Lover Unleashed (Black Dagger Brotherhood 9)

Things were different now, however. Times had changed. People, too.

John Matthew was now happily mated, so when he had a shift off, like this evening, he was staying home with his shellan, Xhex, and giving their bed one hell of a workout. And yeah, sure, Qhuinn was the guy’s ahstrux nohtrum and all, but Xhex was a symphath assassin more than capable of watching out for her male, and the Black Dagger Brotherhood’s compound was a fortress not even a SWAT team could break into. So he and John had come to an agreement—and kept it quiet.

And as for Blay . . .

Qhuinn wasn’t going to think about his best friend. Nope. Not at all.

Scanning the inside of the club, he put h

is fuck filter on and began weeding through the women and the men and the couples. There was one and only one reason he’d come here, and it was the same for the other Goths in the place.

This was not for a relationship. This was not even for companionship. This was all about the in and out, and when that was over, it would be a case of, Thank you, ma’am—or sir, depending on his mood—I’m ghost. Because he was going to need someone else. Or someones else.

No way this was going to be a one-shot deal tonight. He felt like peeling his own skin off, his body all but chattering from the need to release. Man, he’d always liked the fucking, but in the last couple of days, his libido had gone Godzilla on him—

Was Blay even his best friend anymore?

Qhuinn paused and briefly looked for a plate-glass window to put his head through: For fuck’s sake, he wasn’t five years old. Grown males didn’t have best friends. Didn’t need them.

Especially if said male was banging someone else. All day long. Every single day.

Qhuinn marched over to the bar. “Herradura. Double. And make it the Selección Suprema.”

The woman’s eyes heated up behind her heavy liner and fake lashes. “You starting a tab?”

“Yeah.” And going by the way she ran her hand down her tight stomach and over her hip, clearly he could have ordered a shot of her as well.

When he held out his black AmEx, she breast-iculated wildly to accept the damn thing, bending over so far she might as well have been trying to pick a swizzle stick off the floor with her nipples.

“I’ll be right back with your drink.”

What a surprise. “Great.”

As she hipped her way off, she was so wasting her time: not at all what he was looking for tonight—not even close. Wrong sex, for one thing. And he wasn’t going for anything dark haired. Matter of fact, he couldn’t believe what he wanted.

Being color-blind had its limitations, but when you only wore black and worked at night, it wasn’t a big deal most of the time. Besides, his mismatched eyes were so acute and sensitive to variants of gray that he actually perceived “colors”—it was all about the gradient. For example, he knew who the blondes in the club were. Knew the difference between the brunettes and the black-hairs. And yeah, he might misread it if one of the fidiots had gotten a whacked-out dye job, but even then, he could usually tell something was up because the skin tone never looked right.

“Here you go,” the bartender said.

Qhuinn reached over, picked up the shot glass, downed the tequila, and put the empty back on the bar. “Let’s try that a couple more times.”

“Right away.” She flashed her double-Ds again, no doubt hoping he’d do a grab. “You’re my number one customer. ’Cuz clearly you can handle the juice.”

Uh-huh. Right. Like the ability to gullet up four ounces of liquor on a oner was a BFD. God, the idea someone with that value system was allowed to vote made him want to look for that sheet of glass again.

Humans were pathetic.

Although, as he turned back to look at the crowd, he thought maybe dialing down the attitude might be a good call. He was pretty fucking pathetic himself tonight. Especially as he caught sight of two men off in a corner, the pair of them separated only by the leathers they were wearing. Naturally, one was blond. Just like his cousin was. So naturally, hypotheticals of Blay with Saxton played through his inner polo field, marking up his proverbial grass with hoofprints and horseshit.

Except they weren’t hypotheticals, were they: At the end of every night, as the table at the Brotherhood’s mansion broke up after Last Meal and people went off to do their thing, Blay and Saxton always discreetly headed for the grand staircase and disappeared down the upstairs hall to their bedrooms.

They never held hands. Never kissed in front of anyone. And there were no covert hot glances, either. But then again, Blay was a gentleman. And Saxton the Classy Slut put on a good show.

His cousin was a straight-up whore—

No, he is not, a small voice pointed out. You just hate him because he’s balling your boy.

“He is not my boy.”