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The house was ugly as sin.
It sat an asymmetrical blemish plucked from the Hollywood Hills circa 1972 hidden away like a shameful family secret in the northern Manitoba woods. A blocky heap of contrasting textures — brick and glass, concrete and wood, metal and vinyl — the architect’s fevered vision spread like a rash into the single sprawling room that made up the majority of the living space.
But where the outside was stacked straight lines and sharp corners, those same hard-edged materials were carved and moulded to flowing curves on the inside. In the kitchen area, raw stone tiles left ridged and creviced were smoothed under glossy sealant. In the rest, deep shag carpet framed by two concentric circles of concrete and wood bullseyed in a sunken fire pit. The pit, likewise framed by plush half moon sofas, was another round of concrete. The floor and flue were hammered metal, the latter set low flaring like a trumpet before narrowing down to a chimney as graceful as a swan’s neck.
Like the sofas, the scattered groups of curved chaises and rounded chairs sat flush to the floor. Accompanying side tables were set in circles of stone cut into the lush carpet like scars from the pox. Directly opposite the wall of sliding glass doors that looked out over the lake, a raised platform with a massive round bed heaped with pintuck pillows and black market furs held court.
It was hideous, ridiculously indulgent and impractical, a perfect cross section of the drug-addled mind of the man he’d killed to claim it, and it tickled Victor pink.
—
Waning fall sun gleamed on the stretch of Victor’s arms as he hefted the axe overhead. It glinted off the falling blade, spilled warm down his bare back as the crack of split wood ricocheted through the treetops. Behind him, the lake was still. Dry leaves rattled like knucklebones on a lone breath of air.
His nose twitched at a new scent laced through the decay.
Grinning broadly, he hefted the axe, brought it arcing back down. When he’d left the city comforts behind along with the racket that had only lately begun to grate on his nerves, he hadn’t thought to expect company. Coming up on nearly two hundred years of knowing him better than he knew himself, it turned out Jimmy had a few surprises left in him after all.
Kindling skittered across the brittle grass.
He sank into the chore’s steady rhythm. The wind came up, teasing whitecaps on the lake. The source of that heady familiar scent was less than a mile off now and moving at a fair clip. Either Logan had grown less cautious since Victor last laid hands on him or he had his mind set on a thing he didn’t have much patience left to do without.
Whatever that might be, it promised to make for an entertaining evening.
Victor fished a faded red handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped at the sweat gathered along his hairline and the back of his neck. A stronger wind threatened in the distance, plucking dead leaves from their branches to send them swirling into the steel grey sky. He lifted the hankie to the wind, let it fly. It flashed a bright spot of colour just once before disappearing into the browning trees.
Stripping off his battered leather gloves, he tossed them down beside the axe wedged into the chopping stump. The kindling he left to deal with when there wasn’t something so interesting bearing down on him.
His shirt he left behind too, hung on the brass woodbin butted up against the back of the house. Another breadcrumb.
Inside, he bent over the sink to splash cool water on his face. Through the open door at his back came the rasp of leaves, a rustling of the grass. The silent weight of Logan’s scent pressed hot against his skin. Closer, and anticipation popped and fizzed in his veins like peroxide poured into an open wound.
“Now ain’t this a treat, you come to find me for once,” he said, relishing the tightening of his guts. He could tell Logan was in the house now, but not how much further he had to go. Not being able to predict with confidence what Jimmy would do, where he would be, was a thrill he didn’t expect to enjoy so very much. It made when he chose right all the more satisfying, when he chose wrong all the more exciting.
Greedy hands suddenly clutching at his sides made him twitch and laugh. They pushed up, dug stark white divots in the meat of his chest to pull him back into the wide drag of Logan’s tongue. The damp smell of forest undergrowth hung thick on his skin. Wet cotton, moist earth, the musk of sweat and long arousal. He’d been out there for a while.
Victor aimed a glance back over one shoulder “Not even a hello for me first, darling?”
A rippling growl warned him off trying to turn around. He chuckled indulgently and relaxed, turning that low growl to a satisfied rumble. Slow and lingering wasn’t what Logan’s scent advertised but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d gotten contrary with his own wanting. If he realized it at all, he wouldn’t admit to the spiteful nature they shared. Wouldn’t make him more likely to accept it if he knew the sole difference was in where they chose to aim it.
