A Book Of Tongues by Gemma Files Page A

anyone did happen to spot him in the already-chancy-sounding
act of “looking for a pot to piss in,” he surely didn’t want to have
to explain why he was doing it armed . As he shut the door carefully
behind him, he could feel how the Manifold’s indigestible lump,
hidden deep in his waistcoat pocket, seemed to wake up at the mere
possibility of getting back near Rook, clicking fast against his ribs
like an extra, malfunctioning, heart.
    He mounted the stairs, hoping the romantic din Chess and his
boss were making would cover any mistake on his part. ’Cause they
were deep in congress yet, for maybe the third time in a row, a faint
blur of motion glimpsed reflected in the cheval-glass which hung
overtop the bed they currently shared. And the closer Morrow
drew, the harder he found to tear his gaze from that very same rude
spectacle.
    His first thought was, So, Chess is red all over. Second: Do people
really do that? But there they were, right in front of him, so the first
conclusion he’d have to venture was yes, “people” did — and when
they did, they enjoyed it. Quite a whole damn lot.
    Rook was half-sat up with Chess balanced in his lap, jouncing him
up and down, their mutual effort almost bruising in its enthusiasm.
Chess kept pace admirably, sweat-shiny, hands busy in his own lap
the whole way. And when it seemed Rook finally couldn’t take the
strain anymore, he tumbled them both over and twisted around so
he came out on top, which appeared to suit Chess even better.
    “Oh yes ,” Chess half-snarled, half-squealed. “Pin me down, by
God — go on, work your damn way with me — ”
    “My Christ, but you’re an undomesticated son-of-a-bitch,” Rook
huffed.
    “Sorry.”
    “No, you ain’t.”
    “True ’nough. But I’d sure try to be, if I thought that’s what you —
uh! — wanted . . . .”
    “Shut up, Chess,” the Rev just growled — came in hard and fast,
possibly hitting that unnamed thing a few times in quick succession,
’til Chess clutched and arched beneath him. The results sprayed
up between them, splashing sheets and skin; Rook groaned, firing
deep. Chess sprawled back, panting and glistening like he’d been
shot through the heart.
    Saying, a mere breathless moment later: “Let’s do it again.”
    “Let’s not, for now,” Reverend Rook replied, “seein’ how it ain’t
yet light out, and I’m thirty-eight years old.” He closed his eyes on
Chess’s disappointment, stretching. “Go get yourself cleaned up,
give me a minute or two to collect my faculties. After that, I’ll fuck
you ’til you can’t ride, if you’re still so all-fired up for it.”
    “That wouldn’t be too smart.”
    “You make me a lot of things, Chess. I’ve never noticed smart to
be one of ’em.”
    Me either, Morrow thought, as he watched Chess sigh, rise and
pad away — the splash of a wash-basin, light flap of soaked cloth.
Then saw the Rev jump a bit to feel that same cloth applied deep
between his own thighs, with surprising skill and delicacy — gentle,
almost reverent.
    “That good?”
    “Yeah, darlin’. That’s damn good.”
    The intimacy of it all made Morrow blush, in turn, at the unlikely
thought of ever taking his own turn under those pretty killer’s
hands. To distract himself, he eked a little further toward the door,
sidelong, as Chess climbed back in to fit himself up against Rook’s
side.
    “Yeah, well . . . you ever want to receive that sort of service
again, Reverend, then you better get it through your head how
San Francisco ain’t no fit locale to do business, in future. Christ
on a cross, I’ll burn that damn place down myself, if I have to. An
earthquake needs to swallow that shit-pit whole.”
    Rook laughed. “Poor angry little boy,” he mocked, in fair
approximation of Songbird’s voice. “Aw, don’t sulk, Chess — it don’t
become you. Let’s talk ’bout something else.”
    “Like?”
    The Rev’s rumble dipped. “Hear your Ma’s in