True Colors

by Clare London

  “Was that man your lover?” blurted Miles.

  Zeke pursed his lips. His eyes searched Miles’, but somehow his expression remained dissatisfied. “Kind of blunt, Miles, don’t you think? I know I asked you about Red that time… but anyway, Marco, no. He’s not my lover. Well, he has been a couple of times. I don’t know. What do you want me to say? Is it any of your damned business anyway?” Miles heard the angry tone flaring up, as it often did. Zeke had a sharp, fast-flowing temper. “You my mother or something?”

  Miles felt the hot misery of humiliation. “I… no, of course not. You’re right. I’ve no right to interrogate you about your sex life.”

  Zeke still stared at him.

  “What now? I told you, I can only apologize….”

  “Just looking, man,” Zeke said softly. His tone was gentle, not mocking. “I’ve seen you angry and tense like this before, right? But why is it different this time?”

  “Different?” Miles’ throat felt too tight.

  “Passion,” murmured Zeke. Miles saw the flicker of Zeke’s eyes as they traveled to Miles’ mouth, then back up. “That’s what it is. Never seen much of that before, not from you. Strong stuff. Like I could touch it….”

  Miles stepped back involuntarily, though Zeke hadn’t moved.

  Zeke frowned. “You’re pissed, aren’t you? What’s your problem? Is it because it was a guy? You got a problem with guys dating, guys making out?”

  Miles grimaced. He wanted to move away, to leave at once. And yet he knew he wanted to stay, the need just as strong. He wanted to know how Zeke’s arms would feel around his waist. He wanted to touch the soft plumpness of Zeke’s lips, and make them swell some more.

  What was happening to him?

  “I never thought about it, Zeke.”

  “Liar,” said Zeke, rather too loudly considering they were only a foot apart. Then he was the one to move away, backing toward the window again, a little unsteady as if he were no longer as sure of Miles as he had been. “Guess you got your supermodel, and your celebrity magazine love life, and we bohemian artists are rather disgusting to you, eh?”

  “I don’t date to suit the press,” said Miles, tightly. “You have no idea….”

  “Ever fucked a man?” asked Zeke, aggressively.

  “I wouldn’t discuss it with you if I had,” snapped back Miles.

  “Okay.” Zeke’s face was flushed and angry. A stray strand of his hair had caught on the edge of his jaw, and he brushed it away. He put out a hand, looking for support for some reason, and trailed it along the edge of the couch. Miles stepped forward, following Zeke’s path but still keeping several feet between them.

  “Better we clear the air about this now. Agreed?” Zeke’s expression had hardened. He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes from Miles’ mouth, as if he thirsted for the very next word.

  “Sure. Whatever you want,” growled Miles. His feet were moving of their own accord, determinedly, toward Zeke who continued to retreat.

  “You want to fire me now? Because of my—let’s say—ambiguous sexuality?”

  “Of course not.”

  Zeke stopped backing up. His heels must have knocked up against the window frame. The glass would be cold against his back. “But you figure you can come up here and harass me about my bedroom habits whenever you like?”

  “No.” Miles almost shouted the word. “I apologized for that.”

  “You apologize like I fuck, man. Plenty of enthusiasm but no fucking commitment. Do you think I can’t see in your face what you really think?”

  “So what do you think you see?” Miles despised himself for asking, but the temptation was just too much. He came to an abrupt halt. He was inches away from Zeke now. They were of a similar height, and their angry gazes a similar match.

  Miles could hear a harsh panting breath that he thought was his own, but it may have been Zeke’s as well. He couldn’t believe this man had gotten him so angry, so quickly.

  “Ever wanted to fuck a man?” Zeke spoke softly, through gritted teeth. His throat trembled a little, and Miles watched it, fascinated despite himself.

  “That’s none of your damned business.” Miles meant it too. He discussed little of his private life or his preferences, not even with Red.

  “But that’s what I see in your face, Miles Winter,” whispered Zeke. His eyes sparkled with the reflection of an emotion that Miles couldn’t read.

