Wolf's Clothing Page 6

  “Ah, but I have a reason. I am in town for a friend’s wedding. His fiancé owns this bar, and I stopped by to greet them.”

  Trent’s insides turned to ice. “His fiancé? But I thought the owner was—”

  “There they are now.” Christophe nodded in the direction of the hallway. Trent turned, dread curdling his stomach.

  Logan was standing there, the old shit-eating grin on his face, his arm around a nerdy guy in glasses. Not just any random nerdy guy. Trent recognized him. He was the one in the Haunted to the Max episode, the one who’d done the background scenes. The scenes my father forced them to reshoot.

  Now, Nerdy Guy’s rosy cheeks and swollen lips announced what the two of them had been up to. Add in Logan’s possessive hand trailing down over the guy’s ass and Trent’s vision blurred, his heart taking a dive to his belly.

  Clearly Logan hadn’t been pining away while Trent had been appearing nightly in the thrilling melodrama of the Hanging of Danford Balch.

  He’d been busy fucking the talent.

  Just as Christophe had expected, Logan had staked his claim. Riley had clearly been passionately kissed, and judging by the way he twitched when Logan’s hand landed on his arse, probably fucked too.

  Christophe glanced at Trent, and immediately his wolf went on alert. Trent’s lips were parted, his eyes wide, and tremors were shaking his lean frame. Christophe laid a hand on his back. “Are you well?” He signaled the bartender. “Water, if you please.”

  Trent clenched his eyes shut, took a deep breath, then turned to Christophe with an obviously false smile. “Aces.” He knocked back the last of his bourbon and slammed the glass on the bar. “Fuck the water. I need another drink.”

  “Perhaps you should wait for a moment. You—”

  Trent’s glare stopped Christophe midwarning. “You’re not my mother, dude.”

  Christophe raised his hands, palms out. “I realize. But you appear to have sustained a shock. A moment to recover would be prudent.”

  “Fuck prudence and the horse she rode in on.” He waved away the glass of water. “Another double.”

  The bartender hesitated, but Christophe gave a slight nod; the drink could be added to his tab. “At least allow me to introduce you to my friends.” He gestured to the happy couple, who were chatting with a group in one of the booths that lined either wall.

  Trent squinted at him. “You know them? Both of them?”

  Christophe nodded. “It is their wedding I’m here for, although to be frank, I only met Logan this evening.” He smiled as he caught Logan’s territorial hand drifting to Riley’s arse again. “Riley and I used to date.”

  At the apparent urging of the people at the booth, Logan took Riley in his arms and soul-kissed him. The crowd cheered and began counting the seconds of the kiss. When they broke apart, Logan trailed one finger down Riley’s face and Riley leaned his forehead against Logan’s chest, his cheeks and the tips of his ears afire.

  Trent took a large gulp of his fresh drink, and choked. “Is that so?” His voice rose, loud and rough, just as the noise in the bar faded for the first time that evening. “Logan and I used to fuck.”

  Christophe’s eyebrows shot up. Logan’s head snapped around, as did that of every other person in the bar, including Riley.

  “Trent?” Logan took a step forward, his tone a mixture of anger and surprise.

  Trent turned to Christophe, his face pale except for the flush on his cheekbones. “My hotel’s three blocks away. If you want to cash in on all your lines, I’ll be outside for another two minutes.”

  Pulling the hood of his sweatshirt up, Trent lurched off the barstool and barged through the murmuring crowd, head down.

  Raising his hand, Christophe caught Riley’s attention and indicated that he would follow Trent. Riley nodded and hooked his fingers in Logan’s belt loops, tugging him back as the crowd began to boo.

  Christophe quickly signed his check, paying for his and Trent’s drinks and adding a generous tip. He wasn’t taking Trent’s offer seriously, but something was obviously amiss.

  Ah, issues. Irresistible.

  He made his way through the crowd—who were already chanting for another kiss—and out the door. Trent was standing on the sidewalk, his back braced against the brick wall beyond the Stumptown Spirits window.

  “So. Wanna fuck?” Although his tone was gruff and his face hard, his eyes were bleak and his shoulders held none of his earlier confidence.

