Honor (Men of Virtue Book 6) by Brian C. Palmer & Cait Forester

Author:Brian C. Palmer & Cait Forester [Palmer, Brian C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lovelight Press
Published: 2017-03-30T16:00:00+00:00

22

Taggart waited for the sound of the front door closing, half hoping that it wouldn’t happen and that Martin would come back in and . . . what, talk it out?

He didn’t know.

He looked down at his chest and stomach, still wet with Martin’s come, and leaned over to pull the washcloth out of the nightstand to wipe himself down. The last lingering shreds of afterglow were still clinging to his bones, highlighting the numbness in his chest. It was best not to get attached. He was lucky enough to have gotten a taste of feeling like a person again for a little while, right? How many people like him — broken, missing parts, teetering on the edge of being bat-shit crazy — got to do that?

Anger tried to impinge on the numbness, but he closed his eyes and told it to fuck off. He didn’t have a right to Martin. If anything, Martin had suffered a clear lapse in judgment. Probably Taggart should have stopped him, reminded him just what kind of history they had and what a piece of work Taggart was. Who wanted to be a part of that? Taggart certainly wouldn’t.

But, fuck. For second there . . .

Being inside Martin, feeling that electric touch, the way it made his skin crawl in the best possible way. Seeing the look of sheer, unpretentious pleasure on Martin’s face, like he was staring into the face of God or something . . .

Taggart replayed the memory again and again, carving it into his brain for safe keeping. It was probably gonna be the last time he had the chance.

Grunt interrupted him, barking at the side of the bed to get Taggart’s attention. Probably he had to go out. “Hold it in,” Taggart said as he rolled to his side and pushed himself up. “Give me a minute.”

He rolled his cuff on and donned the leg, and picked up his cane to stand. His thigh didn’t hurt as much, but his other knee was weak from what Martin had done to him. “Probably lucky you don’t have a pair,” he said to Grunt as he made his way to his dresser to get a pair of shorts out. He dressed with effort, and went to the living room to fetch Grunt’s harness and lead.

The light outside seemed too bright, the noise of distant traffic too loud. Even the grass seemed a little too sharp against his feet. He stood impatiently while Grunt consulted some arcane doggie-calculus to figure out precisely where he should shit.

“For fuck’s sake, dog,” he finally grumbled, “just pick a place and squat.”

Grunt’s ears fell, and he scrambled around in a circle for a moment before he gave Taggart a wary look and did his business.

Taggart felt immediately guilty for having raised his voice. Once Grunt finished, he approached Taggart cautiously, and Taggart used his good knee to squat a little and scoop the puppy up in his arm. He held him close, and nuzzled his fur. “I’m sorry, buddy.

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