Chapter 6
Ethan told him, “I do know what I like. I know what I get myself off to. And you had porn in the eighteen-forties, I know you did, I’m a historian.”
Jake stopped laughing to toss him a smirk: ironic, beautiful, appreciative of the words and the affirmation. Behind him, through him, California woods shimmered palely; beside them, the world twinkled in water, in stray paranormal paraphernalia, in delight.
“You win,” Jake said. “The pretty boys always do, as my dear departed mother used to say, and you’ve no idea how pretty you are, on your knees like that and begging me to take you. So you win, and I’m all yours. Bring me back to life, then.”
Their eyes met; Ethan wanted to laugh, too, amazed, elated. He said, “Can I make a bad pun about the traditional advice and riding hard and euphemisms and the Valley of Shadow?”
“I think I love you, peaches,” Jake said. “Did you need to do something with that? Your magic flowers?”