  Miles shivered. His anger leeched away from him like liquid through a sieve. He felt as if he were in one of those dreams where you discover yourself in the middle of the supermarket, stark naked, and your feet are somehow stuck to the floor. He didn’t often feel fear, though he wondered if that were a deficiency within himself, rather than something to be proud of.

  He felt it now.

  And then Zeke smiled.

  ZEKE saw the shiver all through Miles’ body. He knew he should have felt pleasure—that he could affect the cool, controlled Miles Winter; that he could unnerve him. But it didn’t feel quite like that. There was something about Miles that was calling to a painful place inside him. A harsh place; an uncontrollable place. He suddenly realized that if he kept this up, he might lose his way back from there.

  Zeke Roswell was scared too.

  He realized honestly—perhaps for the first time—just how hot Miles Winter actually was. He realized how he’d been watching the man, whenever he came around. Dammit, he’d probably been watching him from the first day they met in that dismal lawyer’s office. He knew the smell of Miles’ light, expensive cologne; he knew the tone of his voice within a crowd of people. He knew his modest hand gestures; the way he held his pen. He knew why he hadn’t told the businessman to stick his job offer where the sun don’t shine—and why tonight he’d told Marco to leave, rather than Miles himself.

  Zeke didn’t care about convention; he didn’t care about sucking up to the boss. What Zeke cared about was that Miles would want him. Because he wanted him in return.

  And badly.

  Fuck it, fuck it. He couldn’t be wrong, could he? Hadn’t he slept around enough to recognize the signs? He reckoned that Miles liked guys. He might not have fucked many—if any?—but he liked them that way. So… Miles might like him.

  Right.

  Why was Zeke so bothered if he did or not? Why had he held back this long, unless he was afraid of rejection? Zeke Roswell wasn’t used to sexual rejection; sex was one of the few areas of his life where he habitually had more success than failure.

  Miles’ breath was hot and furious in the still air, and Zeke imagined he could feel the trail of it on his cheek. “Kiss me,” he said. His voice sounded very hoarse. Miles’ eyes widened; Zeke watched his reflection in the dark pupils. He felt like his soul had been captured there, a tiny glimmer of life inside a sealed jar; a moth struggling against a sharp, seductive light. “Kiss me. You want to. And I want you to.”

  He didn’t wait for the look of shock on Miles’ face to pass. He took one step away from the wall and slipped his hand around the back of the other man’s head, tugging the angry mouth toward him. His lips rested against the firm, moist warmth of another guy’s mouth; his tongue probed at the tight lips, begging for more; his hand tightened on the smooth, slim neck, as if to stop Miles from pulling back.

  But Miles didn’t.

  Zeke felt as if he would devour Miles. He sucked and nipped at the firm flesh as if he’d never taste anything so good again. His heart was hammering so loudly the vibration hurt his eardrums, and his chest ached from the tension of trying to hold Miles’ body close to his, when at any moment it might be wrenched away. His other hand slid around the man’s broad shoulders and down his back, caressing the muscles firmly—touching the shape of him, tracing out his warmth and following the flow of his pulse, firm fingers tugging at the silken fabric of his shirt.

  He was almost enjoying the taste too much to register the sudden relaxation in Miles’ body; the way that his head started to move toward Zeke, rather than
away; the way that his hand lifted from his side and grasped at Zeke’s waist.

  God dammit.

  Miles’ fingers tightened on the narrow strip of Zeke’s naked skin, and his hips pressed against his legs. Zeke heard a strangled groan, and knew it was his own. He was vividly aware of his cock, hot and heavy, swelling greedily and pressing against the thin fabric of his shorts. He wanted to slip his hands up under Miles’ shirt and feel the tight skin; he wanted to put a hand to the dark-haired man’s crotch and caress his cock through his pants. He wanted so much, it shocked him. He’d never been aroused so violently, so quickly, in his life.

  But at the same time he fought a strange, alien nervousness, holding him back. He didn’t know this man well enough. Or was it that he didn’t know him little enough? He ached to go further—to touch Miles, to try to tease him to intimacy. And yet he was terribly afraid he might find the other man wasn’t as aroused as he was….

