John Matthew woke up with his hand on his cock. Or rather, he semi woke up. What he had his palm on was fully ready to go, however.

In his foggy mind, images of him and Xhex were lighting him up from the inside out.... He saw them on her bed in that basement place of hers and there was a whole lot of naked going on, her straddling his hips, him reaching up to touch her breasts. She felt good and solid on top of him, her core hot and wet against his erection, her powerful body arching and releasing as she rubbed herself on what ached to penetrate her.

He needed to get in her. Needed to leave something of himself behind.

Needed to mark her.

The instinct was overwhelming to the point of compulsion... and yet his conscience prickled as he sat up and took one of her nipples into his mouth. As he drew her flesh between his lips, sucking on it, tonguing it, nipping it ever so gently, on some level, he knew this was not really happening--and that even in a fantasy, it was wrong. It wasn't fair to her memory, and yet the visions had too much momentum and his palm as he worked himself had too much grip... and the moment was too undeniable and electric to turn away from.

There was no going back.

John imagined that he rolled her over onto her back and loomed above her, looking down into her gunmetal gray eyes. Her thighs were split on either side of his hips, her lush sex ready for what he wanted to give her, her scent burrowing into his nose until all he knew was her. Running his palms over her breasts and down her stomach, he marveled at how similar their bodies were. She was smaller compared to him, but their muscles were all the same, hard and toned, ready for use, tight as bone when they were engaged. He loved how unyielding she was beneath her soft, smooth skin, loved how strong, how tough...

He wanted her like crazy.

Except suddenly he could go no further.

It was as if the fantasy jammed up, the tape breaking, the DVD scratched, the digital file corrupted. And all he had left was his attraction and this wrenching, on-the-brink ecstasy that was going to drive him insane--

Xhex reached up to his face and cupped it, and with the gentle contact, she abruptly commanded all of him, his head and his body and his soul: She owned him and everything he was from his eyes to his thighs. He was hers.

"Come to me," she said, tilting her head to the side.

Tears turned his vision wavy. Finally, they were going to kiss. Finally, what she had denied him was going to happen--

When he leaned down... she guided his mouth back to her nipple.

He felt a momentary sting of rejection, but then this weird elation hit him. The deflection was so true to her, he figured that maybe it wasn't a dream. Maybe this was actually happening. Pushing aside his sadness, he concentrated on what she was willing to give him.

"Mark me," she said in a deep voice.

Baring his fangs, he ran one sharp white tip around her areola, circling, stroking. He wanted to ask her if she was sure, but she answered that question herself. In a quick move, she jacked off the mattress and held his head down to her skin so that he struck her and a sliver of blood was drawn.

John jerked back, afraid he'd hurt her... but he hadn't, and as she arched in an erotic wave, the glistening wellspring of her life made him orgasm.

"Take from me," she commanded as his cock jerked and hot pulses poured out over her thighs. "Do it, John. Now."

She didn't have to ask him twice. He was captivated by the bead of deep red that bloomed up, and with slow grace eased down the pale side of her breast. Leading with his tongue, he caught the trail and swept it back home with a flick that ended with her nipple--

His whole body shimmered at the taste of her, another release shuddering out of him and marking her skin as he fell into the throes of another release. Xhex's blood was bold and heady in his mouth, an addiction fully formed on the first try, a destination he didn't want to ever leave now that he was there. As he savored what he'd taken, he thought he heard her laugh in satisfaction, but then he was lost to what she gave him.

His tongue dragged over both her nipple and the cut and then his lips formed a seal and he suckled on her, taking her dark flavor down his throat and into his gut. The communion with her was all he'd ever wanted, and now that he was feeding from her, joy overtook him along with the nuclear energy that came to him from her blood.

Wanting to give her something back, he shifted his arm down so that his hand swept over her hip and between her thighs. Tracing the taut muscles he found her core.... Oh, God, she was slippery smooth and hella hot, ready and aching to receive him. And although he didn't know a shitload about female anatomy, he let her moans and thrashes tell him where his fingers should go and what they should be doing.

It didn't take long before what he was touching her with was as wet as what he was stroking and it was then that he slid his middle finger in deep. Using his thumb, he massaged the top of her and found a rhythm to match the pulls he was making at her breast.

