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  ANOTHER MAN’S TREASURE

  by Lisa Henry & J.A. Rock

  Crocobear Press 2014

  Another Man’s Treasure

  Copyright © June 2014 by Lisa Henry & J.A. Rock

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this book ONLY. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Crocobear Press. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  ISBN: 9781310941351

  Cover Artist: J.A. Rock

  Published in the United States of America

  Crocobear Press

  www.lisahenryonline.com

  www.jarockauthor.com

  This book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning

  This book contains sexually explicit scenes, violence, and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. This book is for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

  Dedication

  To the readers who like it dark.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to Amanda Atchley, Mare Slitsread, and Brandilyn Carpenter.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I

  Svvsssh.

  A bright sting. The zip of satin across Ilia’s skin. Pressure on the rings so great that for a second Ilia thought they’d rip out. Then the pain faded to a throb, and the guy started threading the ribbon through the next set.

  “All right?” the guy asked.

  Ilia nodded.

  “I’m pullin’.”

  Ilia closed his eyes.

  Svvsssh.

  They were past the middle of Ilia’s back now. Each time the piercer pulled the ribbon taut, Ilia experienced such a mess of agony that he couldn’t think about anything else. But in the moments between, he could concentrate on the strangeness of the sensation. His skin was laced like a corset. A row of steel rings on either side of his spine. Black satin ribbon crisscrossing his back. He could feel blood trickle from some of the holes.

  “This part ain’t as bad as the piercing, is it?”

  Ilia tried to remember that pain—only half an hour since the piercer had forced the needle through his skin for the last time. It had hurt to have the rings put in, worse than having his nipples done, or his ears. But this, the constant pulling as he was laced up, might have been worse. “I don’t know.”

  “You put on the Neosporin that’s got the painkiller in it? You’ll be all right. Shit, I might’ve got these crossed wrong.” The ends of the ribbons drifted across Ilia’s back. “Nope, I’m all right.”

  “You done one of these before?” Ilia hadn’t asked before they’d started. He’d asked, Do you know how to do this?

  Guy’d said yes, but since then Ilia had seen him referencing a photo on his phone. Had heard, briefly, the garbled lines of a video tutorial.

  Big difference, between you know how? and you done it before?

  “One time,” the guy said. “Ladies. Twins. Green ribbons and pink. They was doing some kind of porn thing.”

  Svsshhhh.

  “Their bodies was all right. Their faces was kinda old looking, but I guess that’s not what you’re lookin’ at, huh? When you’re watchin’ that stuff?”

  Svsshhhh.

  Ilia let out a long breath. Thought of Mikhail. Arched, flexing the muscles of his back as blood went to his cock.

  “I don’t know how ladies did it,” the guy said. “Wearing corsets and shit. Back in the old days.”

  “Mmm.” Ilia clenched his jaw against another wave of pain.

  The piercer seemed young to be doing this. Maybe younger than Ilia. Nineteen, twenty? He had gobs of metal in his eyebrows and a spiked labret ring, but without the piercings, he’d have looked scruffy and average. A country boy. Short tawny hair, slightly mussed. A scraggly goatee, pimples on his neck.

  Ilia sat up straighter and pushed out his jaw slightly to emphasize the clean line of it. Shook his head so that the tips of his long earrings brushed his jaw. Glanced down at the two braided metal pendants that dangled on black cords between his pecs, making sure they were centered, and imagined the picture he made—dark-haired, pale, beautiful.

  He felt a private satisfaction whenever he met anyone unattractive. Didn’t matter whether the other person actually envied him. Like now, it didn’t matter whether the piercer was admiring the smooth skin of his back and his hard, lean muscles. Whether his gaze was drawn to the mascara Ilia clumped thick on his lashes, or the way Ilia kept his lips slightly parted because he could pull it off—made him look slightly dazed and sensual, instead of brick-dumb or Abercrombie. Didn’t matter, because Ilia felt enviable.

