by Clare London
And so—surrendering to it with relief and ecstasy—Miles did.
MILES knew for certain now that he was mad—mad for Zeke Roswell. He lay on his back on Zeke’s narrow bed, naked, his limbs draped around the other man’s and his body still shaking from climax and overall sensory overload.
It was a feeling that was both shocking and very, very satisfying.
Pervading the room was the faint aroma of paint. Miles realized he’d always smelled it but never acknowledged it. It wasn’t unpleasant; it was just there in the air, mixed with the occasional cooking smell and the citrus-based products that Zeke used in the shower. It wasn’t only from the gallery below, but was stronger and more specific up in the apartment. Zeke hadn’t painted for months, and yet the tracks were still with him. Aimlessly, Miles shifted the crumpled sheet under his legs. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a smudge of paint on the mattress cover.
“Sorry I hit you, man,” came Zeke’s smothered voice. He was pressed in close to Miles, his face against his chest, his hands stroking lightly at Miles’ hips and thighs. Miles smiled happily. Zeke was teasing a body that was already deliciously exhausted, but still vibrated with the memories of astonishing excitement.
Hit you? Miles could barely remember his own name, let alone what had happened an hour ago. “It’s okay. It was a pathetic attempt, eh? I’ve had better.”
He felt Zeke’s face twisting with a smile of his own. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” he gently mocked. “The business world has its own share of fear and frustration, you know.”
“And clumsy boxers,” muttered Zeke. “Never punched a guy before like I meant it.”
“Me neither,” admitted Miles. He’d been threatened, that was true, but he’d never had to strike back. There’d always been someone there to call a halt.
There was a moment of wriggling while Zeke got more comfortable, and Miles arched gently against his lover’s naked, sweat-streaked chest.
“You fooled around with many guys before me, Miles?” Zeke’s voice was a little softer. It sounded younger.
Miles took an extra breath before replying, which wasn’t just to help him get more comfortable himself. “Maybe. Some. I never wanted to go this far before. That’s what matters, surely?”
“Sure, that’s cool. You think you’re bisexual, then?” Zeke’s body shifted farther down in the bed; Miles could feel his lips move against Miles’ belly, damp with a smile—the wide, lazy smile that Zeke so often wore.
“Maybe. Probably,” Miles sighed. “I haven’t ever thought of it like that. I haven’t given it a name.”
Zeke was making a soft, humming sound; a sound of pleasure and mischief. “Whichever way you choose, Miles Winter, you’re a loss to the other, you know? This body is magnificent….” His mouth nibbled at Miles’ groin, his tongue lapped gently at the thin flesh. Miles shivered. He didn’t see how he could be aroused again. His mind protested, but his body gleefully responded.
“You like both, don’t you, Zeke? Men and women?”
Zeke snorted quietly, and the breath tickled up against Miles’ stomach. “You jealous, Miles? Can’t deny it, though. I do. I like it all. So we’re much the same, aren’t we?”
All Miles could see now was the top of Zeke’s head, the hair mussed, the haphazard part bobbing under his hands as he guided him down over his aching groin. He laughed softly at Zeke’s words. “I can’t think of two people less alike than us. Yet you were the one who said there was something that worked between us.”
“Uh-huh,” mumbled Zeke. “Got no complaints in the mechanics department….” He nudged Miles’ legs apart, wriggling his body between them, the skin smooth and soft with sleepiness and satiation. Almost.
“But our desires aren’t the same, are they?” asked Miles, piqued despite his growing arousal. “I’d like to think I’d sleep with either gender because it’s the person that matters to me….”
“And I’d sleep with either gender because there’s no person that matters to me?” A bitter tone was back in Zeke’s voice. “Let’s leave it, Miles, okay? It’s enough that we’re here, and that this is damned good.”
“Damned good,” echoed Miles. He gasped as Zeke’s head slipped under the only corner of the sheet still draped over them. It rippled up and down as Zeke moved, licking at him—as he laughed softly, and nipped and sucked his mark onto the inside of Miles’ lean thigh. Miles winced. An erotic shiver ran all the way through to the back of his neck, and beyond. He’d never experienced such an aggressive, passionate time. Zeke’s body didn’t seem to calm, even as they relaxed after climax. He still seemed to be restless, to be seeking. Now there was a kiss, and then a touch, and a bite, and a moan…. Miles had never known sex could be anything more than a careful, mutual stimulation, to produce satisfaction and relief. Exciting—but in a controllable way.