  Christophe approached him slowly. “Whether I desire you is not in question, but I have no wish to be the bludgeon you use to punish anyone, whether that person is Logan or me or yourself. Perhaps you can tell me why you came here tonight. And why you decided to embarrass yourself and humiliate Riley only days before his wedding.”

  Trent’s face crumpled. For a moment, Christophe was afraid he might weep, right there on the street. Another cheer erupted from inside, bleeding through the heavy doors and walls, and Trent seemed to shake himself, like a dog shedding water.

  “I didn’t mean to do that. Figures that the one time you could hear yourself think in that place had to be the time I was acting like a total douche bag. But . . .” He pushed himself off the wall and thrust his hands in the pocket of his sweatshirt. “I had this half-assed idea that Logan would be there for me, you know?”

  “So you would give yourself to a chance-met stranger, just to prove to Logan that you don’t need him? Why? From spite?”

  “Not spite. Jesus, it’s not like we’d pledged our undying devotion to one another. We weren’t even boyfriends. And it’s not as if I’d made any effort to find him since—or to return his calls.”

  “Yet it hurt you nonetheless. To see him with another.”

  “It’s not even that—at least I don’t think so. But you can tell, when you look at them, that they’re solid. A unit. It’s like . . . like you can almost see the connection between them.” His shoulders rose with a deep breath. “It’s not that I want Logan, exactly. But I want what they’ve got, you know? That trust. Someone who’s always got your back and isn’t afraid to show it.”

  Trent bowed his head, his face shadowed by his hood. The sound he made could have been a soft laugh, or perhaps a sob. It hardly mattered. Protectiveness surged through Christophe’s chest.

  “And you had no idea of their engagement?”

  “No. I’ve been . . . out of touch. For a long time.”

  Christophe edged closer. “Perhaps it is time to touch again, yes?” He placed a gentle hand on Trent’s arm.

  Trent inhaled sharply. “God, please, yes.” Christophe wrapped his arms around that lovely, lean body, and Trent laid his head on Christophe’s shoulder, sighing into his neck. “Deep down, I must have known it was the wrong thing. Not only for Logan, but for me, you know? Because twice tonight I’ve had fuck-me thoughts about other men. I wouldn’t have gone there if Logan had been, you know, the guy.”

  “Twice? Dare I hope one of those times was with me?”

  Trent’s lips curved against Christophe’s neck. “Dare away.”

  “And the other?”

  He pulled back, stepping out of Christophe’s arms. “That one was a real pisser. The detective who’s been on my ass since—” He rubbed his hands on his thighs. “Well, for a while.”

  “It is a very fine arse. How can one blame him?” Christophe stroked Trent’s arm. “You needn’t worry that I’ll ask for more than you’re willing to give. Every man has his secrets, no? Things in our lives we would rather not share. Things that might put us in a bad light, or burdens we wish we need not bear.”

  “You got that right.”

  “So.” Christophe allowed himself to cup Trent’s jaw with both hands. He waited, in case Trent wanted to pull away again, but instead Trent nestled his cheek against Christophe’s palm. “Perhaps tonight we can share those burdens, even if we don’t speak of them at all.”

  Christophe leaned in, closer, closer, until Trent’s breath mingled with his o
wn. Trent was slightly taller, so he had to tilt his head, draw Trent down to meet his lips.

  Ah. Although he kept the kiss soft, inquiring, a tightness eased from between his shoulders and the back of his neck. Lighten the burden indeed. Nothing made your own travails seem trivial more than knowing others faced problems of their own.

  Despite his precipitous exist from the bar, and his earlier hostility, the kiss Trent returned was just as sweet, just as tender and tentative. A heat kindled in Christophe’s chest like a fire on a stony beach. He ended the kiss, unwilling to share this moment with passersby.

  Trent leaned his forehead against Christophe’s. “Besides, you’re not.”

  “I’m not what?”

  “A stranger. You’re a friend of a friend of a friend. You could almost say Logan and Riley set us up on a blind date.”

  Christophe chuckled, smoothing Trent’s hair. “Tell me what you want, cher.”

  Trent sighed. “You. I want you.”

  “Then I am more than happy to oblige.”

