Niko hated himself, hated the way a ripple of goosebumps prickled his skin beneath the suit, hated how his body and brain alike delighted in being touched—in having another man’s hand in his hair, lips against his, wanting. Even here. Even now.

And not just any man. This man. This man, who matched him in skill and capability. The two of them were entangled, caught in a tether, always chasing and chased, always hunting and hunted. It made the brilliant lightning sweep of heady thrill—inappropriate, wrong in every way—only intensify. Niko parted his lips for him, and Kestrel slid his tongue inside.

Niko’s heart hammered in his chest, his throat. This was wrong. This was everything he shouldn’t—couldn’t—be doing. He forced himself to pull away and shoved Kestrel back against the wall again. The other man looked at him searchingly, lips still parted, wet from Niko. He ran his tongue along his bottom lip, as though trying to taste him still.