Zeke Roswell wasn’t controllable in any way at all. Miles was shocked at how much this pleased and excited him, how much he welcomed it.
What the hell was happening to him?
“What about your girl?” mumbled Zeke, suddenly. “Don’t want to upset y’all….”
Miles dragged his attention back. He’d never known anyone to talk like this—before, during, and after sex—the way that Zeke was doing. His voice was an accompaniment; it was obviously part of the package. It teased at Miles, demanding things of him, even before he could decide what he was prepared to give voluntarily.
Should he accuse Zeke of jealousy too? Miles wasn’t sure he knew Zeke well enough to know how far he could tease; not in this situation, anyway. “I haven’t seen her for weeks. Well, not like that, anyway.” Neither he nor Remy had called each other for a while. It hadn’t bothered him, he realized. “I’ve seen her at social events, of course. At exhibitions; at a couple of product launches. But that’s all. And to be honest, I don’t think either of us would ever have called her my girl. Remy is her own mistress.”
“It’s over then, you mean?”
“Maybe,” said Miles, slowly. “And if not then, it is now.”
“Huh?”
“I wouldn’t sleep with anyone else at the same time as you,” blurted Miles, frankly. He was pretty sure he was blushing. Would Zeke think him foolish?
But Zeke was suddenly and momentarily calm, his lips just a breath against Miles’ skin. His words were just as slowly delivered. “You’re an honest guy, Miles Winter. Guess I feel the same, though no one believes it of me. Zeke Roswell doesn’t equate to faithful; to the finer emotions.”
His head suddenly appeared above the sheets, his face flushed and his eyes stripped of his cynicism and aggression. He looked very young and very wanton, with hair astray all over his neck and lips still swollen red with their previous kissing. Miles felt a sharp ache for him that he found a little frightening.
Zeke’s voice broke harshly through Miles’ thoughts. “I don’t want this to be good for the wrong reasons, Miles, you know? I don’t want it to be good because we fight—because we’re always in conflict—and only because of that. That we use that aggression to get off, and then we fuck and make up.”
Miles felt a need to be honest about everything; to make some sense of all this. He couldn’t tell Zeke how they would be tomorrow, because he didn’t know that answer yesterday, did he? He felt in a kind of limbo, and he didn’t know what it was that Zeke wanted him to say. In the same breath, he was afraid to say what he wanted, in case it broke the spell.
God. He felt a mess, physically and emotionally. This uncertainty was alien to him, and he fought against it. It hurt, in some way that he couldn’t describe clearly. This wasn’t his world; this wasn’t his domain. He suspected that if he’d died and gone to heaven, this would be what he’d hope to find. But then, what would be the chances of that?
He replied as carefully as he could. “I don’t believe it’s like that. I don’t think it has to be. You’re too harsh on yourself, Zeke. We’re adult, intelligent people, aren’t we? We’re not e
nemies, for God’s sake.”
Zeke didn’t seem to acknowledge the conversation anymore. Instead, he sighed and rolled sleepily back under the covers. Perhaps he was embarrassed; perhaps he was scared of any more talk. Miles struggled with a spurt of anger, his need to clarify things. Damned man was too frustrating!
Then Zeke spoke, his voice muffled against the pillow. All Miles heard was the thick richness of its desire and it overwhelmed any other feelings in him. “Forget it, Miles, okay? Forget the crap I talk. Just come here and fuck me again.”
Miles’ breath halted with delighted shock. Quickly, he wriggled up to his knees and reached for the slim, lithe body beside him. He rolled Zeke onto his back to gaze down on his face again. He clutched Zeke’s knees and spread his legs wide open, pressing the thighs gently back toward Zeke’s hips. His eyes flickered down to Zeke’s groin, and his heart froze with eager excitement. “You’re gorgeous.”
“Just looking?” Zeke grinned, wriggling his hips in gentle encouragement, his face flushed with pleasure. His cock was swelling again, rubbing a thin trail of pre-come against his thigh. “Get between my legs, man. Slide that deliciously thick and shiny cock so deep inside me I can feel it throbbing at the back of my throat.”