“Never were one for pillow talk,” Victor said easily as Logan strained for the crook of his neck. He kept his knees unbent, his back straight, to make him work for it. How quickly he rocked up onto his toes was as good a measure as his scent for how deep into need he’d sunk. That he didn’t linger, too eager for the taste of sweat to savour what he already had in favour of more, was a better one.
He dragged the flat of his tongue up the middle of Victor’s back in a wide lick. He nuzzled open-mouthed into the dip of Victor’s shoulder blade, his tongue a ticklish flick as he licked his lips, rubbed his face into his own spit to spread it further. Following his nose to the curve of an armpit, his huffing breaths loud and eager as Victor’s arm shifted, draped loose down his back, he quivered in delight and dived tongue-first into damp curls.
As long as Victor stayed easy, open, Logan didn’t warn him off a second time as he turned. He lifted his arm to lightly grasp the back of his own head as he settled back against the sink. Exaggeratedly slow, he rested his other hand in clear view on the edge.
Logan paid it no mind at all save to take advantage of the extra room. Throat and jaw flexing, he busily worked his tongue against the roof of his mouth to scrub every scrap of salt from it before another wide lick, then another. A small tug on Victor’s chest hair sparked a twitch of muscle he chased down like he was afraid it’d get away from him and caught it roughly in his teeth. He sucked hard, tongue lashing, at mounded flesh.
Curious, Victor took a good long look at the mess he’d made of himself. Grass and dirt stained the torn knees of his jeans, a smear of grease near the pocket. His boots were caked with mud, the laces of the left snapped and tied low with battered leather folded over to keep it from flopping around. A plain tank top, now more grey than white, was soaked through at the chest, beneath the arms. Here and there were a dozen or so specks of old blood, nothing significant. Enough to make a man wonder what he might’ve been up to out there in the woods, if not a good hunt.
Snuffling loudly, Logan turned immediately to the smell of leather clinging to a hand set to his jaw and ignored Victor’s urging to look up in favour of nosing roughly into it.
“Y’know, I’m used to you and your moods,” Victor commented, watching avidly as his brother lapped hungrily between his fingers, tongued at the creases of his palm. “Seen you get in enough of ‘em.”
If Logan was even listening at all, he wasn’t one bit interested. He caught a claw nimbly in his teeth, gave it a playful tug. When Victor simply watched, he made a sound of discontent and licked up under it, drawing it deeper into the soft vulnerable heat of his mouth.
“And I’ve sure as hell seen you scent drunk more than a time or two,” Victor went on, resisting the urge to pin Logan’s busy tongue as he moved too quickly from one finger to the next, “but that’s not all this is, is it?”
It wasn’t any recovered memory that had turned him into this feral creature of need, that much Victor was certain. He’d like to find out what did. Keep it tucked in his back pocket for the next time life got boring.
Lips peeled back from Logan’s teeth in another warning for the hand Victor dared tangle in his hair. In the end he let it be. Distracted from it, more likely, by the flex of muscle as Victor’s grip tightened in anticipation of keeping hold. He licked at Victor’s forearm, no more long drags of his tongue now but quick, hurried passes, too much spread out in a feast for a starving man to pace himself.
His head dipped as he licked across Victor’s ribs. Fingers hooked in the beltloops of Victor’s jeans, he lowered onto the balls of his feet following the cut of muscle arrowing in from Victor’s hip. His mouth met denim and he snarled quietly at finding his path suddenly barred, yanking at the waistband, prying angrily at the fly, before he dug up the sense to tug at the zip. Metal teeth grated as he finally got Victor’s jeans peeling open, his breaths turned to loud snuffling growls, harsh and needful.
Victor shoved his face into the bunch of fabric at his thigh. Muscle corded tight in Logan’s arms, his neck, down through his back, as he went dead still. A heavy bass rumble started up low in his chest. His eyes rolled up to lock bright and keen on Victor’s face.
Head cocked, Victor asked, “What’s gotten into you, pup?”
The wind took the door left swinging wide to the weather and slammed it into the side of the house.
Jolting, Logan tore free. Claws kissed the hollow of Victor’s thigh where his fist was still tangled up tight. Another rolling rumble, this time from the sky, as the edge of the granite counter bit cruelly into Victor’s spine and the dark clouds cracked, let loose rain in a torrent. It crashed into the ground, foamed up like at the base of a waterfall where the dirt couldn’t absorb it fast enough.
