Free Nexus by Mary Calmes Page B

He laughed softly, the grin on his beautiful mouth stopping my heart.
    “Kiss me some more,” I urged.
    “This is not helping you wake up.” His smile widened. “Jesus, Marcus, you’re gonna pass out on the drive over there.”
    Oh, but it was worth it. “Just let me have you.”
    “Don’t whine.”
    I growled at him, my hand around the nape of his neck easing him back down. 
    “Marcus.”
    His lips were turned up into a wicked smile that made my stomach flip over.
    “Are you looking at me?”
    I grunted.
    “Baby.”
    I stopped staring at his mouth and looked up into the pale blue I loved, marveling as I always did at the flecks of cobalt in them.
    “There was a time that I loved Shane Harris.”
    “Yeah, I figured.”
    “But you know that since the day I took you home with me that there’s only been you.”
    I knew that, because as hard as I loved, as completely and possessively, as all-consuming, Joe was worse. With me—and from what I understood, only ever with me—he was like a tiger in the body of a man. Once he claimed you, God help you if you tried to get away. I had understood when the man moved in with me that I belonged to him body and soul and nothing was taking me away from him, not even my own jealousy.
    “I love you,” he said before he kissed me.
    But I didn’t need to be told.

V
    I T WAS so nice to see them. As soon as I walked into the living room, Malic levered off the wall he was leaning on and crossed to me. He didn’t hug me—it wasn’t what we did—but his hand went to my shoulder and held me. There was a time not too long ago when even being affectionate with my best friend in front of my hearth was problematic. Joe had mistakenly thought Malic wanted me. It was not the case. Even if they wanted to, warders getting together did not end well. Malic and Ryan had even tried, to no avail. 
    Sometimes warders—and it happened to a lot of them, because warders could be women or men—were drawn to one another. They fought together, bled together, and so the camaraderie that came with that sometimes got mistaken for more. The problem was that another warder could not provide a sanctuary. Another warder could not provide a home, a place where you were loved and cared for and welcomed with open arms. If two warders were together, they would fight side by side, go home, and fuck all the adrenaline out of their systems. But afterward, when that was done, when the pulse-pounding rush had dissipated and you needed to be held and kissed and even be something as simple as fed, you were both looking at the other, waiting for them to deliver. A warder, simply put, needed a caretaker, and another warder could never be that.
    Coming home bruised and bloody, carrying the weight of what I’d seen with me—the gore, the horror—I was normally not even capable of speech. But I was met at the door each and every time by a man who gave me a quick kiss before having me step onto a garbage bag to strip off everything from head to toe and then pointing me toward the shower. As I lurched through our living room, I could feel the warmth of our home, smell the food, and hear the soft music. Joe liked a lot of alternative bands, so the sound reminded me of him, which was good. It was all so comforting that sometimes, just for a second, I thought I would fall apart. But he would check my progress, put a hand on the small of my back or give my ass a pat or take my hand, and lead me to the shower. And then he’d leave me under the steaming water, and all of it, the blood, the memory, and the pain, would just roll off me, down the drain.
    Sometimes, if it wasn’t so bad and he could see that it had not been, he would join me in the shower and run his hands all over my skin before dropping to his knees and taking my cock down the back of his throat. Those were the best starts to my homecoming. But other times, when he would touch me and I’d shiver, he’d wait until I finished my shower, dried off,