Once back in the car and on the way to Christophe’s flat, Christophe restrained himself, keeping his elation tamped down to a low burn. He’d been certain Trent transcended the ordinary, although at first he’d thought it was mere physical compatibility, the promise of a challenge given and accepted. But it went far beyond that. Trent had been touched by the uncanny, had been a part of it, for years. Surely someone who’d had direct experience with the paranormal would be more likely to accept Christophe’s disability.

He glanced down at Trent, where he nestled against Christophe’s shoulder, staring half-fearfully at the woods as they passed. Would he accept it, or would he be as terrified, as traumatized, as resentful of me as he obviously is of his ghosts?

If Christophe followed his current plan, left the company, resettled in America to resume his studies—broke my father’s heart—perhaps over time Trent could be reconciled to Christophe’s dual nature. A willingness to believe in the impossible was the first step toward accepting it.

Also, Christophe’s presence seemed to calm Trent, kept some of his demons at bay. Even such demons as his quail in the presence of a true monster.

The car pulled up outside Christophe’s building. “Here we are.”

Trent peered out the window and his shoulders visibly relaxed. “Whoa. Not bad. I mean, seven years ago, the Pearl was trendy, but now—” He shot a fair approximation of his usual cheeky grin at Christophe. “You really must be loaded.”

The reference to his wealth cast a pall on Christophe’s mood. Was that part of the reason for Trent’s interest? He’d had a trust fund once, but no longer. Now that Christophe had a last name, he could research Trent’s family and—

No.

Trust had to begin somewhere. Let it begin with me.

He escorted Trent up to his penthouse flat and led him inside. Trent raised his eyebrows at the expanse of cream-colored carpet in the living room, then toed off his muddy trainers on the mat in the tiled entry way.

As Christophe wrestled off his boots, Trent wandered over to the bank of windows overlooking the city and whistled. “Nice.” He turned around. “But that’s not the view for me.”

Christophe’s suspicions receded. “Is that so? And what would you like to see?”

Trent grinned. “What do you think? Your bed. Your skin.” He sauntered across the room, leading with his hips. “Your dick. In me.”

At that notion, Christophe’s wolf perked up, but with the suppressant swimming in his veins, and a meal of nearly-raw meat so recently in his past, he had no fear of losing control.

“So importunate.”

“It’s the curse of being nineteen or twenty-six.”

Christophe chuckled. “Just so. But we need not rush. I have no other engagements today. Do you?”

“Me? I’m the slacker who hasn’t even reenrolled in school, remember?”

Again that niggle of doubt. Is he in this for his own gain? “Then let us take our time. I believe you wanted to inspect the bed? It’s this way.”

Christophe led Trent down the hallway to his bedroom. He employed a cleaning service, so unlike Trent’s untidy hotel suite, the room was pristine—the gray duvet wrinkle-free, the carpet immaculate, and the silver stripes in the wallpaper glowing softly in the sunlight spilling in from the windows.

“Dude. Where did you get a bed this size?”

“It is custom-made.”

“Yeah? How many guys can you fit in it at once?”

“I fear I’ve never tested its capacity. It’s held no one but me.” Christophe had never allowed any of his casual sex partners into his home—not that there’d been many since his promiscuous university days.

Trent turned toward him, the teasing lust he’d displayed in the living room vanishing behind the uncertainty in his impossibly blue eyes. “You know, I don’t get that. You’re . . . well, perfect. You’re gorgeous. Kind. Sexy. Dress better than any ten runway models. Obviously aren’t hurting for cash. Why the hell are you single?”

Christophe shrugged. “Duties. Family obligations.”

“Dude, that totally sucks. You deserve way more. I may not be all that—”

“Stop. You are incredible.”

Trent shook his head. “I’m not. I’m a hot mess. But with you, I think I’m better.” He captured Christophe’s head in both hands. “You make me better.” Trent kissed him, urging Christophe’s mouth open with a gentle probe of his tongue.

Christophe grabbed Trent’s hips and pulled him close, groin to groin, and opened wide, swiping his own tongue into Trent’s mouth, tasting him, that little tang that he now recognized as a touch of the supernatural, of other. Trent moaned into his mouth, then disengaged.

“We need to be naked. Are you gonna spend a half hour taking off your clothes and folding them into fashion origami?”

Christophe inhaled to prevent himself from panting like a desperate hound. Could he wait that long? I think not. “I’ve learned one or two things from you.” He yanked off his jacket and flung it across the room.