  Why do you care? His inner voice wailed, but silently. Why?

  MILES wondered when the hell he’d become so passive; it wasn’t something he’d ever seen in himself before. When Zeke had kissed him, admittedly he’d been shocked, and for that moment he couldn’t move—either away, or closer.

  Which is it to be? Do you want this or not?

  He tasted the amazing moistness of Zeke’s mouth on his, and felt the hot tip of his tongue demanding entrance. He could smell the man’s light sweat, the shampoo from his hair. The pressure of Zeke’s chest seemed to burn against his skin, even though they were both clothed. The hard nub of Zeke’s nipple pushed out through the thin cotton of the T-shirt, and brushed against him, pressing at his breast, then flicking back and away as Zeke’s head tilted slightly to get a deeper angle to his kiss.

  Miles let his reactions take over, letting the gorgeous warmth of desire slip through his veins and relax his astonished muscles. He put a hand to Zeke’s waist and was elated to feel the bare living muscle under his palm. The man felt the same as he talked: loud, lively, and brash. The touch was as good as he’d imagined. As he’d dreamed. He barely registered how very different this was from his caressing of Remy, of her careless feminine touches in return. The difference was like warm day against cool night—and Remy was the loser.

  Zeke tasted of coffee and butter and warm saliva. Miles licked the creases of his lips and the soft corners of his mouth; their noses brushed and Zeke’s evening stubble scraped across Miles’ jaw, the slight abrasiveness both startling and stimulating.

  Just a kiss. Miles had never felt so disorientated. It’s just a kiss, and yet everything is going to be different after it.

  He opened his mouth and let Zeke’s desperate tongue enter him.

  Everything.

  Some time passed before they parted again, gasping for breath. Miles’ limbs were aching with need and a fearful hunger. He had no concept of how long they’d been in each other’s arms, pressed against each other’s body, tasting each other’s mouth. He stumbled back as if pushed, slipping out of Zeke’s grasp. The other man leaned back, body limp, against the wall. His eyes were fevered, his hands trailed in the air, as if he still held Miles to him.

  “Shit….” Zeke gave a low, shocked gasp. “That was a fucking kiss, right?”

  For once, Miles envied him his emotive vocabulary. He couldn’t find a single word to describe how he felt. He wasn’t sure he even knew how he felt. He watched the shallow rise and fall of Zeke’s scantily covered chest; he saw the high color of Zeke’s cheeks, and the wisps of hair on his neck that were stuck with sweat to his skin.

  “You’re some guy, Miles Winter. You know that?” Zeke’s eyes seemed unusually wide, and they looked glazed. Miles wondered—to his shame—whether he’d looked like that when he was kissing the boy Marco. Perhaps he always looked like that with his lovers.

  “I….” Miles struggled with an overwhelming desire to apologize for something, but of course he’d not initiated anything. He had no idea what to say, what to do. He knew what he wanted to do, but that would have proved Zeke’s goading so right.

  It’s a really bad idea to mix business with pleasure, warned his common sense.

  I’m already dating; dating a girl, reminded his conscience.

  Zeke Roswell has plenty of lovers, growled his self-esteem. This means nothing more than an entertainment.

  Yet Miles knew most of his own relationships had only been that.

  “I should go now, I think,” he ground out. His mouth felt swollen from none-too-gentle use. He reached up to touch at his lips, to feel them—and then thought how inexperienced he’d look. He let his hand fall back to his side. “That’s… best.”

  Zeke’s tongue slipped out and wet his lips, as if they were suddenly very dry. His eyebrows rose slightly. Maybe he was preparing to deny that, but then he nodded agreement. They stared at each other one more time, but there were no more words.

  Then Miles left the apartment.

  MADNESS!

  Miles Winter wondered what the hell he was doing.

  He’d now been back to the gallery four nights out of seven. When he was at work during the day he thought about being there, and he left earlier than usual each evening to travel there. He ate fitfully; he canceled date after date with both Remy and Red. He attended to business, but that was all he concentrated on.

  He didn’t want to admit that the only place he wanted to be was there.