  The guy tugged the ribbon through one of the rings on the left side of Ilia’s lower back. They weren’t really rings—they were little barbells with rings attached, to keep the piercing from healing. “Took me nine hours to do ’em both. Those girls.”

  Ilia had been here four.

  “You said you just want this for fun?” the piercer asked.

  “I’ve got someone who’s gonna like it,” Ilia replied. “I think.”

  “They’d better. All the trouble you gone through for it.”

  He will.

  The guy sang along with the radio—one of those mellow indie songs that was all quirky rhymes. Supposed to be poetic, but just sounded like the girl singing was half asleep and murmuring whatever stupid shit came into her brain.

  “Little red painted soldier,

  I’m gonna make you mine.

  Take you back to my back porch;

  We’ll share the stars; we’ll share the wine.

  The world is old and colder,

  But my little house is fine.

  Oh red painted soldier,

  The wounds you feel are mine.

  The wounds you feel, the wounds you heal,

  The words you steal from a quiet mind;

  Yeah little red painted soldier,

  Don’t let the blind mislead the blind.”

  The guy didn’t know most of the lyrics. He crooned nonsense as he got up to replace a latex glove. Shucked the broken glove into the trash—Ilia glimpsed a few red stains—and pulled on the new one, then came back around behind Ilia.

  “What’s your name?” Ilia didn’t care, but after four hours together, seemed right to know.

  “Kris with a K. One more set.”

  Ilia tensed, and Kris pulled—through the ring, across his back. Through the opposite ring, and then the ribbon dangled just above Ilia’s ass on the right side. As Ilia swallowed nausea from the sting, Kris situated the left hand ribbon. Ilia tipped his head up, pursed his lips, and blew out the breath he’d been holding. “Fuck.”

  “Oh, you’re good, man.”

  Ilia shifted cautiously and felt the soreness climbing his skin like a curse of thorns growing up around a tower in a fairy tale. “I’m done?”

  “You want it tied...how?” Kris asked. “In a bow?

  “Yeah.”

  Ilia waited as Kris tied the laces. Kris’s knuckles were warm on his back. “Feel all right? I’m keepin’ it loose for now. You can tighten it when it stops hurting.”

  This was loose? Ilia couldn’t move without
the pressure becoming pain. “Sure.”

  “Just be careful. You’re bleeding some.”

  “I’ve bled before.”

  “A lotta people who get extreme piercings, they don’t think the blood’s gonna be much, and it is. Lotta people don’t think to put old sheets on the bed.”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “Wow, man.” Kris shook his head, staring at his handiwork. “You want a mirror?”

  “Yeah.”

  Kris gave him a hand mirror. Ilia stood, wincing, and followed Kris over to the full-length mirror near the register. Searched for the angle he needed to see his back.

  Fuck. Yeah, the laces looked amazing, but the blood made it kind of a horror show. He laughed. “Gross.”

  “Sorry.” Kris grabbed a roll of paper towels. “I shoulda done this first.”

  He went to the sink by the piercing chair and wet a wad of the towels. Returned and started wiping Ilia’s back. The water was cold. “It’s good,” Ilia said. “I fucking love it.”

  “It’s gonna hurt for a while,” Kris said. “But that Neosporin with the painkiller. I’m telling you.”

  “I’ll get some.”

  “And I got some gauze I’ll give you. Did you bring a different shirt?”

  Ilia shook his head. Expensive T-shirt. Gonna get bloody, and Ilia didn’t mind. Driving would be a bitch, though.

  “You want a towel? Or, uh, if you wanna buy one of our shirts...”

  Ilia glanced at the Twysted Imyge shirts by the register. A dragon with a barbell through its nose. “It’s all right. I’ll wear mine.”

  “Hope whoever you did this for likes it,” Kris said.

  Yeah. Yeah, Ilia hoped so too. He hoped Mikhail’s fingers shook when they undid the laces, because Ilia was so fucking beautiful, and because Mikhail knew Ilia would do anything for him. Hoped when they fucked, Mikhail pulled on the ribbons. Ilia imagined panting into the pillow, shaking and sweat-drenched, and Mikhail’s big hand passing over skin barbed with nerves. His voice soft in Ilia’s ear. “Eaaaasyyyy, Ilie.”

