True Colors

by Clare London

  Red took Miles’ glass gently from his hands, and pushed the stale drink away. “And that bothers you, sweetheart?”

  Miles focused on Red again. What nonsense his friend spoke, sometimes. “Of course it does.”

  Red’s blue eyes were bright, but a little grave. “First time I’ve ever known you to be concerned for that, Miles. You date people, and smile, and maybe you bed them for a while—but I can’t remember you ever botherin’ to understand what’s really going on inside their heads. Not that you don’t treat ’em well. Just… you don’t let them into your life that much.”

  Miles stared at him. He wanted to deny it, to say that his behavior with Zeke Roswell was no different from his behavior with past lovers. His honesty prevented him.

  The manager cleared his throat behind them but Red waved him away for the moment. “You ready to eat soon, Miles? It’s time to see to the appetites of the belly instead of the balls.” He smiled, though his eyes were wary. “Look, hon. This thing with Roswell—I won’t harass you, okay? Rely on me. You always can. And I want it to work for you.”

  “I don’t know if it will,” said Miles. Even as he spoke, he was shocked at the stark tone of his voice; the pain inside his chest. “It’s hard, Red. To know what to say, what to do. How to avoid ruining things….”

  “I know, hon,” came the low drawl in sympathetic reply. “Why do you think I live on the fringes, why I avoid the connections? But if you want him....”

  “Yes, I do. God, yes.” What did that sharp, fierce edge in his voice mean?

  “You’re as determined as they say, Miles Winter,” announced Red, swinging his leather-clad legs over the side of the stool and standing up. “If you want him, you’ll have him. I just hope he’ll be good for you, boy.” He scrawled a flamboyant signature on the bar bill, and stretched the long limbs that had been cramped for too long. “So after dinner, you comin’ out with me to relieve that tension you’re always complainin’ about?”

  “No,” said Miles. “No thanks.”

  Red’s eyebrows rose. “Doesn’t surprise me. You’ve changed, hon, you know that? But it’s good to see.” He smiled to soften his complaint. The two of them walked toward the restaurant and a dinner that neither was particularly interested in. The manager showed them to their seats, nodding respectfully, though the staff behind the table looked a little nervous.

  Red glanced around and grimaced. “Miles Winter’s reputation as a demanding client precedes him. Maybe this new image of yours ain’t common knowledge yet.” It was obvious from his smile that he intended it as a joke.

  “That’s what they say about me, though, isn’t it?” said Miles, tight-lipped. “That I’m ruthless. That I’m unforgiving of anything less than top standard. That I’m cold. That’s not really me, Red.”

  Red frowned. “I know that, hon. You just want the best.”

  “Zeke says that I think of success all the time.”

  “You’ve had to, Miles,” said Red, sharply. “It’s what you do well; it’s what nourishes you. It’s what you’ve needed, to keep your life on track. And it provides for the guys who work for you, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes….”

  Red sighed, and looked longingly toward the wine list. “But success is a greedy mistress, Miles. Or master. You’re going to have to let other things in, eventually—share your time with other claims. I’ve always said you’ve been looking for something; for a special someone....”

  “And I’ve always told you I have no time for that,” countered Miles.

  They both stared at each other for a moment, as if startled by their own thoughts.

  “It doesn’t always work, does it?” Miles looked away, his voice very quiet. He missed the look of sympathy on Red’s face. “Being determined, that’s not always enough. It doesn’t always get me what I want.”

  “You never fail, Miles. Do you?”

  Miles shook his head, but it wasn’t as forceful as he’d have liked. “That’s with money, not people.” He sat there, unmoving, while Red nodded through the table d’hote menu for the sake of something to do.

  “Not people.”

  Chapter 8

  MILES sat on the couch in Zeke’s apartment. He wore a loose T-shirt and casual pants. He nursed a glass of some kind of juice, but he kept forgetting to drink it. His other hand clenched lightly at the cushion underneath him, his gaze concentrated totally on the man sitting beside him.

