Chapter One

Paris, August 1918

The man looked young, his face unlined, his smile bright—too young and unsoiled to be wearing a soldier’s uniform. His eyes, though, told a different story. The shadows there spoke of the same horrors Owen had witnessed.

All around them men talked and laughed, the air blue with cigarette smoke. Owen had one night, maybe two, in this little corner of Paris. He’d sprung for a decent glass of whisky, and the liquor’s burn loosened something deep in his chest. More than likely his unit would return to the front, but for the first time in a long while, no one was shooting at him and he could draw a breath.

Without any real intent, Owen caught the young man’s gaze and held it long enough for an offer to be made and accepted. The man was blond, his eyes dark, and he stood up from his seat at the bar with an easy grace.

Owen tilted his head toward the rear of the café. There must be a back door, which would likely lead to an alley. From there, they’d find a quiet corner, or something close by.

Leading the way, Owen wove through the crowd. His shoulders felt the weight of the young man’s gaze, a sensation that made him stand straighter. To his dismay, he couldn’t find the café’s rear door. They couldn’t very well waltz through the kitchen. He turned, his new friend stopping a shade too close to him.

“No door,” Owen murmured.

The man’s smile lit a fire deep in his belly. “My room’s not far.”

A room? Owen was bunking with three other men. “No one else will be there?”

“Come on.” The man shook his head, and for the first time, Owen noticed his officer’s bar.

He let the man go first, following at a reasonable distance. Up close, he’d noted creases at the corner of the man’s eyes and framing his lips, either from age or sun or both. Being caught in a compromising position with any man was dangerous. For an officer to take that risk made the fire in Owen’s belly burn hotter.

The odds were in their favor. Several companies had been given leave at once, and Paris was crawling with men in US Army uniforms. Any MPs were too busy busting drunks and keeping the local women safe to bother with a pair of men bent on a little privacy.

Owen knew his desires were wrong, had known almost as soon as he realized what it meant when his prick got hard. As a younger man, he’d vacillated between worry and fear and spent hours in the confessional, searching for ways to ask for forgiveness without admitting his sin.

Those months spent in the trenches, however, had hardened more than his muscles. Now he took what was offered and damn the consequences. After all, would court-martial be all that much worse than hours spent knee-deep in water too cold and foul for rats while hellfire rained down from the sky?

Wrenching his mind away from that awful memory, he followed his acquaintance. The man was shorter than Owen by a few inches, his shoulders broad and his waist trim. He moved quickly, with an eagerness to his step that sent heat to Owen’s belly. They reached the street, and since the man didn’t stop, neither did Owen. They left the crowded streets around the base of Montmartre and began climbing at a pace that left Owen breathless.

The chase truly began when they came to a set of steep stairs running straight up the side of the hill. Landings had been constructed every twenty steps or so, with paths that led into the surrounding neighborhood. Any relaxation from the whisky was lost in the exertion, and Owen was close to giving up when his quarry shot a glance over his shoulder. “Just up here,” he said, still on the move.

Owen paused for a moment, breathing hard, hands on hips. “If this is some kind of trap…”

Because it could be.

The man paused on a step, turning to face Owen. “My mother has family here, and they’ve lent me a flat. I swear there’s not a firing squad in your future.”

His smile restored his youthful glamour and relit Owen’s fire. Owen nodded once, and with a laugh, the young man galloped up the stairs.

Owen followed more slowly, making note when the man turned right at the next landing.

He might have been chasing a will-o’-the-wisp. They left the stairs and moved through winding streets. Owen kept his quarry in sight, but it was a near thing until the man came to a stop at the door to an old brick building. He went in, leaving the door ajar, and Owen followed.

They climbed to the third floor accompanied by the creak and squeak of old wood. Owen caught up to his quarry when the man finally paused. The hallway was otherwise empty, the electric fixtures overhead cast a warm light, and Owen gave in to his need for closeness, pinning the man against the door.

He smelled like castile soap and sweat in equal measure. Owen nuzzled his ear and the man fumbled his keys. Chuckling, Owen eased back half a step. The man wrestled the door open, and they went in.

They didn’t speak. There was no need. The man tugged the lamp’s chain and revealed a small room crowded with furniture. A pair of windows overlooked the street, and a set of glass doors closed off what was likely the kitchen.

By the time he turned toward Owen, the man had his shirt unbuttoned. Owen followed suit, slowly removing his shirt and then his undershirt, tossing them over an upholstered loveseat. He was hungry for the burn of that broad chest, thickly covered with hair, against his own smooth skin.

He toed off his shoes, and so did his new friend. In tandem, they loosened their belts. Only when he was down to his drawers did Owen make a move. He closed in on the man, helping him shove his trousers over his hips. Rather than kiss him on the mouth, Owen went for the man’s chin, licking his roughly stubbled jaw.

He didn’t kiss men unless he knew them well, and they hadn’t even shared their names. Owen kissed his way down the man’s jaw to the softer skin of his throat, going lower still before sucking hard enough to leave a mark.

The man slid his hands beneath Owen’s drawers, grabbing and kneading his ass. Owen ran his fingers through the man’s chest hair, found a nipple, and twisted.

“Ahh.” The man’s groan ended in a warm chuckle. He slipped away, sinking to his knees. In a breath, he had Owen’s drawers down around his thighs and, with little warning, sucked Owen down.

“Jesus,” Owen groaned. He liked a man’s man, one with strength, who took what he wanted.

Like this man.

There was something special between them, something more than time and place should have allowed. He clearly knew his way around a prick, and with embarrassing speed, Owen was ready to shoot his load. “Wait,” he managed to gasp.

The man grinned around his prick, then let it slide slowly from between his lips. “We’ve got all night, handsome. Surely you’re good for more than one go.”

Owen answered with a smile of his own, his cock standing straight before him. “I guess I’ll manage.” He guided his cock back to the man’s lips and hummed at the warm, wet sensation engulfing him.

This time, he didn’t restrain himself.

He was dimly aware that his lover worked his own prick, though Owen fully intended to return the favor. That was his last conscious thought before pleasure pulled him under. He spent hard, releasing weeks of tension in one deep thrust.

When he would have collapsed on the loveseat, the man tugged him into the bedroom. There, Owen made sure to give as good as he got, roughness and urgency finally giving way to satiation.

Through it all, his lover’s sweet smile and his laughter reminded Owen what it meant to be human.

Owen woke when dawn’s grey lifted the curtain of darkness surrounding them. The man slept beside him, curled on his side. His mussed hair and dark lashes made him look too young for a soldier’s life, yet Owen’s tender ass proved he’d been all man. They’d taken turns, both giving and receiving, and honestly, it had been the best night of Owen’s life.

He needed to make his escape before the light of day ruined everything.

Moving with great care, he slid out of bed. His clothes were in the front room, and he dressed quickly. Before he left, however, he took a look around, locking in the memory of this place. He noticed a stack of envelopes on a small side table, and unable to resist, he picked up the one on top.

It was addressed to Captain Jeremy Abbot, and the return address included the crossed sword and pen of the Judge Advocate’s Office.

Huh. His new friend was better educated in addition to his higher rank. Time to leave while the memory was untainted by awkwardness.

“Thank you, sir,” Owen whispered, and then he snuck out the door.