Trent laughed. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.” He ripped the sweatshirt over his head and sent it after Christophe’s jacket. “Race you.”

“Unfair. You’re wearing only a T-shirt and jeans. I have—”

“Hey. Your clothes. Your choice. But I’ll give you a fighting chance.” Trent went to his knees in front of Christophe, peering up at him through the fringe of his hair. “I won’t take the rest off until you’re down to your underwear. But in the meantime . . .” He unbuckled Christophe’s belt and unbuttoned his pants. Unzipped his fly.

Christophe shuddered as he fumbled with his cuff links. “What—what are you doing?”

“I need something to keep me occupied.” Trent peeled Christophe’s briefs down and hooked the waistband behind his bollocks. “You know us nineteen-or-twenty-six-year-olds have crap attention spans.”

“Does that mean you’ll lose interest halfway—” Trent engulfed the head of Christophe’s cock. “Mother of God.”

As Trent bobbed down the shaft, Christophe lost hold of his cuff link and it fell onto the carpet, bouncing under the bed. Who cares? He ripped his shirt open, heedless of the buttons, and stripped it off, followed by his undershirt.

Trent hummed around Christophe’s cock, the vibration resonating in every nerve. He hollowed his cheeks and pulled all the way up slowly, with a flick of his tongue on the frenulum and a slight graze of teeth on the hood. He grinned, his lips red and shiny. “Good work. But you’re not done yet.” He dove forward and nuzzled Christophe’s bollocks, sucking one into his mouth while rolling the other across his fingers.

Christophe’s knees wobbled. “Jesu, Trent. I can’t—if you don’t stop, I’ll either come or collapse.”

Trent released Christophe’s bollocks with one last lick. “Can’t have that. This time, I want you to fuck me, and I’m not taking no for an answer.”

Christophe’s vision shifted, the grays in the wallpaper flattening, but no telltale burn flared in his fingers or back. With man and wolf in complete agreement about what they wanted, he had no need to fight his nature.

He shucked his pants and briefs down to his ankles in one swift movement and kicked them beneath the bed. “I believe I win.”

Trent shook his head. “Socks, dude. I’ll still win.” He shed his T-shirt, sending it flying, unzipped his jeans and shoved them over his arse, while Christophe was yet wrestling with his last sock.

Of course, it didn’t help that he was distracted by the expanse of Trent’s skin, and his lovely cock, hard and straining. “That’s scarcely sporting. You’re not wearing underwear.”

“Your clothes. Your choice.” He sat back, propping himself on his hands, with his long elegant legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. “What was that you said about winning?”

“Shite.” Christophe removed his second sock, balled it up, and shot it into the corner. “I don’t believe we bothered to set the stakes. What is it that you’ve won?”

Trent rose in one lithe move and stepped close. They were near enough to one another now for Christophe to feel the heat of Trent’s skin, for his erect nipples to barely brush Christophe’s chest. Their cocks tapped together, a wordless, wanton greeting. “Your dick in my ass.”

“That’s what I intended to claim as forfeit if I had won.”

Trent kissed Christophe with open-mouthed fervor, although he kept his body—other than his cock—out of reach. He ended the kiss and grinned. “That, my friend, is what we call a win-win.”

Christophe’s grin was that feral baring of teeth that zinged straight through Trent’s balls. What was that about? He had no idea, only that it made him want to lay back and give the man everything. Which was totally weird, because he’d never wanted that before—he wasn’t a submissive guy.

Guess people can change. For the right person.

“On the bed, cher. Let us both claim our prize.”

God yes. Finally.

He scrambled onto the bed. Shit, the comforter must be like a billion thread count. He couldn’t imagine what it cost, so no way was he covering it with jizz. He flung it off, exposing the matching sheets. Those’ll have to take their chances.

Rolling to his knees, he tossed the pillows aside too, then rested his forehead on his arms. He arched his back, his ass in the air, quivering for the first touch of skin on skin. He’d teased Christophe—and himself too, to be honest—delaying that first full-body touch. But now—Jesus, Christophe, please move—he didn’t know how much longer he could wait.

It’s been over seven years since I’ve been fucked. I might as well be a fricking virgin.

“Trent.” Christophe’s voice was steel velvet. “As beautiful as you are this way, it will not do.”

Trent glanced fearfully over his shoulder. Shit, Christophe wasn’t about to bail again, was he?