  There was only a week to go until the opening of the second exhibition. They’d spent the morning in conference with Malia and the team, and then Zeke had left them all to go and work on more of the preparation for the show. He persisted in keeping the final details secret. His team was resigned to this bizarre approach, and if they found it strange that Miles Winter also seemed tolerant of it, they didn’t like to comment.

  Miles had attended to other business for the rest of the afternoon, and then he’d also gone to the gallery. By now it was early evening, and upstairs in Zeke’s apartment the candles had been lit in the studio room.

  Zeke was sketching, but fitfully. The light was dim, and it was obvious his attention wasn’t entirely on his work. His hair was rather sloppily tied back, as if it had worked loose during some activity and never been tidied. His sheer, short-sleeved shirt had a button mismatched, and his shorts were gathered only loosely around his waist. When he shifted, so did Miles; when he coughed, Miles stirred.

  Finally, Zeke smiled slightly, and put down the pad. “You going to fidget there for much longer, Miles? Or you got something on your mind?”

  “Only you,” Miles replied. He stared at a couple of small droplets of water at Zeke’s throat, left over from an earlier shower. He wondered at his emotional confidence, at his ability to say something so personal and so honest, so very easily. He felt like an entirely different person nowadays. “You’re not drawing as much this week, Zeke. Does your inspiration come and go? Is it a problem for you?”

  Zeke didn’t meet his eyes. “I’m just busy. With the show, you know? Only a week to go.”

  “You’ve bought some paints.” Miles had seen the careless jumble of stuff in the corner of the studio when he arrived. He tried to keep the curiosity out of his voice, but even so, he saw Zeke tense up.

  “So?”

  “I… thought you might want to paint again. Will you want to leave your job here?”

  Zeke sounded irritated. “Christ, Miles, it’s just a couple of tubes of color I wanted to think about. Just an old blank canvas I found at Carter’s. I haven’t touched a brush for months. Don’t have me running out just yet.”

  “You must do what you want to, Zeke.”

  “You think I won’t?” Zeke’s tone was wry, his expression challenging.

  Miles looked back into the deep, wide, stormy eyes, and sighed to himself. “Maybe.” He thought there were too many secrets. He understood discretion better than many, but where Zeke was concerned, his understanding was too confused for there to be any kind of peace. He felt a fool, most of the time. Perhaps Zeke had tired of him; of his body. Of his company. Perhaps he felt that Miles cramped his style and his creative flow.

  He wondered what he’d do if Zeke didn’t want him around anymore. In his bed; watching him; laughing with him; arguing.

  Just… around.

  Zeke was watching him closely, his eyes troubled. When he smiled at Miles, it looked forced. “You have no idea what goes into a work, do you? The fact that it’s work. That often it’s pure torture. That it’s also often the greatest joy—but there’s no way of knowing when a day starts which one it’ll be. I felt that with every one of my paintings. It’s no way to be, Miles. It eats away at me.”

  “You want to be something else? Is that why you took the job at the gallery?”

  “To join the ranks of normality, you mean.”

  “I don’t see it.” Miles smiled. “Not you.” There was no way he could resist touching Zeke any longer. The day for him had been one of aching, awkward frustrat
ion, and he’d been more than pleased when Zeke welcomed him around.

  He didn’t know what was wrong with him nowadays. He seemed so uncertain of things, so easily disturbed. He also seemed to be constantly horny, always dreaming of Zeke’s slender, muscular body underneath him, hot and sweating with desire; his yelps of pleasure when Miles caressed him; his growls of hunger when he wanted Miles to go faster, harder….

  Miles reached forward and brushed aimlessly at a thread of hair on Zeke’s shorts. God, those shorts. They were so damned short, left so little to the imagination, and were so easily removed….

  Zeke gasped as if Miles’ touch had carried a current right through him. And then he lifted his hand, and held it up in front of him, palm facing Miles, fingers outstretched. “Touch me, Miles.”

  Miles was bemused, but pleased that Zeke had responded. He lifted his hand in return and touched his fingertips to Zeke’s. The other man’s skin was ridged from gripping his pen for a while, and Miles felt the warmth of sweat on his palm. He ran his finger gently along the small lump on the side of Zeke’s middle finger—a legacy of gripping his pencil too tightly as a child.