  It was irregular, of course, even for a man like Miles Winter, whose work and leisure time often overlapped. He wouldn’t normally expect an employee to work late into every evening, except in times of crisis. He didn’t often ask Malia to stay on. He didn’t go around to Tony’s apartment to discuss the upcoming exhibition.

  But he went to Zeke Roswell’s. He might have argued that it was because the man lived in the gallery itself. He might have pointed out that Zeke’s working habits were irregular in themselves, in that he worked from his own timetable and he wasn’t always available to talk to Miles during the day. However, few people questioned Miles Winter’s actions, and he had no need to justify them to anyone except himself. So he sought out Zeke at the gallery, and Zeke gave him the time.

  He would always knock now, on the door at the back of the gallery, and wait for Zeke to come down and let him in. Was he afraid to find Zeke with another lover? Each time he visited, he still carried the papers, the plans for the second exhibition. Because that was why he came around, wasn’t it?

  They’d sit around Zeke’s small kitchen table, talking about work, arguing about ideas, and mentally circling around each other like predatory beasts before an attack. They were still searching for a definitive theme for the show, a new approach that would both startle and affirm. Miles would pay earnest attention to their discussion. He took many notes; he gave instruction on whom Zeke was to meet, and whom he was to cultivate over the next week or so. He drew up letters to sponsors and contributors, and roughed out budgets and income statements.

  Eventually, Zeke would groan that he’d had enough of fucking work during the day—that he’d had to listen to whining suppliers, and manufacturers begging for advertising franchises, and artists trying to wheedle inclusion of their work, when they shouldn’t be allowed to illustrate anything more than a fucking milk carton.

  Then there’d be a moment of silence, of some awkwardness.

  Miles knew they were both thinking of the kiss. Or rather, he knew he was, and he hoped that the bright light in Zeke’s eyes at these times meant that he was too. The memory both warmed and tormented him, like the fire that had been lit inside him, so very, very recently.

  Usually, Zeke would offer Miles a drink and then lope into the studio room. He’d fold his legs up underneath him on the couch and reach for his sketch pad. His concentration would pass entirely to the paper, it seemed, and the initially tentative strokes of soft pencil.

  Miles would wander in after him, pull up the solitary chair, and sit and watch. He clutched documents and notes in his hands, but they ra
rely held any interest for him. He had reserves of patience that stood him in good stead, because it might be a while before Zeke would speak; before he’d acknowledge that Miles was still there. Then Miles would ask to see the work, and maybe dare to make a comment as to how it appeared to him.

  The sketches were bare, but extremely emotive. Miles didn’t profess to be an expert, but he knew style and talent when he saw it. Zeke never told him what they were of, or gave them titles. Miles never saw if Zeke worked further on them after the initial composition, nor if he even finished them. He rarely saw any specific figures or objects, though he often glimpsed the shape of a hand or the twist of fingers as a recurring theme. But he felt most vividly the raw passion behind the contrasting strokes. There were thick, bold movements, then the slight, subtle shadings around and within, that led the eye a dance, or shocked and tricked the perspective of the viewer. Miles was amazed at what Zeke could create and evoke in such a way with a mere pencil. He looked on such a mundane thing with a new respect.

  Miles didn’t know why he was so fascinated by watching Zeke draw. He liked the sketches—that was genuine—but he liked even more to see the artist at work. The small furrow of concentration on Zeke’s brow; the flicker of conflicting emotions in his eyes as he worried through what he was trying to communicate. The flexing of his shoulders as he hunched over the pad, and the quick, sure movements of his wrist as he shaded and stroked with his pencil.

  Zeke seemed to tolerate Miles’s presence. Sometimes he left enough space on the couch for Miles to join him, but Miles never dared. So Zeke would stretch out, and grunt occasionally, and barely notice Miles’ company. Or so Miles thought, until the times that Zeke suddenly became dissatisfied or angry. He’d curse uninhibitedly, and the offending page would be ripped out and crumpled mercilessly to the floor. Then Zeke would notice Miles again. Irrationally, he’d be angry at the intrusion, there’d be harsh words spoken, and Miles would leave.