Strongman (5 page)

With an effort, he wrenched his thoughts away and reached for the scissors. Hide?

Fortitude McLaren wouldn’t hide. Not even from his Goddess.

But Griff was going to be a problem, that much was clear. Fort arranged a small towel under his chin. With a sigh, he began clipping his moustache.

When he forgot to flirt, the tumbler was good company—clever as a

quartermaster’s whip, entertaining, surprisingly perceptive. The sort of friend a man could trust to get his back. And sweet Lufra, Griff had been kind to him.
Kind
!

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Strongman

Surely he was too formidable, too frightening, too damn
cold
, to invite kindness?

Why would Griff even think he’d welcome it? But the tumbler had walked right through the barriers as if they were mist.

Fort paused and laid the scissors aside. He’d never believed in fooling himself.

When he looked down, the real nature of the problem made itself uncomfortably apparent.

It was him.
He
was the problem.

Because the very thought of Griffid Ringman made him half-hard. Fuck, he thought savagely, there’d scarcely been a moment spent in the tumbler’s company when he hadn’t been conscious of his gods-be-damned, stupid cock! He spread his knees, giving himself room, breathing hard.

Why? Why in all the icy hells had this happened to him? And why now?

It was humiliating, shameful, that was what it was. Twenty years as a mercenary and he’d had any number of opportunities for manlove. For buggery, he told himself brutally. Sitting here now, in the lamplight in his own wagon, he could think of half a dozen men who would have bent over for him, and gladly.

Deliberately, he called them to mind, one by one, lingering on those he’d thought the most attractive. Not even a twitch. His erection subsided.

That was more like it. Grimly, he picked up the mirror and the scissors and began on one side of his beard. As the whiskers fell away, his jawline emerged, severe and solid, uncomfortably reminiscent of his father’s. Sobriety McLaren would have taken Griff out to the barn and thrashed him ‘til his back was a bloody ruin.

Fort changed sides, refusing to let his hand shake. Then his father would have dragged the tumbler to stand before the Ecclesiastical Court, his shoes filled with his own blood, swimming with it. A Crookedness befouling the Straight Way, that would be the accusation. Very little proof was required. Hysteria did the rest. And after that…

Lurching to his feet, he poured a cup of tepid, bitter roberry and downed it in two long swallows. Fort’s hands clenched around the cup until the scarred knuckles shone white. He had a sudden vision, crystal clear. Himself, pulling Griff away from the old man, thrusting the smaller man behind him, seizing the whip, advancing on his father, murder in his heart…

Sweet Lufra
! His breath coming fast and choppy, he set the cup down with elaborate care.

Even as a lad, he’d never been able to understand what was so evil about manlove, so threatening. Shameful it might be, furtive and somehow sleazy, but not evil. It was only later, when he was out in the world, that he’d come to see the Straight Church through the eyes of the Feolin, the rest of the Ten Nations. Bigots, hypocrites, sadists.

Joyless bastards.

He’d often wondered what his father would make of a son who’d adopted the worship of a goddess, a mere female, a creature of no value in the eyes of Ruler God.

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Denise Rossetti

Lufra—Maiden, Mother, Crone and Harlot. Lust Dragon of the Feolin. He rather thought the old bastard would die of an apoplexy. Pity he had no idea.

The door swung open, admitting a gust of cool air and savory smells, followed by Griff’s trim backside, clad in skintight, spangled leggings.

The tumbler spun around, grinning, his hands full of covered dishes. Fort’s problem returned with a vengeance.

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Strongman

The Straight Church
—
Religion
—
Moral Teachings
:

Of the Ten Nations of Phoenix
,
only the Brethren of the Straight Church take a moral
standard on manlove
,
castigating it as an evil Crookedness befouling the Straight Way
,

abhorrent in the eyes of their Ruler God
.
No figures are available
,
but there is evidence that in
the last fifty years
,
the Ecclesiastical Court of the Straight Church has had an estimated twenty
men hung for the crime of sodomy
.

Outside the Straight Church
,
such relationships are not a matter for remark
.

Excerpt from the Great Encyclopedia
,
compiled by Miriliel the Burnished
.

Griff patted his mouth with the damp cloth Fort handed him, careful not to get grease on his costume. He hadn’t taken the time to change after the performance.