Poised and ready, Logan stared out at the storm, searching for a threat. Violence rose from him like steam from hot asphalt in a summer downpour. Nostrils flaring at the surge of excitement lighting up Victor’s insides, he whipped back around.
Grinning at the dumbfounded look on his face at finding only empty space, Victor easily evaded a quick grab. He rolled smoothly over the kitchen island and landed lightly on the far side. Following in a furious scramble, Logan gouged out a chunk of granite that hit the floor and shattered the glossy sealant like glass.
Braced for the slice of those sharp shining claws, the thud of a bare fist caught Victor off-guard. He took most of the force from a sloppily deflected elbow square in the chest and dropped, winded, to one knee. A flash from outside lit up Logan’s toothy grin right before they both went tumbling flat.
Grappling, teeth snapping inches from his throat, Victor twisted, got a decent hold. Lost it again with that fucking elbow dug into his armpit. The bright shock of hurt spilled free in a howling laugh as he bucked and rolled, regaining his feet. They squared off, him with his arms spread in wide invitation, Logan with his fists raised.
Bare fists. No claws.
A feeling like joy thrummed in the air between them.
There was no way for Victor to keep his claws out of the way like Logan did — probably wouldn’t anyway, even if he were inclined — but it was the shag he dug and tore into as they tussled like cubs. He went looking for a trace of that old self-righteous reluctance to deal out pain in Logan and found not a trace of it. This wasn’t holding back in fear of something, it was the want of something else. Something almost sweet with Logan sniffing and pawing at him like an overexcited puppy.
Logan gained the upper hand with a metal knee drilling agonisingly into the small of his back. He twisted away from Logan’s grab for his throat, aided by the sweat slicking their skins, and fell into the trap of the other arm snapping beneath, hooking him up in a half nelson. The heat of Logan’s hard cock seared his flank like a brand.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Victor said gleefully, “not this time,” and wedged a hand between them. He’d been soft on Jimmy of late. Last time he’d tracked his little brother down, the novelty of Logan pushing for what he’d wanted without decades of baggage weighing him down had been well worth indulging.
Logan jerked and growled, humping eagerly into the pressure of Victor’s hand closing tight, tighter over his crotch. Tighter still, squeezing a whine out of him until it had to hurt more than it felt good, and he kept pressing into it, his sharp little teeth scoring the exposed slope of Victor’s neck. His jaws clamped down. A test, and a threat.
His rumbling satisfaction, the rough grind of his hips when Victor let up, was short lived. An elbow to his ribs had his breath whooshing past Victor’s ear. By luck he sagged in the opposite direction of a headbutt aimed to smash into his nose and Victor’s skull cracked off that adamantium jaw rang it loud as a big brass bell.
“Christ.” With a grunt and half of a laugh, Victor staggered to his feet. He put one of those wide low chaises between them and slapped a hand to his head to stop it spinning. “Damn head of yours was hard as a rock before you got that shit put in you.”
Crouched on all fours, Logan swiped his tongue at the thin trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth.
“C’mon then,” Victor said, and kicked the chaise over.
Coiled tight, Logan leapt. His hand slapped the chaise as it thudded onto its side and he swung smoothly over the top, feet first. The second he hit the floor Victor knocked a pedestal table into his legs. With a sliver of time bought, Victor darted for the fire pit.
Running on something more than instinct, Logan gave chase. Where Victor poured on speed to weave through furniture, occasionally sacrificing a fraction of his lead to put another solid obstacle in his brother’s way, Logan barrelled straight through. One zigzagging circuit of the house had most of it in shambles.
Twice Logan managed to almost catch him, once because it was just so much goddamn fun to hear that snarling frustration surge when he slipped away again, and a second time because he’d paused too long to bask in the savage focus in Logan’s eyes. When Logan finally brought him down for real he put odds on who deserved the credit at a straight fifty-fifty.
They wrestled for a long minute. Logan kept trying to put Victor on his belly and Victor kept using the momentum to roll right back over until he got the right angle to leverage Logan up, nail him with a good kick to the gut. He went flying and hit the bed flat on his back with a thunderous crack. The breath knocked out of him by the weight of his own bones, he wheezed.
The top right corner of the mattress sagged, pillows tumbling, but the rest held. Ignoring the bed’s threatening creak, Victor climbed on up to kneel between the ungainly sprawl of Logan’s legs.
