that Dorjan regretted not feeling it between his fingers. Oh, glory be to the niskets and their kin, he was beautiful. His lips were full, not just with youth but with nature too, and dark pink, and there was a wicked curl to them, even as the jolt of recognition passed through him too.

  Dorjan swallowed, suddenly embarrassed by how much that meant. He hadn’t just been an exciting cock in a blind alley—the boy knew who he was too.

  “Dorjan of Kyon’s Gate?”

  Dorjan nodded, the flush of heat catching him unaware. Bimuit, he was a murderer, an assassin, a covert agent out to destroy his corrupt government. He’d been emotionally blackmailed into doing things so perverse to his own sexuality that he was surprised his equipment worked at all, and there was no reason a visit to a whorehouse should cause him to—oh nisket shite. The boy was watching him and laughing.

  Dorjan scowled at the boy, who laughed right back, and then turned to nod curiously at the woman who could only be the madam of the brothel.

  She certainly didn’t hide it.

  For one thing, she was nearly as tall as Dorjan himself, with hair that had been tinted until it was a blood black with glittering ruby highlights, piled high on her head and spilling down her back. Her face was square-jawed and handsome, with an elegant brow and artfully plumped lips. She wore a skirt that was hiked up to a shapely muscular thigh, clean of all hair, and a bodice that split down to her navel, revealing a cleanly muscled chest and the unapologetically developed Adam’s apple of an adult human male. Apparently Madame Matiya’s gender was a matter of identification as opposed to the gifts of nature.

  Dorjan looked up at the boy again, and the curl to his lip bordered on derision. Ah, and so it should be. The boy’s entire good opinion rested on Dorjan’s behavior in the next moment.

  Dorjan bowed low and sincerely and placed a respectful kiss on the lady’s hand. He was the last person to judge the things sexuality demanded of a person, male or female, sly or straight, gifted by nature or by desire. The boy obviously considered his boss a lady, and so would Dorjan.

  “Madame Matiya,” he said pleasantly.

  The woman replied in a throaty contralto. “Forum Master. How is it we’re graced with your presence?”

  Dorjan looked up at the boy and then regretted it. This visit was on the boy’s recommendation, but that didn’t mean Dorjan needed his permission. “I have a friend,” he said, aware of a tightness in his chest. He saw the beginnings of a smirk and changed the tack of his introduction. “Madame, I myself am sly, a lover of men. This is a request for a woman—it truly is for a friend. A friend with special requirements, my lady.” He closed his eyes, aware that they were standing in the vestibule of a great house and that every ear in the house was tuned to the needs of the Forum Master. “May we speak privately?” he asked, feeling pained. “My friend’s failings are….” He closed his eyes more tightly, aware now more than ever of the boy’s eyes on him. There was something so familiar about the boy in the light. He’d known this boy. His manner, his voice—except not so deep. He needed to figure out that voice. It was driving him to distraction.

  “I understand,” the woman said, and she smiled graciously and bowed, her movements so exact and feminine that Dorjan had no doubt she really was every inch a lady—in spite of what genitalia she might sport between her smooth-skinned thighs.

  She led the way to a small study, complete with an oaken desk and a dumbwaiter, ostensibly so Madame could work uninterrupted. If it weren’t for the pale-green wallpaper with the darker-green curls of ivy that graced the walls, it could very well be Dorjan’s own desk, which was designed much the same, except with dark paneling and blood-red velveteen fabric on the chairs. Areau had designed the place, and Dorjan loathed it. Madame Matiya probably left her study with a much lighter heart.

  There were two brocade chairs with stubby wooden legs in front of the desk, and she sat in one and gestured for him to take the other.

  “May I offer you any refreshment, Forum Master?”

  He shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. Feel free to take some yourself if I’ve intruded upon your lunch hour.”

  She inclined her head graciously and rapped twice upon a tube on the wall. Behind the wall, he heard the dumbwaiter in operation and wondered what sort of dainties her kitchen would produce. He was charmed by her, by her operation, by the cheerful working voices not only of the people in the house but of the servants working behind the scenes. His father had always taught him to treat people of all occupations with dignity, and he’d never thought a brothel should be any different. He’d seen enough miserable whorehouses in the city to know that this place was special and safe for people who had not had a lot of safe for the past ten years, and he respected it.