Sourly, Fort reflected the outfit had obviously been designed to showcase and flaunt the body, with a standing collar to frame the tumbler’s lively face, the smooth, strong muscles of his shoulders and arms exposed by the scooped-neck, sleeveless vest.

Golden-brown hair curled rakishly over his brow, tumbled over the collar. It needed cutting. A light mat of hair furred his chest and golden down dusted his forearms, glinting in the lamplight.

The tights were so positively, gloriously indecent, Fort had to keep dragging his gaze back to Griff’s knowing eyes. He could swear the other man was laughing at him, completely unabashed by the outline of a more-than-adequate cock stretching the knit fabric, clamped against his flat belly by the material.

But his face was almost worse, because he was still wearing stage makeup, his eyes dark and mysterious, the lashes as thick as a girl’s, bold slanting eyebrows giving him a vaguely satanic air. Together with killer cheekbones and a gloss on his lips, the effect was ironically devilish. Deliciously, disturbingly so.

“So the deep-fish pie was all right?” inquired Griff politely. “I wasn’t sure, but Ember loves me, so I begged for noodle cakes as well.”

Fort frowned from where he sat on the edge of the bed, conscious of the shaving lather drying on his face. He’d bolted the food and made them a cup of hot roberry to finish the meal, keen to get rid of Griff’s confusing presence. He tightened his grip on the razor. Nothing like a cutting edge to focus the mind and keep the hand steady. “She loves you?”

“Sure.” Griff grinned. “All women love me. It’s part of my peculiar charm.” He blew on his roberry.

“Peculiar is right,” grunted Fort, grimacing as he scraped. “Who’s Ember?”

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Denise Rossetti

“The glass-blower. Makes all sorts of baubles. And she can cook.” Griff sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Immediately, it tumbled back over his forehead. “She’s a lovely woman, but so sad. And she won’t tell me why.”

“Some people actually have dignity, reserve.” Fort pulled the skin of his cheek taut.

“You wouldn’t understand that.” The razor whispered over it, leaving a chill in its wake.

“Mmm. But everyone needs someone to love.” Griff drained his cup.

Fort laid down the razor. “To fuck, you mean.”

“That too.” Griff examined his features so boldly, a wave of heat rolled through Fort’s belly, washing over his aching cock, his balls lifting in automatic response. “You missed a bit.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Here, hold these. I’ll get it.” Griff thrust the shaving brush into Fort’s left hand and the soap dish into his right. “Lean back a bit.” He raised a knee and planted it on the bed between Fort’s thighs.

“Griff—
oompf
!” The tumbler pushed Fort’s chest with the heel of his hand, and to his own bemusement, Fort felt his shoulders hit the wall behind him.

The chill of the razor iced across his neck. “Lift your chin and don’t move.”

His stomach knotting with apprehension and arousal, Fort did as he was bid.

Controlling his problem absorbed his entire attention. So did the heat of the tumbler’s body, his clean scent, of soap and flesh and muscle. Nothing like a woman’s soft feminine smell.

A woman. Desperate for balance, for normalcy, he lassoed a random thought while he waited for Griff to pause. “Can Katahaya really wrap her ankles around her ears?”

“Don’t know.” Humming under his breath, Griff drew the razor over Fort’s chin, one strong hand cradling his jaw, holding him still. “But she sure wrapped them around mine.
Don
’
t move
,
I said
!”

“You’ve had her? But I thought—”

“I only fuck men?”

This time, the flush felt like a fever. Fort knew he reddened, clear to see without the protection of the whiskers. He made an indeterminate noise in his throat.

“Then you’d be wrong,” said Griff calmly, but a drop of sweat coursed down the side of his neck. “Usually, I prefer women. I’m making an exception for you.” He ran the razor under Fort’s chin.

Fort could scarcely believe his ears. Or his reaction. The surge of his blood was so violent, it made him lightheaded, stupid. When the other man drew back, passing a considering thumb over freshly shaved skin, he said, “Gods, Griff, you’ve got balls.”

As soon as the words were out, he could have taken the razor and sliced his tongue off at the root. “I mean…ah, hell. Get off!” He heaved with his hips, but all that accomplished was to press his hungry cock against the tumbler’s hip.

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Strongman

Griff froze, exhaling in a gusty rush. “Not yet.” He plucked the towel from around Fort’s neck and wiped away the last of the foam, taking his time, grinning when Fort swore at him. “There.”