  Jesus, he wanted—he wanted . . . Trent could barely say what it was he wanted, not with Christophe’s arms holding him, loose enough to give the promise of choice, but close enough that he could feel the other man’s heartbeat against his own chest, the other man’s breath stir his hair, the other man’s hands warm on his back.

  This. This touch, this belonging. The last time he’d belonged was in that tiny dorm room years ago with Logan. That’s what he’d missed. Not Logan per se, but feeling like he was worth the effort. Logan had gone with him, out into the cold, wet park at midnight because it had been something Trent had wanted, idiot that he’d been. To cheer Trent up after he’d lost that part in Blithe Spirit, Logan had taken him on a legend trip, even though Logan had thought it was a giant waste of time. It wasn’t Logan’s fault that Trent had ended up starring in a different ghost story for seven years. In fact, Logan had returned to rescue him.

  With Riley. Shit, Trent had watched that fucking TV show. He should have remembered that Riley was the one who’d figured out the whole mess, even though it had been Logan who’d actually jacked him out of the ghost war.

  Maybe someday he’d get the whole story from them. Someday when he could think about the whole ordeal without collapsing into a worthless shuddering heap.

  Right now, though, this very fucking minute, he had someone willing to touch him, kiss him, God please maybe even fuck him. He’d think about that other shit later.

  This was what he’d come to Portland for after all. To be touched. So he hadn’t planned on the toucher being a drop-dead sexy foreign guy, but hey, the accent and the style? Bonus.

  Christophe pulled away. No. Come back. He ran his hands down Trent’s arms and laced their fingers together. “I have a flat in the Pearl District. We could go—”

  “Too far. Told you. My hotel is a few blocks from here.”

  Christophe smiled. “So impatient.”

  “I’ve been waiting a long time for this.” You have no idea how long. “I don’t want to wait any more. Let’s go.”

  Trent tugged Christophe’s hand, unwilling to release him because touching. It was intoxicating. Better than the bourbon, although the alcohol buzz didn’t hurt. It made it easier for him to ignore the glances from passersby, although by now, he should be used to the attention. People looked at him all the time. His father with disgust, Bishop and the other cops with suspicion, his therapists with that damned faintly inquiring expression. No matter what their priorities—his family, with their financial and social agenda; the cops, searching for someone to blame and punish; his therapists, for whom he was only a problem to solve—they all had that edge of fear, of uncertainty, as if they were afraid he’d explode at any moment, have a psychotic break, and disappear again.

  But Christophe, with his steady gaze and unmistakable stand-up vibe, saw him. Was that a European thing? Supposedly men there didn’t get skeeved out by meeting another man’s eyes, so their gaze didn’t shift away quickly, as if they had something to hide.

  But Trent thought it was more than that. This was a man he could trust. He didn’t know how or why, but he felt it, the way he’d always known in an improv when his scene partner was in the zone with him, living the part.

  Savor this. You’ve got him for tonight, but you don’t know his whole story. You’re not guaranteed anything beyond this, so make it last.

  He slowed them to a leisurely stroll, their shoulders pressed together, hands still linked. If I had a real boyfriend, like Logan has Riley, this is what we’d do. We’d walk together, ignoring random judgmental assholes, because together, we’d be bigger than them, stronger than them.

  When they got to the hotel doors, he turned to Christophe, and Jesus, there it was again. That intensity. Trent’s knees threatened to buckle. “Here we are. Still up for it?”

  Christophe chuckled. Trent didn’t know how he did it, but this time, the sound was sex-infused and dirty, and it went straight to his dick.

  “I suspect both of us are most definitely up for it, yes?” Christophe angled his chin, claiming another kiss.

  God-yes-more. “Absolutely.”

  “Then let us proceed.” He waved the bellman away and held the door for Trent. “After you.”

  “Fuck that. We’re in this together.” He grabbed Christophe’s hand and led him inside, across the lobby, past the wood-paneled reception area to the bank of elevators. A family with two little girls, each carrying Barbie and Ken dolls, entered the elevator with them, so Trent couldn’t do anything other than hold Christophe’s hand on the ride to their floor.