  “So,” Madame Matiya asked delicately. “Your friend?”

  Dorjan swallowed again, choking on the shame. This was so not anybody’s business but his own. But he couldn’t do it anymore. His day at the Forum had been ghastly, and he was going to have to politically maneuver until he bloody well kissed his own arse in order to get the Forum and Triari back to where they had been in terms of looking at Alum Septra with suspicion and withdrawing from the war. His heart and soul were shredded thin like curls of cheese or frozen meat, and he needed not to sell his flesh by the pound whenever Areau needed the screaming pleasure that Dorjan so loathed to inflict. He’d refrained from doing this before out of fear—whom could he trust with the secrets of his house? But that moment, that breathless moment in the alleyway that he wished badly he could forget, had taught him that maybe some people in this city would be willing to ignore the goings-on in his home for the potential good they could bring. It had brought him the hope of trust.

  “My friend was kept in the asylum for a month,” Dorjan said through a rough throat. “They botched the healing of burns on his body, among other things. He has scars—not as disfiguring as he believes, but not pretty either. They….” Dorjan grimaced. “They made him love pain. I don’t know how—I don’t.” Well, Areau had told him about the dust, but since that should have condemned Areau to a messy, painful death, Dorjan figured he’d keep that to himself. “Every time we try to think of how to undo it, it only makes him worse. We….” He looked her directly in the eye. “Madame Matiya, this friend and I, we have an undertaking, great and hopefully to the benefit of our whole province, and it cannot be done without him. But I’m the only one he can trust with this craving and I….” His voice derailed, broke track, and refused to go on. He looked at the hands clasping his knee and realized they were shaking and that the air was chill on his face.

  He was surprised when he looked down to see her large well-manicured hand, with scarlet polish tipping each nail, resting on his own clasped fingers.

  “You have been filling this craving?” she asked gently, and Dorjan pulled his hands back, uncomfortable with the sympathy.

  “I loved him once,” he said apologetically, feeling weak, and her sympathy almost undid him. Ten years he’d been carrying this secret, him and Areau. Perhaps their housekeeper had suspected, but no one had known for sure. This woman suddenly knew, and Dorjan felt naked. He lived his entire life ensuring that he was never this exposed.

  “You don’t anymore?” she asked, carefully keeping her hands folded in her lap.

  “Not that way,” he said, sure of himself. “Not… he never wanted my touch. Ten years he’s been craving it because it disgusts him. That….”

  “Oh,” she said. And that was all. Just “Oh.”

  Dorjan closed his eyes again and gathered himself. “I need a girl,” he said aga
in. “One who can administer pain but who will stop even if he doesn’t ask it. She needs to be willing to live with us so that he may have his bloody pain whenever he needs it, and she will be paid well for her services. She needs to be prepared to watch out for him—the last time I refused to….” Dorjan was tired of blushing, but that didn’t stop the hated heat from trapping him inside it. “He disappeared. I found him in the worst brothel in the stews, and he almost died of infection. She needs to be prepared to be his babysitter and his lover and his pain-giver. I will pay her, pay her in buckets, if only she consents to stay with us for two years, to live with us, to keep our secrets.”

  “What if she wants to leave after that?” Madame Matiya asked, and Dorjan shrugged.

  “What else would I do but let her go and find a girl who would want the same position? This girl could leave earlier if she needed to—as long as she knew she wouldn’t get the full payment, there’s no reason for it to be a slave indenture. I just….” Ach, Bimuit and Karanos. “I need to sleep,” he murmured. “I need to sleep and know I’m not go be wakened to wage war on my brother.”

  “Sh,” Madame said, patting his shaking hand. “You’ve been a good friend, Forum Master. Let’s talk about other things while I send for a couple of girls who might meet your requirements.” She stood and hit the metal tube with the small hammer hanging from it, and the dumbwaiter opened. She pulled out the food tray that sat upon it and clanged again, then turned and wrote a brief message in handwriting that was both elegant and clear. She put the missive in the dumbwaiter and turned to Dorjan with the tray, which she set up on the small table between them.

  “Have some tea, at least,” she urged, “and let us talk of other things.”

  “Such as?” he asked, accepting the tea in a delicate white cup. It was herbal, fragrant, and almost flowery, and he sipped it appreciatively. He didn’t drink a lot of tea, but he enjoyed it when it was offered.