The Collector 2: Grave Heart

Emily Veinglory

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Kieran specializes in business dealings of a delicate nature. The sort that require an intimate knowledge of target and goal. And he’s very, very good at his job. A mysterious collector asks Kieran to carry out a simple t...
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Kieran specializes in business dealings of a delicate nature. The sort that require an intimate knowledge of target and goal. And he’s very, very good at his job.

A mysterious collector asks Kieran to carry out a simple task--to acquire a mysterious antique object called the lovestone from Joshua Brassington, a Vancouver businessman, whose old money wealth and self-possessed charm are the epitome of everything Kieran loathes.

When his purely financial offer for the artifact is unsuccessful, Kieran plans a simple, mercenary seduction. Cold and meticulous, Kieran has no place in his life for facing the ghosts of his dark past or seeking love in his future. But Joshua finds Kieran worthy of acquisition, and he, and the lovestone, have other plans.

  • Note:This book is a homoerotic love story and as such contains elements that may be offensive to some readers: male/male sexual contact.
The conversation wended its way along without touching on anything of particular note: art, food, architecture, the weather. Kieran gave honest answers, seeing no reason to prevaricate. Joshua kept their wineglasses filled so that once they had eaten, informally at the kitchen table as the sun set, they had reached the dregs of the second bottle.

“Art?” Kieran replied. “I like to study it, to know what it shows, why it was made. But as for hanging something on the wall and living with it, day in, day out. Well, I can’t say I ever have. I’ve not felt the need to.”

“No? I suppose I can see it. I imagine you are something of a workaholic, hmm? Drawn to ease and simplicity, all dressed in black like one of those high-concept architects.”

Kieran laughed. He knew the type, black polo-necks and designer sunglasses, all emphasis on form not decoration. “It’s not my look for every day,” he protested.

“Oh, I do hope I haven’t put my foot in it. I noticed the mourning jewelry, but I assumed ... people just wear it for decoration these days.”

Kieran flushed; the wine seemed to heat his skin. “Oh, no. I wasn’t at a funeral or anything. I just wear this, sometimes ...” Hell, he needed something to say other than that this costume was designed just to catch a mark. “... in memory of my mother.”

As he said it, it seemed true. He had no idea if his mother was dead. She’d simply left them back when he was no more than seven or eight years old. She might well be dead by now, if she was anything like his father described.

Joshua leaned over, grasping Kieran’s lapel. “It’s a nice piece,” he said. He paused as if searching for something to say. They’d not turned the lights on, and it was almost too dark to really see. “I bought something for dessert. I think ...”

In that hesitation, Kieran knew what he wanted to do, and it didn’t involve éclairs. He stood and walked around the small table. Joshua was not slow to react, pushing back his chair, almost on his feet as Kieran reached him.

His lips were soft, opening in welcome. The chair toppled with a crash as Kieran propelled Joshua back as far as the wall. Their mouths jousted together, bodies pressing too tight for hands to find purchase.

He wasn’t ready for this, no condom or lube. Let’s hope Joshua is better prepared. Hell, where was that sofa he’d seen? Just through the archway in the living room, right? Kieran barely restrained himself from tearing that fussy business shirt right off the man. He pulled back and fumbled with the top buttons impatiently. Then he wrenched up the shirt to push it over Joshua’s head.

His torso was lean and proportional, but soft, smooth beneath Kieran’s fingers. Kieran began steering him towards the living room, but Joshua pulled him away to the stairs and led the way, wordlessly, to a small bedroom dominated by a large, square bed topped by a thick duvet. As they went, Kieran tore off his clothes, ditching shoes, socks, jacket and shirt, and hopping from his trousers.

He felt energized, alive, and almost predatory, propelling Joshua onto the bed. Joshua slid up, on his back, in the middle of the broad mattress. Kieran dispensed with the rest of Joshua’s clothing efficiently. Joshua’s tall frame, placid, knowing eyes, and dark blond hair made him look like some mortal version of a pre-Raphaelite angel, albeit currently a fallen one. Kieran wanted him, intensely and possessively.

He worked his lips up Joshua’s body, biting lightly, kissing and driving his tongue down against Joshua’s soft skin. He crawled up the bed, his knee between Joshua’s legs, which eased apart, inviting. Joshua fumbled with the bedside table, opening a drawer and pulling out a scattering of foil packets and a crumpled tube.

Kieran seized one of the condoms, tearing open the packet with his teeth. He squeezed the tip and rolled it on impatiently; his cock, all too familiar to his own hands, twitched for more. Joshua squeezed the lube one-handed and reached for him. That touch, barely muted by latex, was cold and sudden. Slick fingers coated his head and shaft.

Joshua raised his long legs. His ass was offered, and Kieran positioned himself. He pushed, feeling the tension, the limits, pressing and easing in one long stroke that was slow but without hesitation. He pushed deep, all the way in, with silence.

Copyright © Emily Veinglory


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