  They sat there for a moment, palms a fraction apart, their fingerprints pressing gently against each other’s. For a second, Zeke closed his eyes.

  Miles felt as if something were being passed between them. Something shared; something beyond the mere touch of whorls of skin. Perhaps he just wished it….

  Zeke opened his eyes abruptly and gazed into Miles’. His expression was an astonishing mixture; it was vulnerable, scared, and yet caressing too. Miles felt his heartbeat stutter.

  “Kiss me,” Zeke whispered.

  Miles leaned forward and touched his lips to Zeke’s. Kissing Zeke continued to be the most astonishingly good feeling he’d ever had—the slight hesitancy in that first second, then the glorious lips moving under him, and opening ravenously to take his tongue. The heat and the taste and the joyous promise of where it might lead…. Miles felt his cock swell in anticipation, and his knees spread open a little to accommodate it.

  “You want to go to bed again?” Zeke laughed softly, leaning eagerly into Miles’ kiss and sliding his arms around Miles’ waist. They’d been in bed for an hour before this. Zeke had greeted Miles at the door with a beer, a total lack of clothing, and the invitation to introduce him to the mattress springs again. Miles had responded as expected.

  “Greedy, greedy man you are….” Zeke’s voice was a low chuckle.

  “Who needs a bed?” whispered Miles. “I’m going to fuck you right here.” He watched, amused and excited, as Zeke’s breath caught and his pupils dilated. “Unless you need the comfort of your mattress…?”

  “Managed without it before,” gasped Zeke. Grinning, Miles pushed him down off the couch onto the bare floor, flat on his back. Zeke opened his hands in a kind of submission and his pencil fell out of his palm, rolling away toward the wall. “Too much comfort’s bad for my back, you know.”

  Miles laughed and kissed him again, a deep, passionate kiss. He wanted to possess Zeke’s mouth, suck his tongue against his own, taste that taste forever. When he finally lifted his head, Zeke was panting for breath.

  “Get these damned clothes off,” Miles growled. He knelt down beside Zeke, and tugged at the fabric of the shorts until he could see the tip of the mischievous tattoo. His impatient hands dragged Zeke several inches across the boards. “Such a stupidly inadequate shirt, flimsy fabric, some kind of sickly green….”

  “It’s canary yellow, you know,” gasped Zeke, but he laughed and lifted his arms, letting Miles peel it off him regardless. Miles sat back on his heels, savoring the clench of Zeke’s muscles across his torso and the way the tight curls of hair nestled on his belly. He leaned down and licked one of the large, erect nipples. He was rewarded with Zeke’s low groan. He reached again for Zeke’s shorts and tugged them down so swiftly that they snagged on Zeke’s aroused cock, and then tangled around his ankles. He had to wriggle his legs inelegantly to cast them off, but for Miles, the small, throaty sounds of need and frustration that he made were worth it. Satisfied with his work, Miles watched the glistening shaft spring free, straining outward from the darker curls of Zeke’s groin. The tip was weeping softly. It was impossibly tantalizing. Miles sighed, very softly, very deeply.

  “What have you been thinking about, Zeke Roswell? That’s an impressive reaction from just some harmless sketching.”

  “You think it’s from thoughts of you?” Zeke smirked. He reached up and grabbed at Miles’ neck, trying to tug him down on top of him. “Damned right it is! I’ve been hot for you since two hours before you last fucked me, Miles Winter. You think I greet just anyone with beer and bare flesh? I was aching for more all through that session in the bed—”

  “And in the shower,” murmured Miles.

  “And back in the bed.” Zeke grinned at him. Miles stroked a warm finger along the swollen shaft, and Zeke yelped. “And now I can’t even seem to keep the damned thing under control when I’m supposed to have my mind in creative mode….”

  “You need help,” murmured Miles. Instinctively, he licked his lips. “You need assistance to release your needs.”

  “Man with tongue of the devil speaks truth,” groaned Zeke. “You got a number I can call?”

  But Miles was already shifting, turning his head toward Zeke’s groin and reaching down eagerly to lick at his cock.