Miles laughed with shock.
“Miles….” Zeke sounded plaintive. “Mattress… me… you… fucking. Any combination is good. Supplies in the drawer….”
Miles smiled slowly. “Too much talking, man,” he murmured, mockingly.
He leaned down toward Zeke so that the combined heat from their bodies started to saturate the close air of the small room again. He moistened his lips, and Zeke’s mouth ghosted toward him, begging for the kiss. His cock thrust up, rubbing insistently on Miles’ belly.
“Dammit, man, do it already.”
And Miles, yet again, did what he was told.
“YOU’RE sleepin’ with him, aren’t you, hon? Your artist boy?” Red’s drawl was vibrant with inquisitiveness and maybe other, more mixed emotions.
Sleeping with him? Miles wondered just how many of the intimate hours spent with Zeke Roswell had actually been spent sleeping. His skin felt warmer at the mere thought.
He and Red sat at the bar inside Miles’ apartment building, awaiting dinner as they so often had before. Red toyed with a tall, tempestuous-looking cocktail that scorned plastic umbrellas and promised nothing but the kick of pure alcohol. Just as he told people he liked it. He sat on a high stool, nudging his boot between the stool and the counter and aimlessly admiring his own outfit. His legs were encased in tight coffee-colored leather, and his sheer, white, silk shirt was open at the neck, showing a hint of his expensively won tan. It was all deceptively simple; totally seductive.
But from the sharp look in his eyes, he knew that the current focus was not on him.
Miles didn’t think his expression gave anything away, but Red smiled very broadly. “Sweetheart, you’ve got it bad. That good, is he? Guess I thought he might be. He’s a wild child, but a very bright one. Damned fine legs too….”
Miles glared back at him, ready to protest that his love life was—as always—a private matter. But then, this was Red, wasn’t it?
Red gave a low whistle. “Don’t get me wrong; I’m glad for you.” He touched Miles’ arm lightly, and his tone was unusually serious. “You know I tease, hon, but I don’t mean the half of it. This is important to you, eh?”
Miles saw no reason to deny that honesty to his closest friend. “Yes, it is.”
Red’s eyes sparkled still with rampant curiosity and a million questions that were inevitably going to remain unanswered. “Seems like I’ve waited years to hear Miles Winter admit that someone was important to him.” His expression said more, and wickedly: And it’s a guy. “So what about you and the supermodel, boy? Can we safely assume she’s history?”
“Remy?” Miles ignored Red’s habitual contempt of the model. “I’ve seen so little of her, I assumed she’d found other diversions. That was cowardly of me, I suppose.”
Red snorted, and waved at the barman for a refill for Miles’ more modest drink. “That girl lives for diversion. She ain’t going to be short of a few. You owe nothin’ to her, Miles. She’s been chasin’ you for months, and I for one am glad to see the back of her.”
“Come on, Red, not that old debate again. I must admit, I don’t know why she took up with me in the first place. We hardly move in the same social circles.”
Red was looking at him a little oddly. “One of my guys at the track said she was lookin’ for you, a week or so ago. Askin’ after you. She obviously knows the pair of you ain’t an item anymore. But she was askin’ when you’ll be around.”
“You can tell her—”
Red laughed out loud, and a couple of people in the bar area turned to stare at him, startled yet attracted by the sound. “She’ll be damned before she asks me anythin’, hon. I’m just warnin’ you, that’s all. Does she know you’re seeing Zeke Roswell?”
Miles was bemused. “I don’t know. We haven’t actually advertised it to anyone, Red. Does it matter? What is this problem you have with Remy?”
Red shrugged, but his eyes were unusually evasive. “She’s a leech. A serial one. She’s selfish, obsessive, greedy—”
Miles broke in, surprised at his friend’s vehemence. “She’s had little enough off me. I’d say she’s harmless.”