“Well now,” Victor said, shoving at his loose jeans and tugging free his dick for a lazy stroke. The rain beat on the roof like a drum. “Got me where you want me. You behave yourself, maybe I’ll do something about it.”
When he offered the scent, the taste of himself smeared onto his hand, Logan surged up to snatch at it greedily. He could’ve dived for the source just as easily, but like fumbling to get into Victor’s pants, he didn’t have the presence of mind for even that much. He rubbed his face into Victor’s palm, tongue and teeth toeing the line between playful and mean. A tug at his jeans edged him over into biting. Victor hooked a thumb on his teeth and he snorted, gave his head a hard shake. It took the threat of a claw pinning his quivering tongue for him to fall still this time around.
Victor patted his cheek. “There’s a good boy.”
Working Logan’s jeans and underwear down one-handed took some doing with the man himself not one bit inclined to help. With Victor’s attention elsewhere, he tested out a little lick, and with that inch gained, slid right into a hard suck.
Sighing heavily, Victor yanked his hand free, the tail end of it dissolving into a hiss at the harsh scrape of teeth. Even as Logan shuddered and braced, hiked his hips up into Victor fisting his cock, a smug little smirk spread from his lips to his eyes.
Victor bit that saucy look right off his face.
With Logan’s taste in his mouth for the first time that evening, it struck that it’d been a hell of a long while since he’d had it last. Months, it turned out, when he tallied it up, with Logan still so leery of what Victor might know that he didn’t. Maybe Victor could’ve settled that some over the booze he’d nicked on his way to their last little rendezvous. He could’ve said something, probably done something, that would’ve had Logan more willing to come looking long before now.
But then Logan wouldn’t have served up this little treat, and oh, what a shame that would’ve been. Hearing his shallow huffing breaths melt into a throaty groan as Victor kissed him was almost as good as the kiss itself. It’d been longer still since Victor had last felt the need buried in his baby brother build and build until he vibrated with it, filled his lungs with the reek of desperation for the deeply lazy push of tongue, for the hand pulling roughly at his drooling dick.
The contrast drove Logan mad. He pushed, shoved, grabbed, and when that didn’t get him what he wanted, bit. Ignoring it all save to laugh at him, Victor kept to the pace he knew from long practice would only wind him up more.
Logan’s eyes flashed wide as if it’d snuck up on him when his dick pulsed. He dug his fingers into Victor’s forearm, some scrap of memory serving as warning that Victor might be in the mood too to drop his dick before he’d finished just to hear him whine. He startled at the shot of come that struck his face and he turned, open-mouthed and panting, to the rasp of Victor’s tongue on his cheek.
“Good, hm,” Victor said, letting their lips rub together, damp and soft, like a reward. “But not good enough.”
Logan barked one brief protest as Victor abruptly sat back, left him cold. His jeans skinned down to catch on his boots, Victor twisted them tightly around a fist so it forced his ankles to cross and hoisted him half up off the mattress to swing bare-assed to the wind. Dazed, it wasn’t until Victor thumbed at his crack, smeared it slick with his own come, that he put two and two together and started flopping around like a hooked trout.
Putting his shoulder into keeping Logan’s legs up, Victor spit. Logan thrashed as it caught, gleaming invitingly, on the tight dark hairs near his hole. Watching keenly for the tiny fluttering clench of anticipation Logan could never control, he spit again. The thick flex of muscle in Logan’s thighs begged him to gather it up, knuckle it into him, spit one more time to make it wetter.
Stormlight threw everything into stark light and dark. Victor shifted, letting his trapped legs slide down to hook over one shoulder so the next flash of lightning lit him up. One good kick would set him free.
That want had already sunk its vicious teeth too deep and it didn’t matter that Logan snarled, bared his own. If he wanted to make like squirming into the firm push of Victor’s dick was the same as struggling against it, Victor would let him. The look in his eyes suggested he might’ve even come around enough to realize it, too. Worse for him, and better again for Victor.
“Just couldn’t stop thinking about me, could you,” Victor said, a shot in the dark he was keen to see land. “Bet you stripped that pretty dick of yours raw. Did you want it bad enough to go find something soft and sweet to stick it in? Maybe a couple sweet things.”