“I—”

“Turn over. I want to see your face while we make love.”

Trent lowered his ass until he was huddled on the sheets, his face hidden in his arms. Christophe had seen him at his freaked-out worst and hadn’t bolted. But for some reason, now that Christophe knew the truth, Trent felt ten times as vulnerable than when they’d been nothing but a bar hookup. How much could he bear to reveal? “I don’t know if I can—”

“You can. You opened yourself to me so sweetly last night.” Christophe moved closer and laid one hand on the small of Trent’s back, then trailed it up his spine with the bare scrape of close-trimmed nails. Trent shivered. “Please. For me.”

Trent took a breath and shifted onto his side. “What about this?”

Christophe chuckled. “Now you’re being stubborn. Let me do this for you, cher. Let me show you that you are no longer alone.”

Trent’s throat thickened, and he blinked. How did he know? “Okay.”

He rolled onto his back and raised his knees, keeping his feet flat on the mattress. Christophe gazed at him, his eyes molten gold in the westering sun. “You are exquisite, do you know?” He ran a hand over Trent’s pecs and down his abs. “Absolutely exquisite.”

“Pretty sure that’s an exaggeration, but—” He gasped as Christophe pinched one nipple. “I’ll take it.”

“Yes. You will. All of it. Everything I choose to give.” Christophe opened a drawer in the bedside table and pulled out condoms and lube. “Trust me. Let me care for you.”

He squirted a dollop of lube onto his palm and covered it with his other hand as he knee-walked across the bed to kneel between Trent’s legs. “Lift your hips, cher. Put them here, in my lap.”

God. This was . . . He was . . . Trent’s breath hitchhiked up his chest, and his dick leaked onto his belly. He raised himself and planted his ass on Christophe’s spread thighs, with his feet on either side of Christophe’s hips.

“So beautiful.” Christophe coated his fingers with lube and trailed them across Trent’s balls and behind, across his taint and around his hole. “I don’t want to hurt you. I know it has been a long time.”

Trent clenched his eyes shut at the gentle probing. “I don’t care. Just do it. Please. I need to—need to feel.” To know I’m here. That you’re here. That we’re both real, that no supernatural shit-storm is raging overhead.

“But—”

Trent bore down on Christophe’s fingers and God, there. The burn of the invasion was as sweet as sin. “Now. Please. I need you.”

Christophe growled. Seriously? Did he actually growl? Trent opened his eyes and Jesus. Christophe’s face—so intense, so possessive—sent Trent’s heart tumbling. Does he really feel like that about me? Nobody ever has before.

Christophe pumped his fingers in and out, one finger, then two. He turned them and curled them, brushing Trent’s gland, and Trent’s hips came up off Christophe’s knees as black and white fireworks exploded in his vision. “God, Christophe, please. I need you now. Inside.”

“You are not ready.”

“I’ve been ready for seven fucking years. Please. Just fuck me now before I go insane.”

“I want this more than you can know, but if I hurt you—”

“You won’t. Trust me. I can take it.” Even pain is better than nothingness.

Christophe ripped open the condom and rolled it over his dick—long, slender, uncut. He slathered it with lube, then thrust his arms under Trent’s legs and lifted Trent’s hips in his still-slick hands.

Trent couldn’t look away as Christophe finally positioned his dick at Trent’s hole and pushed. Yes! This. Now. Please. Trent’s stupid traitorous sphincter fought back of course, but instead of forcing himself past the resistance, Christophe stopped.

No!

Teeth bared in frustration, Trent tried to shove downward and impale himself, but Christophe’s hands tightened on his hips, holding him in place.

“Shhh, my darling. Are you so anxious to be done, then?”

“N-n-no.” He called me darling. Not Trent. Not cher. Darling. Tears prickled the corners of his eyes—nobody had ever said that before. Not to him.

“Then allow me to take you as you deserve.”

Trent nodded and closed his eyes. He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to relax though his nerves were pinging like firecrackers. Then he felt himself give and Christophe pushed further . . . further . . . there. The head popped through the ring of muscle, and Trent wanted to shout, scream, cry, laugh—all of the above, because God, it was glorious, the stretch and the burn and the—Yes!—pleasure as Christophe worked his way inside with smooth, careful thrusts.

Then he lifted Trent’s hips another inch, changed his angle, and—zing. Trent nearly levitated off the bed.

“Yeah. Oh, Jesus, right there!”

“As you wish.”

