A Rope of Thorns (Hexslinger 2)

His arms are like unto rods of gold

Set about with chrysolite

His belly is like unto polished ivory

Set about with lapis lazuli

His legs are like unto pillars of marble

Set on bases of pure gold

His body is like unto Lebanon

Choice as its cedars.

—Song of Solomon, 5:13 to 5:15.

Adding: That’s you, Chess, sin and ruinous doom incarnate. And quite the prettiest thing I ever saw in my whole life, too—before, or after.

Chess saw the sky peel away in front of him all at once, present becoming past with one quick rip, like lifting a scab—thrusting him back from this moment to that, from dream to memory, right into Rook’s fond embrace. The two of them set up in front of some roadhouse cheval-glass, Chess perched on Rook’s la

p while the Rev hugged him hard from behind, curled into the bigger man’s all-enveloping heat like a purring cat; stripped almost to his skin, with proof of desire pushing hard out the front of his small-clothes as he let Rook puppet him ’round, one hand grazing up through the red-gold fleece of Chess’s chest to tweak at a nipple even as the other sank steadily lower, always travelling the other way . . . widdershins, counterclockwise. The broad and pleasant road to Hell.

For He hath made every thing beautiful in his time; also he hath set the world in their heart, so that no man can find out the work that God maketh from beginning to end.—Ecclesiastes, 3:11.

Chess frowned. Wouldn’t be puttin’ a spell on me, would you, Reverend?

Aw, now, Chess. Would I even have to?

Probably not, Chess realized, already defeated.

And even though just recalling how he’d once loved the man now sickened him . . . to have Rook’s hands back on him, even in a dream . . . hell, it shortened Chess’s breath. Made his chest’s hollow squeeze like the bastard’s fist was thrust deep inside, Rook’s phantom pulse beating hard enough to light the both of ’em up like fireworks.

Missed you, darlin’, Rook rumbled, into his neck. You miss me?

Not . . . as such.

Liar.

Well, you’d know, wouldn’t you? ’Sides—you got her.

A dark laugh as answer. Oh, now, don’t sell yourself short. Maybe she missed you, too.

You fuckin’ son-of-a—

But Rook just stroked him, grasping at all Chess’s most betraying spots—thumb and forefinger skinning the swollen head of Chess’s cock, callused palm slicking briskly up and down, clever and inescapable. Chess arched, cursing his own response.

Uhhhh, shit, God fuckin’ damn. . . .

Yeah, that’s it. Just . . . like . . . that.

And now Rook too seemed caught up on the same wave of sensation, the same damnable trap—panting a bit himself, unable to quite keep from grinding against Chess’s body. Both hands kept equal-busy, with one dipping lower still—right into the sweaty nest of him, to probe at its leisure for that oh-so-familiar entry-point.

Chess gritted his mental teeth, bit his equally mental lip. You really think this is goin’ to go that way, after all you done? Please.

Rook laughed again, muffled into the sweaty nape of Chess’s neck. Still fussed over my methods—I understand that. But I do believe you’ll thank me for it later.

Hell I will!