The heat, the tightness of his brother’s body as he worked the first inch of his dick in and the sound like a whine caught high and smothered in Logan’s chest strayed dangerously close to shaking his resolve to dig up some hint of what was going on in that head of his.
“Did you try going belly up for somebody else first? Spread your legs in some dark corner somewhere, showed your hole hoping if someone churned you up right, it would be enough?”
If he had, Victor would’ve liked to have been there for it. It would’ve been fun to track how close Logan was breaking by the sour dissatisfaction in his scent. To see for himself how every move his foolish baby brother had made to keep his distance had led to this.
“Sweetheart,” he soothed, “you know I would’ve taken care of you.”
Jaw clenched, throat drawn tight and trembling, Logan’s stare burned. Strung wire-tight by his own wanting, he opened up soft as warm butter. He arched as Victor slid into him, his hands clawing at the rich bedcovers, like he couldn’t understand his own craving for it, let alone how incredible it felt to get it.
So Victor fucked him slow, fucked him steady, giving him plenty of time to wallow in it. Fighting his own instincts seemed to be what it always came down to, even now when he couldn’t remember all those reasons why he’d wanted to, until he just couldn’t any more. It used to be too late back then and it was too late now, but he hadn’t had Victor around to sharpen up those dulled instincts for him. To show him how it should be before he suffered more than he’d needed to.
The storm outside had begun to ease; the one in Logan raged on. It boiled up and over, spilled out in his teeth tearing at Victor’s flesh, his nails clawing hot ribbons down Victor’s side. He growled savagely when Victor got too close to coming for his liking. His scent as Victor obliged him by easing back was swamped with pleasure.
He writhed, real pain threaded through his scent and his voice as Victor indulged him just the same once more, then once more again. He’d already come for a second time long minutes ago, the pungent smell of his spunk laying heavily around them, and carried on like he hadn’t noticed. The intoxicating blend of his pleasure and his pain spiked as Victor drove him ruthlessly into a third time, his moans tattered and torn by the fierce ache in his balls as his cock jerked feebly, dribbled thin, watery fluid. They pitched louder when Victor leaned back to watch his red swollen asshole clutching greedily at every thrust. He smelled so raw, still so unsatisfied.
Limp as a doll, Victor gathered him up close, held on so crushingly tight and fucked him so viciously it layered pain over pain, honey sweet and almost cloying. Victor wrung noises out of Logan like he’d been beaten bloody and broken and his grateful little brother nuzzled weakly into him as he came, grunting and rutting like a beast, wetting dry torn lips with the sting of Victor’s sweat.
Long after the storm had quieted, Victor fucked him again. He spooned up tenderly behind Logan’s exhausted body, cradled him tenderly in the curve of his own, and fucked him long and hard with a hand spread wide over his belly to feel the helpless shuddering and shaking of the deepest parts of him.
“Gonna have to start believing me sooner or later,” Victor told him as he whimpered and snarled and clawed weakly through coming dry. “You need me.”
It didn’t matter yet if he didn’t understand how deep in their blood that need lived.
—
Logan surfaced on the edge of false dawn. With each sensation — soft silky sheets that smelled of good healthy sweat and not the cold ground filling his nose with the scent of damp earth and decay — came slow realization.
He’d been drifting. Surviving on the few odd jobs he’d picked up here and there, and off the land when the weight of not knowing who he was, not having a solid connection to anyone or anything, grew too heavy.
Worse than the aching loss filling his chest was not knowing what had put it there. It didn’t make much sense to miss what he couldn’t remember having, and it was easier in the wild to push it aside, sink into the peace that was letting his instincts guide him. But if the how of what steps he’d taken to end up here were a blur, at least the why of it was clear.
He’d caught a scent out there, wholly unexpected. Hooked onto the fierce craving for a sense of belonging that had driven him from the anonymous crowds in the first place, it had pulled him from the small patch of relief he’d carved out of the forest across miles of punishingly unfamiliar terrain.
Victor. Home.
He still had no memory of that home. Not when, or where, or how. He sure as hell felt it, though, right down to the marrow.
Levering himself up, he scrubbed a hand over his face. Laid out beside him, rightside up where his own head was near hanging off the foot of the bed, Victor breathed softly in sleep. He had both hands tucked under a plush pillow, long legs crossed casually at the ankle, and all the covers he hogged draped carelessly over his hips.