He shifted back a little, his right hand braced on Fort’s shoulder, the razor still between his fingers. “You look… Uh, lots better. That’s how you look. Your eyes have gone all dark and smoky.” His hands clenched, closing over muscle and bone. “Fuck, I can’t do this slow anymore.” He sucked in a deep breath. “Remember the razor.”

Griff’s lips came down on his, surprisingly soft and hot. Gods, so
hot
!

The shock stiffened every muscle in Fort’s body. Especially one. In panic, he tried to jerk his head away, but Griff murmured, “Nu-uh,” into his mouth and something cold pressed under his ear. Shit, the razor! He froze and Griff chuckled.

When he opened his mouth to curse, Griff slipped his tongue inside, humming with delight. Hot chills raced up and down Fort’s spine and then Griff curled his tongue around his and the world went away, lost in some sort of soft red explosion of lust. His fingers relaxed and the soap dish bounced to the floor. The shaving brush followed with a wet splat. Dimly, he heard a clatter as Griff tossed the razor aside, but he was completely preoccupied with the amazing sensations careering through his body. He’d never been kissed like this before, with such strength and ruthless expertise. Griff seemed to read his mind, knowing exactly when to push and when to pull, when to lick, when to suck.

Strong fingers speared into his hair, gripping the back of Fort’s skull, tilting his head for better access. Griff pressed hard into his body, chest to chest, his cock mashed into Fort’s stomach. He shifted his hips, enough that his stiff length rubbed all along Fort’s. The coarse fabric of Fort’s working trews rasped over the sensitive head of his cock, Griff’s shaft throbbing against his, right through two layers of clothing. The other man did it again.

Ruler God
!

White-hot instinct obliterated conscious thought. Rearing up, Fort wrapped one arm around Griff’s waist, the other around his shoulders. He took them down to the mattress, rolling so the other man was pinned beneath him, taking advantage of his weight and size. Bracketing Griff’s head between his forearms, he nipped at his lips, ran his tongue over the tumbler’s crooked tooth, growling deep in his throat.

Griff growled back and one hand clamped on Fort’s buttock, the fingers digging in hard.

The sound of it, so deep, so masculine, hit Fort like a shower of cold water. Fuck,
fuck
! What the hell was he doing?

He wrenched himself away. Panting, they stared at each other.

Fort’s head felt curiously empty, wiped clean of coherent thought. Finally, he said,

“You’re shaking.” He’d get up in a minute, of course he would, but Griff had spread his thighs to accommodate his hips and he wasn’t particularly uncomfortable. Not physically, anyway.

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Denise Rossetti

“That’s because you’re going to kill me. But I’ll die reasonably happy.”

Strangely, Fort had to fight the desire to laugh, though the fact there was no air left in the wagon made it easier. “Only reasonably?”

“One lousy kiss isn’t worth dying for.”

Fort blinked, stung. “It wasn’t lousy!”

“We can do better.” Griff smiled like a hungry fellwolf and ran his hand into the open neck of Fort’s shirt, the pads of his fingers brushing a nipple. Fort could have sworn the tingle coursed all the way from his chest down to his toes, with a significant detour to the groin area. Under him, Griff murmured, “Care to try again?”

“No.” He’d felt like this before—every time he’d been wounded, in fact. First, the emptiness of shock, the disbelief, then the flood of pain. Gods, Griff had
taken
him.

Taken him as if he were a green girl! This wasn’t what he wanted, wasn’t—

Fort stopped the thought cold. A commander accepted responsibility for his own actions, first and foremost. He couldn’t say he hadn’t wanted it. Fuck, he’d enjoyed the hell out of it! Best kiss he’d ever had.

“You little shit. You set me up.” He wrapped long, strong fingers around Griff’s throat and squeezed hard, waiting for the fear to flare in his eyes. “I should beat the crap out of you.”

The fear didn’t come. Griff lay quietly beneath him, the trusting fool. “But you won’t.”

“No.” Feeling unaccountably depressed, Fort peeled himself away. He sat up and buried his head in his hands, but Griff simply lay, completely at home in his bed, on his silken bedroll. Fort knew he’d take the image of the tumbler’s lithe, rumpled beauty with him to the grave.