Dangerous Spirits Read Free Page A

invasion. Henry knew all the ways to make him gasp and
cry out, and he put them to good use.
    Vincent had never had a lover who knew him so well. He bit
his lip to keep from crying out too loudly when Henry entered him. The stretch felt
marvelous, waves of pleasure spreading through him as Henry worked in deeper
and deeper. Henry’s hands gripped Vincent’s hips, sweat darkening his hair. The
soft glow of the night candle dusted the short hairs of Henry’s arms in gold
and outlined the muscles of his chest. Vincent let go of his legs in favor of
clutching Henry’s forearms, tugging him closer.
    “Is it good?” Henry gasped. His lips remained parted, as if
begging for a kiss or a cock.
    “Amazing,” Vincent said, barely able to form a coherent sentence.
“Feels good, Henry. Don’t stop—ah!”
    His words ended in a soft cry as Henry wrapped one hand
around his prick, giving it a long stroke. Vincent arched his back, fingers
digging into Henry’s arms, awash in pleasure. It felt good, to be touched by someone
who knew him this intimately, to be filled by someone he cared for, and he
hoped cared for him. Henry’s hips rocked more urgently, driving in harder, and
his fingers tightened on Vincent’s cock. It was too much, and Vincent bit back
a shout as the wave of ecstasy crested, hot semen spilling out and over his
belly. Henry gasped his name, pushing in and stilling, their bodies locked
together in a single circle of heat and desire.
    The sound of their ragged breathing filled the little room.
Henry sat back, dipped a finger in the spend pooled on Vincent’s stomach, and
brought it to his mouth. Vincent grinned at him lazily, feeling boneless and
content. He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and drift off into
blissful sleep.
    But he couldn’t. Vincent rolled to his feet with a groan,
and went to the bag of salt sitting on a shelf near the door.
    He’d spent most of his life sleeping without lines of salt
across the doorway and window sills. But ever since the night last year, when
Dunne died and the ghost that killed him vanished, Vincent never slept without
a barrier of salt. He couldn’t shake the fear the ghost still lurked out there,
waiting to complete the job it began.
    Maybe it was foolish. Henry didn’t seem to think so, indeed
went out of his way to provide salt for the nights Vincent stayed over. But did
he really believe something stalked Vincent, or did he consider it a delusion
on Vincent’s part? Certainly there was no evidence the ghost even lingered in
this world, let alone had any interest in Vincent.
    But the memory of Dunne’s staring eyes, face purple from the
ghost squeezing the life out of him, sent a slick surge of fear down Vincent’s
spine. The spirit had used his hands to kill Dunne. What if he awoke some
morning and found Henry lying beside him, eyes glazed and throat bearing the
marks of his fingers?
    Vincent bent over and hurriedly began to pour the line of
salt in front of the closed door. Even if Henry only humored him, at least he didn’t
point out that Vincent Night was afraid of the dark.
    ~ * ~
    Henry rose with the dawn. Vincent, who seldom moved from bed
before noon, rolled over to Henry’s vacated side, mumbled incoherently, and
fell back asleep with his face buried in Henry’s pillow.
    Henry shaved and dressed quietly, then paused by the bed
before letting himself out. The white linens gleamed next to Vincent’s sienna
skin, the sheets thrown back to reveal shapely limbs and long muscles. The
sight of him stole Henry’s breath and softened something in his chest, and he
leaned down and tenderly swept a lock of hair back from Vincent’s face. Vincent
sighed softly but didn’t wake.
    Henry suppressed a sigh of his own. He should have confessed
the truth about his failure before they made love. Instead, he’d let himself be
carried away by passion, unable to think of anything beyond pleasure.
    Well, no. There was pleasure, but not just of the