Duck Duck Ghost (18 page)

“Bullshit about the stronger part,” Wolf snorted. “You’re one of the most stubborn sons of a bitch I’ve ever met. Pull the other leg, Tris.”

“I’m serious.” He lifted his fingers up to Wolf’s mouth to shush him. “Just shut up for a moment and listen.”

“No, babe,
you
listen.” Wolf’s hands were warm on his face when they cupped Tristan’s cheeks. “You kick ass. In your own way. In a pretty geeky hot-bodied artist way.”

“You can’t ask me to talk to you, then tell me I’m saying things wrong,” Tristan pointed out. “Kind of defeats the purpose of this talking thing.”

“Fair enough,” he conceded. “Can I keep your face? I can kind of make out the squish I did with your mouth. It’s kind of cute.”

“Let go of my face and let me talk.” He gave one of Wolf’s palms a kiss before they were pulled away. Tangling his legs around Wolf’s, Tristan got comfortable and gathered his thoughts. “You make me feel like I’ve got wings. Sure they’re just wax and feathers, and I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing with them, but I can go places… or at least try to go places with you. You make me want to see what’s outside in the world. Hell, I’ve been thinking it would be cool to go see other hauntings—maybe even help you figure this whole thing out. I couldn’t have done that before if I hadn’t met you. Your family, and I know they drive you crazy, but Meegan and Ophelia Sunday really make me feel… good. And normal!”

“Well, that’s got to be the first time my mother and the word normal have ever been uttered together in the same sentence.” Wolf didn’t avoid Tristan’s light smack. “It’s true. But it’s nice for Ophie too. She’s always been—sensitive. We just never had any way of really kind of proving it. Hell, she was stoked when you asked her to be there. Thank God you’re gay, or I’d be fitting you for a tuxedo and helping you pick out rings.”

“She said a lot of your family is sensitive to ghosts. And don’t call her Ophie.”

“Secretly, deep down inside her blackened little Smurfy heart, she likes it. And yeah, they are attuned, or some of them are,” Wolf admitted softly. “And a lot of them are fakers too. That’s what really made them kick me out. I didn’t want to perpetuate the family’s charlatans. There are real ghost hunters out there, Hellsingers like Cin, but a lot of them are like Gildy. They tell a family their problems are over, when in reality, the place might never have been haunted, or worse, they’re left with a very pissed-off ghost like Winifred.”

“That’s… messed up, Wolf.”

“Yep. Liars on either side of the fence. And I hate to admit it, but there are quite a few in my family. It’s how they make their money. We’re pretty much what people imagine as gypsy stereotypes but without the whole covered caravan nonsense. A few Winnebagos, though. And you can never go wrong with an Airstream.” He kissed Tristan’s nose, leaving a small wet spot behind. “It’s complicated. There are so many reasons I want you to be with me, and there’s one really big reason I don’t.”

“What’s the really big reason?” Tristan asked softly, dreading what the man’s answer would be.

“Because I don’t want you hurt, Thursday,” Wolf whispered into Tristan’s ear, then nipped down his throat. “I’d rather die than see you being hurt.”

T
HE
STORM
raged outside, but Wolf heard only Tristan’s soft cries for more. They’d grabbed a bottle of lube, driven more by need than by design. In the dark, it proved to be a crapshoot. Wolf was hoping for something utilitarian. What they got was a self-warming tropical scented oil Tristan playfully referred to as Fruit Lubes.

While the coconut and mango were a nice scent on Tristan’s pale skin, the slick oil helped Wolf ease his fingers into Tristan’s tight body.

The man’s hole was greedy, sucking him in with every twist of Tristan’s hips. Wolf slowed his exploration, concentrating on wrapping his lips around the base of Tristan’s shaft, then gliding slowly up to its head. He daubed at the slit he found there among the velvety skin, sucking at the salty pungency of Tristan’s burgeoning seed.

He played at Tristan’s entrance, sliding in a tip of his finger, then two, drawing out the process while Tristan writhed on his hand and in his mouth. They’d gone from playful to serious in the span of a few kisses. His mouth still burned from the heat of Tristan’s lips, and the already storm-broken silence was now filled with their soft murmurs.