The few scraps in his recollection of the night prior might’ve been a jumbled mess, but as he stared blearily out over the damage — stuffing ripped from furniture, deep dragging tears in the carpet, splintered wood and a sizeable dent in the copper flue — he figured it had made for a decent set up once upon a time. Tracky as shit, but plush.
“Settle down,” Victor grunted, drilling a heel into his hip. The sound of his voice knocked another handful of hazy memories free. With them came a prickling rush of heat to Logan’s face, a deeper smoulder to his belly.
Annoyed with himself for getting squirrely over it now, “Fuck off,” he groused, and frowned. The words felt funny in his mouth. He ran his tongue across his teeth, shifted his jaw from side to side. Not much call to make conversation in the middle of nowhere; didn’t make much last night either, he guessed.
“Can hear you thinkin’ all the way over here,” Victor muttered. The bed’s unsteady wobbling registered first, then the weight of Victor up and on him, quick as a blink. “Said settle down.” A sniff at his nape before kneeing his legs open, cock wedged into place and sliding in slick as spit.
Victor went at him like last night’s highlight reel. For some reason he laid there and took it all over again, let Victor’s hands pushing up over his ribs stretch his arms out to drape over the edge of the bed and bowed his neck to the scratch of whiskers and teeth. It wasn’t at all the same with his head mostly on straight in the near light of day and still it felt just as goddamn good. A flash of memory had him worming a hand down to clutch at his cock like he expected to find it already drenched and sore. Could’ve been memory too that had his insides aching already, a battered and slippery overfull sensation of so much come pumped into him he was damn sure it was only in his head.
Orgasm reared up to grab him by the throat. He fell into it on a wave of pure relief that it spared him from having to look too closely at anything at all.
Victor’s claws pierced the heavy mattress cover as he pushed up, dug in for leverage. Up near the headboard bolted to the wall, the bedframe slammed into it over and over with a chorus of splintered wood. Victor hooted when a good half of it gave way, groaned throatily, and rested his forehead heavily on the back of Logan’s skull as he came. He rode out the length of it with suddenly easy rolls of his hips, snickering into the back of Logan’s neck between lazy licks, and puffed out a satisfied sigh when he was done.
Sliding off onto his side, he gave Logan’s ass a smug, covetous pat. “That takes care of the cream. Ready for some coffee?”
“Jesus,” Logan snorted, half a chuckle he couldn’t smother, and shook his head. He shoved a pillow leaking feathers towards Victor. “The hell is this place anyway?”
“This?” Victor gestured expansively. “This is my love nest, sweetheart. Like it?”
“You actually own this one?”
“Is that a dig at my sense of style?” Victor’s hand meandered lazily south. “I’m not the one used to turn his nose up at a bit of luxury.”
Logan hiked up a brow. “Style’s not the only thing around here needs work.”
With a sound like might come from a well-fed housecat, Victor stroked a knuckle up between the cheeks of Logan’s ass. It felt weirdly performative to smack it away, like a role in a play he’d forgotten he knew, one he’d settled into as comfortably as parking his ass on a Triumph 6T. He might’ve liked it more if it fit better than the one that had sent him prowling out in the woods for god only knew how long, but one thing he did know was time spent on wishes for what was already done and over wasn’t anything but a waste.
Propped up on one elbow, cheek resting against the curve of his knuckles, Victor let that hand come sliding right back. A smile showed more in the contented slits of his eyes than the curve of his mouth. Outside the broad plate glass windows, the sky was calm, the ground washed clean. Refreshed by the storm in a way Logan felt mirrored in his gut.
“Gonna need to start with that door,” Logan offered.
Victor’s gaze tracked to where the door past the kitchen hung crookedly on its hinges, wedged in against the frame. A sizeable puddle rippling in the early morning breeze sat just inside.
“Got any tools in this fancy shack?”
“Pretty sure I could dig some up. Or—” Victor curled an arm over Logan’s back to draw him in close. “We could dig up a place that’s more your style.”
The casual invitation, the hint of hope not quite hidden in it, felt familiar too. He scratched at his jaw and wondered how many times they’d played this scene out before. “Wouldn’t mind following your lead on that for a bit. ‘Specially if it comes with some eggs ‘n’ bacon.”
“Sweetheart,” Victor purred, his mouth soft, his scent and his warmth wrapping around Logan as welcome as his touch, “today’s your lucky day.”