“She’s a viper, Miles.” Red’s voice was sharp. “Sometime I’ll tell you some home truths about that madam. I knew a couple of guys at the track that she got her claws into, and seems they’re the worse for it. They’re humiliated, and tryin’ to make up with wives and lovers—while Ms. Dion has a few new pieces to add to her collections of diamonds and gold and pretty pictures, and nary a wrinkle of inconvenience on her silk frock. I’ve been lookin’ into that girl, and what she’s about—”
“What the hell are you talking about, Red?”
Red saw Miles staring, and his expression became more cautious. He took a deep mouthful of his drink, and his tone settled back to its usual equilibrium. “Guess that was rude of me, since you dated her. Ignore me, hon. I know what I’m doin’.”
“Which is more than I do,” mused Miles. “Nowadays I can’t decide whether I’m doing the right thing or not.”
“In what way? Working with Zeke Roswell? Sleepin’ with him? I can see it may be a brave new world for a sheltered child like y’self.” He laughed, softly. “You need some technical advice from the master here?”
“Red,” sighed Miles, eyebrows raised warningly. He’d barely touched his drink, and the restaurant manager was on his way over with the menus for the evening. “You’re on the borders of offensive, friend.”
Red grinned back, unabashed. “It’d take more than that to offend you, Miles.” But his voice grew calmer. “So why did you choose him for the job in the first place? Answer me that. Truthfully.”
Miles thought for a moment, but knew he didn’t really need to. His answer was instinctive. “I knew he could do a great job. I knew he would inspire the gallery. He would bring out the best in it. He would demonstrate a flair and skill that it needed.”
“He failed before.”
“Yes, but he was younger then, and he really just wanted to paint, not to be a businessman.”
“He didn’t have your corporate support and experience behind him,” murmured Red, a little dryly.
“Yes, I suppose that’s what I mean,” said Miles. “I offered him the job, because this time he could make it work.”
“To make the gallery successful commercially.”
“Well, yes, of course, but also….”
“But also?” Red prompted.
“I think that I admired so many things about him, Red. I still do. His talent; his creativity. His ability to bring art and color and vision into everything he does. His disregard for convention, for a sensible, measured view of life. Even his flagrant provocation….” Miles laughed. He sounded much too self-conscious. “He’s so
much the opposite of me.”
Red was shaking his head. “No, hon. He’s the complement to you. That’s how you’ve got to view it. You have your own considerable talents, and a creativity of your own—it’s just not the same as Zeke Roswell’s. I suspect that’s why you were drawn to him in the first place.”
Red took Miles’ arm and squeezed it affectionately. Miles looked up at him in surprise. His mind was occupied with other thoughts. “He’s had a bad time of it, Red. Losing his brother; losing his popularity in the art world. His work is still as good, you know. Just… different. That business of the fire, and Jacky’s death—it really was horrifically shocking. God knows how things like that can happen. And then the sketches… they should have stayed here, they should have been his.”
“The sketches? You mean Jacky Roswell’s work?”
“Yes. They should have been Zeke’s, I understand. He was grief-stricken. He wasn’t thinking straight after the fire. Someone took advantage of that, and his inheritance was sold out from under his feet.”
“That’s business,” said Red, softly. His eyes looked a little unfocused, as if his mind were also occupied elsewhere.
“Sure, in principle,” agreed Miles. But this was different. “Do you know the guy who bought them, Red?”
“You think I know the world and his damned dog,” grumbled Red, though obviously flattered at Miles’ nod to his friend’s networking. “Let me get back to you on that one, Miles, okay? I’m still tryin’ to pump you for salacious details on your wrinklin’ of the sheets with the young Master Picasso.”
Miles continued to toy with his drink, smiling his opinion of the likelihood of that. But his thoughts still plagued him. He felt the strangest desire to talk. “I don’t know what he wants, Red. I… it’s an unusual feeling. I thought I knew the motivation of everyone who came to me for something.” Red was silent beside him now, allowing him to talk it through. “But he’s different. I don’t feel that he came to me for anything at all. Rather, I went to him with an offer. Did it make any difference to him, whether I entered into his life or not? Would our paths ever have crossed otherwise?” Miles grimaced. He felt the familiar shortening of breath that assailed him when he thought of Zeke; when he tried to make sense of him. “It’s… not just the sex, you know? That’s good. That’s very good. I just don’t know him well enough. Sometimes I feel as if I don’t know him at all.”