He was bringing her to the edge, taking her with him, giving back as much as he was getting, when he knew he needed more. He wanted to be in her when she came. Then he would be completed in some ethereal way, made whole inside his skin.

It was a bonded male's drive and necessity. What he had to have in order to feel at peace.

Lifting his lips from her breast, he dragged his hand from her sex and repositioned himself so that his glossy cock was poised over her open legs. Meeting her eyes in the incendiary moment, he brushed the short hair around her face. Slowly, he dropped his mouth downward--

"No," she said. "That's not what this is about."

John Matthew shot upright, the fantasy of the dream shattered, his chest banding in frigid cords of pain.

With disgust, he let go of his arousal--not that he was hard anymore. His cock had positively shriveled up, in spite of the orgasm that had been on its way out of the thing's head.

That's not what this is about.

Unlike the dream, which had been a total hypothetical, those words were ones she'd actually said to him--and in precisely that sexual context.

As he looked down at his naked body, the releases he'd had, the ones he'd imagined he'd had on her, were all over his belly and the sheets.

Why the hell did that spell out alone like nothing else could.

Glancing at the clock, he saw he'd slept through his alarm. Or more likely he hadn't bothered to set it. One bene to insomnia was that you didn't need to recharge your phone from all the snooze buttons you hit.

In the shower, he washed himself quickly and started with his cock. He hated what he'd done in that odd half-asleep zone. It felt totally wrong to jerk off, considering the situation, and from now on, he was going to sleep in his jeans if he had to.

Although knowing his hand, the damn thing would have probably ended up behind the fly anyway.

Fuck it, he was gonna chain his wrists to the frickin' headboard.

After he shaved, which like tooth maintenance was out of habit rather than pride in his appearance, he braced his palms on the marble and leaned into the main spray nozzle, letting the water sweep over him.

Lessers were impotent. Lessers... were impotent.

Hanging his head, he felt the hot rush over the back of his skull.

Sex kicked up all kinds of bad shit for him, and as the image of a grungy stairwell bloomed like a stain on his brain, he popped his lids and dragged himself back to the present. Not that it was an improvement.

He'd have gone through what had happened to him a thousand times to save Xhex from being mistreated that way once.

Oh... God...

Lessers were impotent. Always had been.

Moving like a zombie, he stepped out, dried himself, and headed for the bedroom to get dressed. Just as he was pulling on his leathers, his phone went off and he reached over to his jacket to fish the thing out.

Flipping it open... he found a text from Trez.

All it said was: 189 st. francis ave 10 2nite.

Clipping the phone closed, his heart beat with brutal intent. Any crack in the foundation... he was just looking for one little crack in Lash's world, a fissure, something he could wedge himself into and blow the whole fucking thing to pieces.

Xhex might well be dead, and this new reality without her might be his forever more, but that didn't mean he couldn't avenge her.

In the bathroom, he strapped on his chest holster, weaponed up, and after grabbing his jacket, he went out into the hall. Pausing, he thought of all the people who would be gathering downstairs... as well as the time. Shutters were still down.

Instead of going left toward the grand staircase and the foyer, he went right... and walked silently in spite of his shitkickers.

Blaylock left his room a little before six because he wanted to check in on John. Usually the guy gave a knock around mealtime, but there had been none. Which meant he was either dead or dead drunk.

At his buddy's door, he paused and leaned in. Nothing doing on the other side that he could hear.

After a soft knock wasn't answered, he pulled a fuck-it and opened the thing in. Man, the place looked ransacked, with clothes everywhere and a bed that might possibly have been used as a demolition derby site.

"He in there?"

At the sound of Qhuinn's voice, he stiffened and had to stop himself from turning around. No reason to. He knew that the guy would be wearing some kind of Sid Vicious or Nine Inch Nails or Slipknot T-shirt tucked into black leathers. And that his hard face would be cleanly shaven and very smooth. And that his spiky black hair would be slightly wet from the shower.

Blay walked into John's space and headed for the bathroom, figuring his actions would answer the question well enough. "J? Where are you, J?"

When he pushed his way into all that marble, the air was thick with humidity and smelled like Ivory soap, which was what John used. Wet towel was on the counter.