  “He will.” Ilia said.

  He got out his wallet.

  II

  Ilia stood between the fluted columns on the concrete doorstep. A weathered townhouse, expensive, not as old as it looked. Blue siding and brass sconces full of dead spiders and moths on either side of the door. He knocked then rang the bell. Toyed with his necklaces.

  Heavy footsteps, then the door creaked open, and Mikhail stood there in a dark gray suit. His eyes were blank for a second, the creases of his face making him look overly serious. Then he smiled. “Oh. I was not expecting this. Let me look at you.”

  Ilia grinned. “C’mon. I’m not your nephew you haven’t seen since he was ‘this big’. You see me every day.”

  “I forget, when I’m away from you. I forget you are so beautiful. Come in, come in.” Mikhail stepped back, and Ilia entered. There was a man on the couch, big, with dark, sweaty stubble on his squarish head. Ilia didn’t know who he was, didn’t care, was only disappointed to see him here. The man didn’t look away from the TV.

  “You’re busy.” Ilia kept his voice low.

  Mikhail’s smile slipped. “Mm. You know I do my work here. Then I come see you.”

  “But today I have a surprise for you.”

  “Oh?

  Ilia put a hand on Mikhail’s arm. “It’s private.”

  “Ohhh.” Mikhail glanced at the couch.

  “Send him away.”

  The pain in Ilia’s back was digging a rough spot in his brain, making him dizzy.

  Mikhail looked at the man, and Ilia looked at Mikhail, who, like the townhouse, was not as old as he appeared. His face was sun damaged and spray tanned, his teeth bleached and his gold hair cut in a hundred dollar crop. He wasn’t ugly, though. His body was so broad, his features so distinctive that Ilia could stir, could sweat just watching him.

  “Kysna?” Mikhail said pleasantly.

  The man on the couch grunted.

  “I think our meeting is over.”

  The TV snapped off, the couch creaked, and the big man stood. Faced Mikhail and Ilia. He was bigger than Mikhail, which meant he was massive compared to Ilia. Ilia watched Kysna’s gaze slide over him.

  Skinny little bitch, Kysna must be thinking.

  Not just a skinny little bitch. Ilia gave Kysna a wicked grin. I know how to use a gun. Would do it, if I had to.

  He willed Kysna to know that. To fear him as the man clearly feared Mikhail. Everyone feared Mikhail, and Mikhail didn’t even have to hurt anyone to make it that way—though he did hurt people, when it was necessary. Sometimes Ilia craved that power too. People saw the strength that ran deep in Mikhail, and they did as he asked.

  Except for Ilia. Ilia did what he wanted, secure in the knowledge Mikhail would love him all the more for it.

  Kysna nodded. “It was good talking to you.” He had a thick accent. With Mikhail, Ilia only noticed certain words. The hardness of the K in think or the absence of the L in walk—“Let’s take a wok.”

  “We’ll finish soon,” Mikhail said. He stepped aside so Kysna could get to the door. Kysna closed it hard.

  Mikhail turned to Ilia, his expression distant for a few seconds before he said, “My beautiful Ilie.”

  “What’s wrong?” Ilia wanted Mikhail’s full attention on him before he showed him the piercing.

  “Nothing. Nothing is wrong.”

  “You’re lying.”

  Mikhail shook his head. “My brother is being difficult, that is all. I was discussing this with Kysna, who is quite fond of Nikolay.”

  Nikolay. Nick. Mikhail’s younger brother. A dangerous man. A fuck-up. Ilia had interacted with him only a couple of times, and the last time...well, he wasn’t going to dwell on that right now. But yeah, Nick was about as crazy as they came, and Ilia usually enjoyed hearing Mikhail talk shit about him—though he resented Nick’s claim on Mikhail’s attention.

  Ilia snorted. “So what else is new?”

