This time, despite the throbbing ache in their cocks, gently—
Booooooom!
The windows rattled, gravel, chunks of wood, striking the house.
Wylde was up, shoving Ken behind him as he lifted a forearm over his eyes to protect them from the piercing white glare.
“Wylde!” Ken yelled.
“It’s your studio,” Wylde rasped. “It’s on fire!”
Chapter Eight
K EN shoved Wylde aside, going to the window. Flames spiked above the mossy roof of his studio. A window exploded, smoke roiling out like angry dragon’s breath.
“ No…” he whispered, tears pricking his eyes. “Ken—”
Oblivious to Wylde, Ken grabbed for his BlackBerry. “I
need to call….” He stared at it.
Wylde snatched it from him, calling 911.
Ken yanked open his bamboo dresser and pulled out
some jeans, stepping into them without underwear. He snatched a T-shirt and finally his Glock, jaw tight. “Stay here,” he rasped.
“No,” Wylde said, reaching for the bundle of deerskin clothing he’d left in Ken’s bedroom. He had his leggings on and was tying the drawstring.
“Wylde, don’t fuck with me!” Ken growled. “I need you safe.”
He sprinted from the room, but he could hear Wylde running behind him, and he wanted to yell at him or fucking tie him up. Jesus, anything to keep him from getting hurt, but his studio was on fire, and—
The screen door banged against the outside wall as he barreled outside, moving fast in case someone was watching for him. He checked out the line of sight carefully, even though his gut was sick with the need to go to his special sanctuary, save what he could.
It could be the man he was hunting would know that, would take advantage. Again Ken was struck by a haunting feeling of familiarity, as if his stalker knew him.
Wylde ghosted past him, a bowie knife upright and gleaming in his hand.
“Wylde!” Ken hissed.
Wylde looked at him, his face hard, dangerous, his long hair a silken cloak around his muscular shoulders. “I’m going into the woods, Ken. If he’s there….”
Ken’s chest constricted. He couldn’t bear to find Wylde still, cold, and pale in a ditch by the roadside. But before he could bark at him to get his ass back in the cabin, Wylde had faded into the trees, disappearing like evaporating mist.
“Goddammit!” Ken cursed. He took a deep breath. He couldn’t lose his focus. He had to check out the scene. Backup was coming along with the fire department, but he lived in a remote part of the county, so it was on him.
Gun up, he swung around the corner of the cabin, his back scraping against the chunky logs as he cast a sharp eye to the woods that stepped above his land. The smoke was choking him, and his throat tightened when he thought of his work, of the irreplaceable tools he had crafted himself or been gifted by potters on a special trips he’d taken to Japan.
Focus. He felt the cold feather touch his spine. He was here, the killer, watching. Ken could feel him.
Ken sprinted to the other side of his house, crouching to make a smaller target, studying the landscape. There was a bluff of granite about thirty yards above the cabin. He knew from going up there to eat picnics on sunny days it provided an ideal lookout over his studio and cottage. He would bet the man he was looking for was up there….
Ken caught a brown blur out of the corner of his eye, like a deer jumping a fallen log. Wylde. His lover had had the same idea, and he was closing in. “Shit, Wylde, I’m going to spank that gorgeous ass….” Ken whispered as he pounded across the open space… into the trees… slowing, trying to catch his breath, skin prickling with chills.
A mountain lion roared challenge, and Ken jumped, sweat running freely from his hairline. Wylde! Was he trying to flush out the killer with the uncanny sound he’d mimicked once for Ken?
Ken charged up the hill, ducking his head and hoping he wouldn’t catch a rifle bullet. Grit spattered like hard rain, and he flinched. Someone above him…
Booooooom!
The windows rattled, gravel, chunks of wood, striking the house.
Wylde was up, shoving Ken behind him as he lifted a forearm over his eyes to protect them from the piercing white glare.
“Wylde!” Ken yelled.
“It’s your studio,” Wylde rasped. “It’s on fire!”
Chapter Eight
K EN shoved Wylde aside, going to the window. Flames spiked above the mossy roof of his studio. A window exploded, smoke roiling out like angry dragon’s breath.
“ No…” he whispered, tears pricking his eyes. “Ken—”
Oblivious to Wylde, Ken grabbed for his BlackBerry. “I
need to call….” He stared at it.
Wylde snatched it from him, calling 911.
Ken yanked open his bamboo dresser and pulled out
some jeans, stepping into them without underwear. He snatched a T-shirt and finally his Glock, jaw tight. “Stay here,” he rasped.
“No,” Wylde said, reaching for the bundle of deerskin clothing he’d left in Ken’s bedroom. He had his leggings on and was tying the drawstring.
“Wylde, don’t fuck with me!” Ken growled. “I need you safe.”
He sprinted from the room, but he could hear Wylde running behind him, and he wanted to yell at him or fucking tie him up. Jesus, anything to keep him from getting hurt, but his studio was on fire, and—
The screen door banged against the outside wall as he barreled outside, moving fast in case someone was watching for him. He checked out the line of sight carefully, even though his gut was sick with the need to go to his special sanctuary, save what he could.
It could be the man he was hunting would know that, would take advantage. Again Ken was struck by a haunting feeling of familiarity, as if his stalker knew him.
Wylde ghosted past him, a bowie knife upright and gleaming in his hand.
“Wylde!” Ken hissed.
Wylde looked at him, his face hard, dangerous, his long hair a silken cloak around his muscular shoulders. “I’m going into the woods, Ken. If he’s there….”
Ken’s chest constricted. He couldn’t bear to find Wylde still, cold, and pale in a ditch by the roadside. But before he could bark at him to get his ass back in the cabin, Wylde had faded into the trees, disappearing like evaporating mist.
“Goddammit!” Ken cursed. He took a deep breath. He couldn’t lose his focus. He had to check out the scene. Backup was coming along with the fire department, but he lived in a remote part of the county, so it was on him.
Gun up, he swung around the corner of the cabin, his back scraping against the chunky logs as he cast a sharp eye to the woods that stepped above his land. The smoke was choking him, and his throat tightened when he thought of his work, of the irreplaceable tools he had crafted himself or been gifted by potters on a special trips he’d taken to Japan.
Focus. He felt the cold feather touch his spine. He was here, the killer, watching. Ken could feel him.
Ken sprinted to the other side of his house, crouching to make a smaller target, studying the landscape. There was a bluff of granite about thirty yards above the cabin. He knew from going up there to eat picnics on sunny days it provided an ideal lookout over his studio and cottage. He would bet the man he was looking for was up there….
Ken caught a brown blur out of the corner of his eye, like a deer jumping a fallen log. Wylde. His lover had had the same idea, and he was closing in. “Shit, Wylde, I’m going to spank that gorgeous ass….” Ken whispered as he pounded across the open space… into the trees… slowing, trying to catch his breath, skin prickling with chills.
A mountain lion roared challenge, and Ken jumped, sweat running freely from his hairline. Wylde! Was he trying to flush out the killer with the uncanny sound he’d mimicked once for Ken?
Ken charged up the hill, ducking his head and hoping he wouldn’t catch a rifle bullet. Grit spattered like hard rain, and he flinched. Someone above him…
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