Wolf couldn’t imagine what he’d been thinking when he’d stormed out of the Grange. Except perhaps he’d been driven more by fear than any sense of anger. The blond man had burrowed under Wolf’s skin, too deep to shake off, even if Wolf really wanted to. After a lifetime of drifting on the edges of relationships—hell, on the edge of his own family—Tristan had become
home
for him.

A home he was so scared of losing, like he’d lost every tangible thread tying him to permanence before he’d met the quirky, stubborn artist he was playing like a fiddle.

Quite the loud fiddle with strong fingers, Wolf thought as Tristan yanked on his hair.

“Want me inside of you, babe?” Wolf murmured around Tristan’s cock head. “Or maybe to play with you a little bit more?”

He slid his finger around Tristan’s rim, a slow skim over the tight muscled ring. His own cock was dewing as much moisture as the storm beating at the room’s windows. A flash of lightning poured silver over Tristan’s splayed-out body and burned the image of porcelain, shadows, and sweat into Wolf’s mind. His lover’s mouth was parted, lips pulled open as if mirroring the gaping acceptance of his entrance as Wolf delved even deeper into his passage. The musky, sensual tang of Tristan’s body rode over the lingering sweetness of the lubricant, and Wolf grinned, knowing he’d have to lather himself up in the fruity concoction soon.

Tristan’s body was primed, begging to take him in, and Wolf didn’t want to waste any time plunging into the man’s hot clench.

He rolled a condom down his cock, and it snapped at the base. Wincing slightly at the sting, Wolf scrambled for the bottle they’d left somewhere on the bed. He found it near Tristan’s hip, then used his teeth to open the cap, keeping his fingers riding Tristan’s rim.

“Now, Wolf,” Tristan groaned and reached for him. “God, just fuck me already.”

“Such a poet,” he laughed, capturing his lover’s mouth in a punishing kiss. “Hold onto me. And don’t let go.”

It felt so right to have Tristan’s legs snug over his hips. Wanting to go even deeper, Wolf raised Tristan’s knees until his legs rested on Wolf’s shoulders. Then he reached down to part the man’s firm, round ass. More light from outside, a distant glow this time instead of a skittering bolt, but it was enough for Wolf to see the dip of his lover’s hole. The plum shadow invited him in, peeling back into a begging moue as Tristan shifted his hips.

When Tristan’s fingers dug into his forearms, Wolf knew Tris wouldn’t be able to hold on much longer. Palming himself with one hand, Wolf guided himself to the brink of Tristan’s body and pushed in, parting the tight ring with the tip of his cock.

It was hard going. The soft retreat of Tristan’s body was at odds with the man’s needy mewls, and Wolf had to work carefully through, rocking his hips in a glide forward while pushing in. He felt the moment his cock breached Tristan’s inner sanctum because the sudden engulfment of silken fire around the spongy head was enough to drive him insane.

He wasn’t going to last. Neither of them were. It’d been too long since they’d done this dance, shared the salty kiss of their sweaty bodies or tasted the bitters of each other’s seed. Wolf knew then he was mad—a sure sign of the insanity pulled down from generations of Kincaids—because he walked out on this man. This beautiful man lying beneath him, spread open wide and taking him in like no other had done before. Trusting. Sweet. And most of all, stubborn enough to give back as good as Wolf dished out.

Just like he was doing right now.

This was no passive lover under him. Tristan’s hands roamed over Wolf’s body, plucking at his nipples until they were nearly stiff enough to leave red trails on skin. His nails scraped, catching on sensitive areas. Then he found the plump of Wolf’s ass, digging into the hard muscle. He’d have bruises tomorrow for sure. Long, slender hand marks he’d wear under his clothes. More intimate than a love bite and sometimes just as hard won in pleasurable pain.

He pounded into Tristan’s cleft, pushing the man’s asscheeks apart with every thrust. Any rational thought Wolf might have had shattered beneath the rolls of thunder building up inside of him. Soul-breaking booms rocked the house, rolling over it in a tumbleweed of sound, but Wolf kept going. He was driven by one thing: bringing his lover to a peak so they could fall off together.