  Mikhail gave a sharp, guttural laugh. “Yes. You are right. What else is new?” He put his arms around Ilia, and Ilia didn’t stop him. Leaned into the embrace even as his eyes watered and his body jerked involuntarily.

  “Ow,” he whispered.

  Mikhail eased his hold, looking down at Ilia with concern. “Are you hurt?”

  Ilia licked Mikhail’s jaw, then kept his tongue there for a moment as he grinned slowly. He looked up. “Take my shirt off.”

  Mikhail’s brow furrowed.

  “It’s your surprise. Take my shirt off.” Ilia raised his arms.

  Mikhail walked behind him and lifted the hem of his shirt. The fabric stuck to Ilia’s body in places, and he wished he’d been able to clean up a little, but he didn’t think Mikhail would mind. Thought it was the rawness of what Ilia had done as much as the beauty that would impress him.

  “Oh,” Mikhail said softly. He pulled Ilia’s shirt off, taking a moment to disentangle it from the necklaces, and tossed it onto the couch.

  “You like?” Ilia glanced over his shoulder.

  Mikhail was staring intently at the piercing. Slowly he kneeled behind Ilia on the hardwood floor. Breathed against the tender skin of his lower back. “Oh, Ilie.” Mikhail’s hands on Ilia’s hips. “Ohhh. What have you done?”

  “You like it?” Doubt in Ilia’s tone now.

  Mikhail’s thumbs skirted the lowest rings. Ilia flinched but didn’t move. Mikhail stood, his knees creaking, and Ilia turned to him.

  Mikhail cupped his face and kissed him, long and slow. Paused and pressed his forehead to Ilia’s. “It hurts you.”

  “Just for now.” Ilia fought a surge of panic. As much as he loved his power over Mikhail, as much pleasure as he took from doing things precisely his own way and trusting Mikhail to accept his choices, he did need Mikhail’s approval. Craved it in a way that felt novel, because the things he’d desired in the past had always been selfish, immediate wants, fueled by lust or anger. Now, h
e lived to make Mikhail happy. This man’s admiration, his love, was something lasting, something Ilia could sustain and nurture.

  Mikhail’s breath smelled like coffee and mints. He kept his forehead against Ilia’s and said, “It’s so niiiiiiice.” He exhaled the last word, low and rumbling, almost like a snore.

  Ilia grinned. “You think?”

  “Yes, yes. You thought of me when you did it?”

  “The whole time.”

  “Ahhhhhh, ha ha ha…” Mikhail’s sigh turned to gentle laughter, and he swayed, moving his hands to the back of Ilia’s neck. “You know what this man likes.”

  “I do.” Ilia whispered. He bumped his hips against Mikhail’s.

  “I like beauty,” Mikhail said. “And self-expression.”

  “I know.”

  “You. I like.”

  “Yeah.”

  Mikhail clapped one hand over Ilia’s ass, crushing their bodies together. He hooked his chin over Ilia’s shoulder, and Ilia hoped he was looking down at the laces. “You look like a present I get to unwrap.”

  Ilia shifted his hips, getting jolt after jolt of heat when his cock rubbed Mikhail’s through their pants.

  “Do it. Untie it.” Ilia’s arousal far outweighed the prospect of pain.

  Mikhail drummed Ilia’s ass lightly for a few seconds then tugged the hair at his nape with his other hand. “Get on the couch.”

  Ilia sprawled facedown, ignoring the rip of pain across his skin. Mikhail got on the cushion behind him and moved between his legs. He cupped his hand under Ilia, rubbing the seam of his jeans into his cock. Hummed his approval when Ilia ground against his palm.

  Big hands. Mikhail had big hands. That was the first thing Ilia had noticed about him. Big, but not clumsy. They were elegant. The sort of hands that could play a piano concerto, Ilia imagined. The sort of hands that could perform delicate surgery. The sort of hands that could take a boy apart, and did, every single night.

  Mikhail made a clicking noise with his tongue. “Don’t move. You will hurt yourself.”