  One of the girls, maybe six or seven, studied their clasped hands, her head tilted to one side. She turned to her sister and traded her Barbie for her sister’s Ken, and cradled them in one arm, holding their hands together with her tiny fingers, her nails painted sparkly pink.

  She grinned up at Trent, and he winked at her. Her parents shrugged and led the little girls off on their floor. Guess we’ve made some progress in seven years. Good to know the next generation gets it.

  Trent pulled Christophe off the elevator on the next floor, toward his corner suite, and because he could, he kissed Christophe once before swiping his key card. He led the way inside.

  God, his duffel looked like it had exploded all over the bed, and the clothes he’d shed before showering earlier were in a heap in the corner, a prelaundry habit Logan used to taunt him about when they were roommates.

  “Yeah, um, sorry about the mess. Just a minute.” He sprinted over to the bed, grabbed a double armful of clothes, and dumped them in the corner. Another armful, then he tossed the empty duffel across the room, leaving the lube and the condoms on the bed. “There. The important parts are clear anyway.”

  Christophe stalked over to him. The heat in his eyes sent Trent’s pulse racing. “You are the only important part.”

  “Yeah?” He could barely get the word out. Need to breathe if I want to talk. “Pretty sure you’ve got some important parts yourself, hidden under those fancy clothes.” Christophe wasn’t wearing a tie, but Trent hooked his fingers under the placket of his dress shirt and tugged him close. “Want to show me?”

  Christophe’s smile glinted in the light. “What is it you Americans say? ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?’”

  “Hell yeah.” Trent ripped his hoodie over his head. By the time his head was free of the fleece, Christophe was folding his own jacket and laying it carefully over the back of the chair. Trent balled up the sweatshirt and threw it on top of the pile of clothes. “Hold that thought.”

  Trent returned to the door and hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside doorknob, then threw the dead bolt and hooked the privacy chain. He had no idea what Christophe’s agenda was in the morning, but he planned to stretch this out as long as he could. Who knew when he’d have another chance?

  When he turned back, Christophe had removed his dress shoes and set them side by side under the desk, his socks folded neat
ly across the insteps. The sight of his bare feet—pale and narrow and arched—sent a fresh wake-up call to Trent’s dick. Jesus, I’ve never found feet sexy before. It’s been way too long since I’ve been naked with someone.

  Christophe glanced up as Trent paced back across the room. Despite paying such ridiculous attention to his jacket—however nice it was—Christophe’s breathing was short, shallow, and his pupils dilated as if he were already naked. Or as if Trent were. Let’s make both those things happen.

  Trent skinned off his T-shirt and sent it after the hoodie. Christophe took out his cuff links—the guy wore cuff links to a bar, for fuck’s sake—and set them on the desk along with his TAG Heuer.

  “Dude. At this rate, I’ll be ready to get dressed again before you take off your pants.”

  Christophe smiled, a flash of those pronounced canines that sent a surprising shiver down Trent’s spine. “I am in no hurry.”

  “Well I am.” Time to get a little skin on skin. God. Gooseflesh rose on his arms and prickled his bare chest at the idea of that much touch. Please soon. He unzipped his fly.

  Christophe unbuttoned the top button of his shirt.

  God. This is gonna kill me. Trent toed off his Nikes and shucked his jeans down but left his boxer briefs on for the moment—because nothing said not sexy like a guy naked except for tube socks. He removed the socks and rocketed them into the corner, followed by the jeans.

  Christophe unbuttoned the third shirt button.

  “Okay, man. You seriously need to get with the program. I want to see your skin.” I want to feel your skin. Trent put on his best brash attitude to hide his uncontrollable shivering. “And if we’re gonna make it there before morning . . .”

  He tried to bat Christophe’s hands out of the way, but Christophe caught his wrists in a near-painful grip. Trent flinched, and Christophe let go immediately. “I am sorry. Reflex. Please continue.” He lifted his arms to the side, offering Trent total access. Yes!

  Trent moved in and fumbled with the next button. Jesus, his hands were trembling so much, it might have been faster to let Christophe continue his slo-mo strip tease. He finally got the last button undone and slipped the shirt off Christophe’s shoulders.