  Zeke moaned loudly. “Closer, Miles… want to be inside… in your mouth. Shit.”

  Miles drew his tongue gently away from Zeke’s cock, watching the thread of saliva stretch from the purple tip until it broke and dribbled down the wrinkling skin. The swollen flesh bobbed and beckoned shamelessly to him. Resisting Zeke’s haphazardly waving arms, he clambered between his outstretched legs and lifted the strong, tanned limbs to rest on his shoulders. Zeke gasped and was shifted even farther along the floor in the process, dragging his clothes underneath him as a kind of makeshift rug. Now, when Miles bent back down, he could rest his head more comfortably at the level of Zeke’s groin. His mouth could settle over the crown of Zeke’s cock, tormenting him; his tongue could reach under Zeke’s balls and suck one into his mouth. So he did that, just because he could. Of course. Then when Zeke gasped with pleasure, he ran his tongue back up to the tip of his shaft, licking up the stray droplets that oozed from the slit.

  “Miles… fuck. Do it. Please?”

  Miles smiled. He took a deep breath and dropped his head back down. He took almost three-quarters of its length into his mouth at only the first attempt.

  ZEKE yelled. Loudly. Miles had told him once that he was glad the gallery was in the middle of the business district, rather than residential. Zeke had never made any secret of the fact he was a screamer. In fact, he was a moaner, a groaner, and a curser, too. He enjoyed announcing his pleasure every step of the way. And when Miles had also confessed that he found it an almost unbearable turn-on, Zeke saw no reason to inhibit himself. He shouted now with the ecstasy of being nearly deep-throated.

  “Shit, that’s so damned fine.” He lay back, shocked, as Miles sucked and swallowed the juices, his hands clutching fiercely at Zeke’s thighs, his head in the shelter between Zeke’s legs.

  So damned enthusiastic. Zeke’s head swam, and his body screamed for more. It was a delight he couldn’t see he’d ever tire of. He was so fucking responsive, the minute Miles touched him. He’d never known anyone to have such an effect on him before. Miles’ mouth attacked him. The lips sought out every crinkle of sensitivity; the tongue slid into every crevice of his nerves. One day he wanted that tongue up his ass, and he hoped it’d be one day soon….

  Only trouble with Miles going down on him was that if he wasn’t careful, he came way too quickly.

  “Miles,” he gasped out. “Slow, slow. Get yourself naked—now. Don’t want to spill in your mouth. I want you inside me. Want your cock… making me come.”

  Miles’ mouth slid off him again, and Zeke moaned as t
he cool air of the room brushed at his oversensitive flesh. Miles sat back, struggling out of his shirt, fumbling with the zipper of his pants. Zeke thought he should help, but his fingers didn’t seem to follow orders.

  His heartbeat was too fast; his mouth was watering far too easily. It took all his willpower just to draw himself back up onto his elbows, and then to drag himself back up to a sitting position, by which time Miles had wriggled out of his pants and boxers and was as naked as Zeke. The two of them sat, panting and wild-eyed, half on the discarded clothing, half on the polished floor.

  “Okay here?” growled Zeke.

  “Okay anywhere,” Miles snapped back. He reached across, but with a grin, Zeke twisted his body, and Miles fell forward, unbalanced. Then it was Miles’ turn to be tumbled down onto his back, and Zeke pressed his mouth down on him, grasping and pressing Miles’ arms to his sides.

  “Want you…,” gasped Miles.

  Zeke marveled at how they could both still talk, through the skin, and the teeth, and the hot breath. “Going to get me,” he replied, breathlessly. “But my way, okay?”

  He moved his hands to Miles’ thighs, pressing the legs flat down on the floor. Straddling Miles’ hips, he knelt up over him, shifting his knees to find the best purchase on the floor beneath. Miles’ cock was erect, bobbing against Zeke’s groin, impatient and needy. He’d been teased back to a full, aching erection—and Zeke reckoned he could guess exactly what his lover needed right now. That would be Zeke’s hands on him; his mouth; his body, swallowing him whole….

  “Want you.” It was only a whisper from Miles this time. A pained one.