Christophe picked up speed, nailing Trent’s gland. Every. Fucking. Time. God!

As eager as he’d been for Christophe to start, now he didn’t want this to end, because touch. Touch everywhere. Outside, as Christophe’s fingers dug into Trent’s hip bones. Inside, as he pumped into Trent’s ass. Touch. All the way to my heart.

“Trent.” Christophe’s voice at once cajoled and commanded. “Look at me.”

No. What if he mistakes the tears? Thinks he’s being too rough? He might stop, and Trent couldn’t bear that. Yet he obeyed—to the command or the persuasion, he couldn’t be sure. “Mmm?”

“Jesu, with those eyes you could see down to my very soul.”

Christophe’s rhythm slowed, every slide of his dick lighting Trent up inside as if he’d swallowed a star. How had he lived without this, without someone in him, around him, through him? Had it been like this before? Ever? Even with Logan? He couldn’t remember. Couldn’t think. Only feel. He whimpered, and Christophe leaned forward to kiss him, slow and deep and hot.

“So beautiful. Come for me, my darling.”

Darling. Trent’s balls tightened as the star in his chest went supernova, blinding him with the explosion of inner light. This. I want this. Now. Always. He came, gasping, jizz painting his belly and chest in sticky heat.

As his vision cleared, he made out Christophe’s face above him, so gorgeous, so intense, so real. Trent reached up, despite arms as limp as his spent dick, and touched Christophe’s cheek. “Now you.”

“Mother of God,” Christophe moaned, “How can I—” He threw his head back, teeth clenched. Trent felt every single pulse of Christophe’s cock. Jesus fuck, it’s like he gets bigger when he comes.

How freaking hot was that?

Christophe lowered Trent’s legs with shaking hands, cradling his hips between his thighs once again, and slowly pulled out. When Trent winced, Christophe froze. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“No. But the exit’s always an issue, right?”

Christophe chuckled and tied off the condom, dropping it into a waste basket next to the bed. He crawled up Trent’s body, bracing his hands near Trent’s shoulders and lowered himself for an open-mouthed kiss, a languorous mating of tongues and lips that Trent could fully get behind now that his behind had gotten what it—and he—had wanted.

Christophe fumbled with his bedside table and pulled out a handful of—what the hell, were those baby wipes? “Allow me.” He dabbed at Trent’s chest, and Trent’s belly muscles jumped.

“Holy shit, those are cold.”

“Sorry.”

“I’d think that in a high-end joint like this one, you’d warm your jizz wipes.”

Christophe’s brows drew together and he suddenly seemed very interested in cleaning every drop of semen off of Trent’s skin. “Perhaps this is not as high-end as you imagine.”

“Dude. It totally is. But even if it wasn’t—” Trent pulled him down into another kiss. “It’d be okay, as long as you were here. Now . . .” He yawned. “Do we have time for a nap before we go for round two?”

Christophe grinned. “I don’t see why not.”

Trent glanced at the window—twilight, and usually the nightmares didn’t hit until around midnight. But if Trent got his wish and they were still in bed together by then? He didn’t want Christophe to get freaked out because Trent was a bigger nutcase than he’d already revealed.

“I should warn you. I have . . . um . . . nightmares.”

“About the ghost war?”

“Yeah.”

“How often?”

Trent glanced away. “Every night.”

“Jesu. Trent, have you—”

“Yeah, I’ve seen a therapist, and no, it hasn’t helped. Usually the dreams don’t hit until midnight, right around the time the instant replay used to start up. Didn’t want you to get sideswiped by me moaning and shouting, or you know, screaming and crying.”

“Is that why your scars seem so fresh?”

Trent startled, blinking up at Christophe. Usually people avoided looking at his scars, let alone mentioning them—a sort of anti-stare that made their attention more obvious rather than less. Christophe was the first person ever who’d addressed them matter-of-factly.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Christophe nodded, stroking Trent’s face. “In a way, dreams are their own alternate reality. If our minds choose to make us walk those paths, we have little choice but to obey.”

“At least we can wake up.”

“Can we? Sometimes I am not so sure.” He smoothed Trent’s hair and dropped a kiss on his forehead. “But never fear, cher. I shall guard you from the dreams. They wouldn’t dare trouble you when I am by.”

“You think dreams are intimidated by captains of industry?”

His mouth quirked up on one side. “Perhaps not. But I have other resources. Sleep. You are safe with me.”