Chapter 2: Real fun
The bass from the main room was a distant, throbbing heartbeat through the obsidian walls. Kai’s hand was warm on the small of my back, a guiding pressure that felt both commanding and protective. My own pulse was hammering in my ears, a frantic counter-rhythm to the music. The corridor was narrow, lit by pulsating embers set into the stone, and the air was cooler, carrying the scent of ozone and distant brimstone.
We’d been talking for what felt like both seconds and centuries. His laugh was a low, gravelly thing that vibrated in my own chest. I’d been gesturing, trying to explain the bureaucratic nightmare of a soul-transference form, when my elbow accidentally brushed against his side.
A jolt, sharp and electric, went through me.
It wasn’t just the contact. It was the echo. His interest, his attraction, had been a steady, warm hum in my empathic senses since he’d first taken the drink from my hand. But now it spiked, intensifying into a hungry, palpable heat that mirrored the sudden flush burning under my own fur. My ability didn’t just tell me he was interested. It made me feel it as my own, a feedback loop of desire that left me breathless.
I froze mid-sentence. My eyes, against my will, dropped.
The fitted black material of his trousers did little to hide the thick, prominent outline of his erection. It was a blatant, undeniable ridge, straining against the fabric. A silent testament to the same fire coursing through me. My face burned.
Then I saw his gaze had fallen too, landing squarely on the same obvious, awkward bulge tenting my own pants.
Fuck. Oh, fuck.
A wave of sheer, mortifying vulnerability washed over me, followed instantly by a hotter, sharper spike of need. His was… bigger. The thought was stupid, primal, cutting through the social anxiety with the clean edge of pure animal comparison. The bisexual heat Octavius was always smugly referring to—it wasn’t just a phrase. It was this. A conductive fever, jumping from his nervous system to mine.
Kai didn’t look away. He slowly dragged his eyes back up to meet mine. His smile changed. The friendly amusement evaporated, replaced by something darker, more intent. The yellow glow of his eyes seemed to intensify.
“See something you like?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave, almost a growl. No mockery, just a raw, simple question.
I couldn’t speak. Could only give a jerky, helpless nod. The empathic link between us was a live wire, humming with a shared, singular focus.
He leaned in close, his muzzle near my ear. I could feel the heat of his breath, smell the spice of his fur and the faint, clean scent of his sweat. “This bar is too fucking loud,” he murmured, the words vibrating through me. “And we’re putting on a show for the mirrors. My place is two rings up. A quick portal jump. Or… there’s a supply closet at the end of this hall. It locks.”
The offer hung in the cool air. A choice. A sane, slow path, or this. Now.
The heat in my groin, the ache, the mirror of his own desperate want in my head—it made the decision for me. “Closet,” I managed to rasp out, the word scraping my throat raw.
His hand slid from my back to clasp my arm, a firm, possessive grip. He led the way, his stride confident. I followed, my lanky legs unsteady, the evidence of my arousal rubbing maddeningly against the confines of my clothing with every step. The door was unmarked, forged from dark, pitted iron. Kai released me, produced a slender key from a pocket, and turned it in the lock with a definitive clunk.
He pushed the door open, ushered me into the darkness, and followed, closing it behind us with a solid, final sound.
The outside world vanished. The music became a muffled, abstract throb. The only light was a thin, hellish red seam from under the door, painting a faint, bloody line across the floor. The closet was small, smelling of ozone, polished metal, and dust. Shadows clung to shelves laden with crystalline kegs and spare glassware.
We were alone. Sealed in.
The tension in the tiny space was a physical thing, thick enough to choke on. I could hear his breathing, could feel the radiant heat from his body inches from mine. My own heart was a trapped bird beating against my ribs.
He turned. In the profound dark, I could just make out the outline of his broad shoulders, the glint of his eyes.
No more words.
He closed the distance in one step. One of his hands came up to cup the side of my muzzle, his claws gentle but undeniable against my fur. The other slid around my waist, pulling my hips firmly against his. I gasped at the contact, the hard, hot pressure of him meeting my own.
Then he brought his mouth down on mine.
It wasn’t a gentle exploration. It was a claim. His lips were demanding, insistent. He tasted of smoke and the bittersweet Hell-berry cocktail we’d been drinking. A low growl started in his chest, rumbling into me as his tongue pushed past my lips, delving deep. I kissed him back, a surge of hunger breaking through my shyness, fueled by the empathic storm of his desire. My hands came up, tangling in the thick fur at the back of his neck, holding on as the world narrowed to this: the slick heat of his mouth, the coarse texture of our fur mingling, the grinding, urgent press of our clothed erections, and the deafening, silent scream of need that belonged to both of us.