Wolf knew Tristan was close. The man’s hands were still, a death grip deep into Wolf’s biceps, and the tightness around Wolf’s cock fluttered and danced. Trapped between them, Tristan’s cock bobbed along as well.

The first splatter of salty spill on Wolf’s hard stomach was enough to drive him over the edge. Resting his weight on his knees, Wolf continued to drive into his lover. Reaching between them, he took hold of Tristan’s cock and began to milk the man’s shaft. The web of his thumb caught on the thick ridge under Tristan’s dick, and Wolf slid his grip around, twisting up into a spiral, then palming the already wet head.

The second shot struck him in the face, and he caught a drop on the edge of his lip. Dabbing his tongue out, he drew in the speckled splash from the edge of his mouth. With Tristan’s heady, intense zest overloading his senses, Wolf came, hard and fast, pouring as much of himself into Tristan as his body could wring out.

Ensnared in the web of Tristan’s heat, Wolf didn’t see the shimmering malevolent glow until it was too late to do anything more than completely shield his lover’s body. Throwing himself over Tristan, Wolf fought to shake off the roiling lethargy of his climax as he batted away the heavy iron lamp flying across the room toward their vulnerable heads.

The lamp’s heavy stand hit his arm, and he felt the bitter, sharp strike down in his bone. Shoving at the antique, Wolf choked on the shock of pain running from his wrist to his shoulder. Beneath him, Tristan tried to extricate himself from Wolf’s weight. They’d parted, the wet slither of their bodies coming too quickly for Wolf’s liking, and he could only hope he hadn’t hurt Tristan in the process.

“Noooooooooooooo!” The shimmer grew a face—of sorts. It dangled at the end of the bed, a sheath of bluish white and a widening black maw. The lower edge of its cavernous maybe-mouth dropped farther and farther down the length of the glow until it became an impossibility of a mouth, draping down past what would be the elbows of a young child.

Wolf didn’t need Tristan to tell him the specter was angry. In a blink, the phantom flew at them, its terrifying scream rending the air. He threw his injured arm up, more out of habit than anything else, and used his body to protect the struggling man partially beneath him. As the glow slammed into them, he felt something rake into his flesh, ripping up long shreds of skin, and a cold settled into the slices, creeping outward through his arm like a ravaging frost on a window pane.

A loud boom—much louder and nearer than any thunder they’d heard that night—shook their bedroom, and a beam of light cut through the dark, catching on the flash of ethereal grit making a turn back toward the bed. Wolf blinked when the beam hit his eyes. It was strong, blindingly so, and between the thunder and ghostly screams, he was pretty certain he’d been deafened and couldn’t hear anymore.

He was wrong about that.

“Duck!” a strong male voice ordered him, and Wolf obeyed, driven more by years of responding to that growling tone than anything else.

Grabbing Tristan, Wolf rolled and shoved as much of the duvet as he could over them just in time for his eardrums to be splattered with the sharp retort of a shotgun blast echoing through the room. In that moment, the cacophony rose to a high pitch, loud enough for his mind to experience a sharp pain from the reverberations. Then an exhale later, the room was silent, with only the rain to keep their frenzied panting company. The duvet shifted, and cold air tickled Wolf’s bare ass. A wide hand followed the wind, smacking him hard enough to leave a sting. Then the authoritative voice broke through the thrashing sound of rain.

“You called for me, cousin?”

“H
E
OKAY
?”
Cin was larger than Wolf remembered, but then he
always
thought that when he saw his cousin. Maybe the Hellsinger wasn’t large as much as the world shrank in whenever he was around. Still, as imposing and looming as Cin Kincaid was, Wolf was glad to have him there.

Even if Tristan had just spent half an hour wondering if he could quietly die of embarrassment before he saw Cin again.

A camping lantern sat on the counter, a bright burn of yellow light in the darkness. It shone enough for Wolf to spot a battery-operated teakettle and a used french press next to it. Some things never changed. Cin still ran on hot coffee and a granite will, two things Wolf was quite thankful for at that moment.