John's mouth stretched wide as his head shot
forward on his spine. . . and he let out a war cry--
Sound exploded all around her, so loud she had to cover her ears, so powerful she felt the blast against her face.
For a moment, she thought he'd found his voice--except it wasn't vocal cords making that bellowing noise.
The glass in the sliders blew out behind him, the sheets shattering into thousands of shards that blasted free of the house, the fragments bouncing on the slate and catching the light like raindrops. . . .
Or like tears.
Chapter Forty
Blay had no idea what Saxton had just handed him.
Well, yeah, it was a cigar, and yes, it was expensive, but the name hadn't stuck in his head.
"I think you're going to like it," the male said, shifting back in a leather armchair and lighting up his own stogie. "They're smooth. Dark, but smooth. "
Blay flicked up a flame off his Montblanc lighter and leaned forward for the inhale. As he took the smoke in, he could feel Saxton focusing on him.
Again.
He still couldn't get used to the attention, so he let his eyes wander around the place: vaulted dark green ceiling, glossy black walls, oxblood- color leather chairs and booths. Lot of human men with ashtrays at their elbows.
In short: no distractions that could come close to Saxton's eyes or voice or cologne or--
"So tell me," the male said, exhaling a perfect blue cloud that momentarily eclipsed his features, "did you put on the pinstripe before or after I called?"
"Before. "
"I knew you had style. "
"Did you?"
"Yes. " Saxton stared across the short mahogany table that separated them. "Or I wouldn't have asked you to dinner. "
The meal they'd had at Sal's had been. . . lovely, actually. They'd eaten in the kitchen at a private table and iAm had made them a special menu of antipasto and pasta, with cafe con leche and tiramisu for dessert. The wine had been white for the first course, and red for the second.
The topics of conversation had been neutral, but interesting--and ultimately not the point. The thread of will-they-or-won't-they was the real driver of every word and glance and shift of body.
So. . . this was a date, Blay thought. A subtextual negotiation slipcovered in talk of books read and music enjoyed.
No wonder Qhuinn just went for straight sex. The guy wouldn't have had the patience for this kind of subtlety. Plus he didn't like to read, and the music he pumped into his ears was metalcore that only the deranged or the deaf could stand.
A waiter dressed in black came up. "Can I get you guys something to drink?"
Saxton rolled his cigar between his forefinger and thumb. "Two ports. Croft Vintage 1945, please. "
"Excellent choice. "
Saxton's eyes returned to Blay's. "I know. "
Blay looked to the window they were seated in front of and wondered if he was ever going to stop blushing around the guy. "It's raining. "
"Is it. "
God, that voice. Saxton's words were as smooth and delicious as the cigar.