As he turned around to go, he slammed right into Qhuinn's chest.

The impact was like getting hit with a car and his best friend reached out to steady him.

Oh, no. No touching.

Blay stepped back quickly and stared out into the bedroom. "Sorry." There was an odd pause. "He's not here."

Duh.

Qhuinn leaned to the side and put his face, that beautiful face, in the line of Blay's vision. When the guy straightened, Blay's eyes followed because they had to.

"You don't look at me anymore."

No, he didn't. "Yes, I do."

Desperate to get away from that blue-and-green stare, he cut himself some slack and went over to the towel. Wadding it up, he shoved the thing down the laundry chute, and damn if the cramming didn't help a little.

Especially as he imagined it was his own head he was forcing into the hole.

Blay was calmer when he turned around. Even met those eyes. "I'm going down to dinner."

He was feeling quite proud of himself as he walked by--

Qhuinn's hand snapped out and latched onto his forearm, stopping him dead. "We have a problem. You and me."

"Do we." Not a question. Because this was one convo he had no interest in encouraging.

"What the hell is the matter with you?"

Blay blinked. What was wrong with him? He wasn't the one fucking anything with a hole.

No, he was the pathetic fidiot who pined for his best friend. Which put him into wee-wee-wee-all-the-way-home territory. Any closer to chicking out and he'd have to carry Kleenex tucked into his sleeve to catch his tears.

Unfortunately, the flash of anger deflated fast and left him hollow. "Nothing. There's nothing wrong."

"Bullshit."

Right. Okay. This was unfair. They'd already been over this territory and Qhuinn might be a slut, but the guy's memory was perfectly functional.

"Qhuinn..." Blay shoved a hand into his hair.

On cue, that fucking Bonnie Raitt song shot into his brain, her rich voice singing... I can't make you love me if you don't.... You can't make your heart feel something it won't....

Blay had to laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"Is it possible to be castrated without being aware of it?"

Now Qhuinn was doing the blink. "Not unless you're really fucking drunk."

"Well, I'm sober. Dead sober. As usual." And on that note, maybe he needed to take a page from John's book and start liquoring it up. "I think I might have to change that, however. Excuse me--"

"Blay--"

"No. You do not get to 'Blay' me like that." He stuck his finger in his best friend's face. "You just do your thing. It's what you're best at. Leave me alone."

He walked out, his head tangled but his feet mercifully on the ball.

Taking the hall of statues down to the grand staircase, he passed by the Greco-Roman masterpieces, and ran his eyes over those male bodies. Naturally, he Photoshop'd Qhuinn's head on top of each one--

"You don't have to change anything." Qhuinn was right on his tail, the words low.

Blay got to the head of the stairs and looked down. The yawning, resplendent foyer before him was like a gift you opened with your body as you entered it, each step forward bringing you into a visual embrace of color and gold.

Perfect place for a mating ceremony, he thought for no particular reason.

"Blay. Come on. Nothing has changed."

He glanced over his shoulder. Qhuinn's pierced brows were tight, his eyes fierce. But as much as it was clear the guy wanted to keep talking, Blay was so done.

He started down the steps, moving fast.

And was not at all surprised when Qhuinn stuck with him--and the conversation. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

Oh, right, like they needed to do this in front of the people in the dining room. Qhuinn was fine with audiences for all sorts of things, but Blay did not find peanut galleries helpful in the slightest.

He marched back up two steps, until they were face-to-face. "What was her name?"

Qhuinn recoiled. "Excuse me?"

"The receptionist's name."

"What receptionist?"

"From last night. At the tat shop."

Qhuinn rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on--"

"Her name."

"God, I have no fucking clue." Qhuinn went palms-up, the universal language for whatever. "Why does it matter?"

Blay opened his mouth, on the verge of spelling out that what had meant nothing to Qhuinn had been hell to watch. But then he knew it would sound possessive and stupid.

Instead of talking, he reached into his pocket, took out his Dunhills, and fingered one up. Popping it into his mouth, he lit the thing while staring into those mismatched eyes.

"I hate that you smoke," Qhuinn muttered.

"Get over it," Blay said, turning away and heading downward.