True Colors

by Clare London

  “Stay?” Zeke grasped at what little sense he had left. Miles’ lips were firm, greedy, nipping at his neck. “Was I going somewhere?”

  “I thought, what with your career success… getting back your dreams.”

  Zeke snorted gently, though the effect was a little lost because Miles’ tongue was still questing around his mouth. “You think the gallery’s the only dream I ever had, Winter? I got one that involves you too.”

  “Just one?”

  “Just one.” Zeke grinned and earned himself a nip on the shoulder blade. He wondered blearily when he’d lose his shirt this time. His nipples tightened, erect at the mere thought of Miles’ teasing tongue. “But it’s a damned busy one. And you do know what I want, don’t you? Whatever you said earlier—”

  “Yeah, I do,” interrupted Miles. “You want me, pants wide open, and spreading your butt-naked body across the dining room table.”

  Christ. Zeke’s head swam, as Miles’ lips descended onto his again. Is the man psychic or what?

  THEY were still in the main bedroom.

  Miles wasn’t complaining.

  He struggled up to a sitting position, shaking off his drowsiness. The soft pillows behind him held the shape of his head, and a crisp linen sheet was still tucked around his body. How long had they been there? In bed? He peered over the edge of the mattress. The luxurious carpet was still slightly damp with a trail of footprints, running back and forth between the bathroom and the queen-sized bed. The bathroom door was open and he could see a pile of discarded clothes draped over the side of the tub. Back in the bedroom, there was also a heap of towels on the floor at the foot of the bed. On the nightstand, there were half-empty plates of snack food and the remains of a couple of drinks.

  “What time is it, Miles?” came a sleepy voice. “How long have we slept?”

  Miles smiled to himself. “I don’t know. Afternoon, maybe? Early evening?”

  “You want to get a sandwich?” Zeke’s head appeared out from under the sheet and he yawned. “You make me damned hungry. If I’d known we were in training for fucking as an Olympic sport….” His laugh was throaty and rich.

  Miles sighed, and pulled himself further upright. The picture 4:Y was propped up on a low cupboard at the foot of the bed, resting against a mirror on the wall. It faced the bed and the two men stretched out there. Miles stared at it, enjoying the proprietary feeling inside him.

  “So.” Zeke wriggled beside him, punching the pillow into shape behind his head. He ran a hand through his hair, but it got stuck in a particularly knotty tangle at the back of his neck and he grunted with half-hearted irritation. “Where are you going to hang all this new art of yours?”

  “The sketches?” Miles turned to look down at him; at the sleep-flushed skin; the tensing muscles. “They’ll go in the gallery, I think. Your gallery. And this one? Your picture for me….”

  “Not there as well,” said Zeke, abruptly. He flushed. “Sorry. Dammit. Didn’t mean to….”

  “No,” said Miles. “I agree. It should be where we both are.”

  Zeke’s eyes sparkled with pleasure. “That’s right. That’s cool. 4:Y… for us both, really.”

  “Connection,” said Miles. “Our connection.” He stroked the warm skin on Zeke’s chest and flipped gently at one of the nipples. He recognized that sharp catch of Zeke’s breath by now; just wasn’t sure his stamina was up to the exercise it implied. He wondered if they’d ever find enough time to eat and sleep.

  Zeke laughed softly. Like he heard Miles’ thoughts aloud.

  “Your paintings, Zeke. Why do you call them numbers, or abbreviations? Not proper names?”

  Zeke huffed below him, maybe frustrated by Miles’ distraction. Miles smiled at him, perfectly content to wait. Grimacing, Zeke pulled himself upright as well. The pair of them stared at themselves, reflected in the mirror on the wall ahead. Miles couldn’t tear his eyes away. Zeke looked a delicious mixture of exhaustion and contentment. His hair fell over his forehead in a very sexy mess, and his eyelids were heavy over his usually vivid blue eyes. At the base of his throat, a few drops of water glistened, left over from his earlier shower.

  Zeke scrunched up his eyes, and sighed. “What a fucking mess, eh? I’ve got a cramp in my left foot. And look at those fingernail marks on your chest. What’s that on your belly? Looks like a trail of congealed—”

  “What?” Miles glanced down at his body, startled.

  “Gotcha.” Zeke was laughing, loudly. As Miles rolled against him, protesting and looking for revenge, Zeke’s hand slid out from where it had been nestling between Miles’ thighs. And Miles had tried so carefully not to dislodge it when he woke up.

  “Thought you wanted an answer to your question?” Zeke kissed him unexpectedly. And hard.

  Miles stopped fighting back and relaxed into the kiss. He’d have preferred to call it strategic withdrawal, but knew what Zeke would make of that phrase. “Yes, I do.”

  Zeke drew away, panting slightly, his eyes slightly unfocused. “I never saw the need.” He yawned again and the sheet shifted further down his body. “No need to commit names to things; to own them.” He leaned back on his hands and gazed at the picture in question. He was suddenly, strangely serious. “Perhaps I do now. That picture, Miles… that’s how I feel about you, you know? You touched me. Helped me start drawing again. I’m still struggling with these damned words….”

  Miles murmured reassurance into his neck. “I wasn’t properly alive until I met you,” he said, simply. “I don’t know how else to describe it. You’ll have no time for sentiment, I know. But look what you did for me.” He gestured at the picture.

  Zeke shook his head. “You’re my inspiration, man,” he murmured. “You’ve opened my world. Opened me.”

  “I can only admire your talent.”

  Zeke shrugged, and the ripple through his muscles ran along Miles’ nerves too. “You’ve got a talent too, Miles. For getting things done, right?” He kissed Miles’ shoulder, his teeth grazing the skin. “For seeing things in me that I’d given up on.”

  Miles laughed. “Listen to us. I don’t know about you, but I never said such things before in my life.”

  “Hold me,” Zeke interrupted, hoarsely. Miles had to bend his head to hear him. “I’ll see your colors for you.”

  Miles slid his arm around him, pulling him close. He stared at them in the mirror, the two skin textures together; the muscle tone; the stretched limbs, entwined around each other.

  Zeke was watching, too, his eyes narrowed. “Need to spend more time on that, Miles. The look of us together…. Dammit, I want my sketch pad here.”

  Miles turned his head slightly and bit the lobe of Zeke’s ear.

  Zeke grunted. “Yeah. So I guess the sketching can wait until later.”

  Miles smiled. He slid his free hand along Zeke’s belly, tracing gently across his tattoo. “I don’t need you to see colors for me, Zeke. I can taste them in you.” He meant it too. Zeke’s mouth was warm and welcoming and unstinting. “And maybe you’ll let me be your sanctuary.”

  Zeke laughed, shakily. “Works for me.”

  Miles slid further over Zeke’s body, his hands reaching to touch possessively, to stroke, to caress. His body started to heat up; a solitary trickle of sweat ran down between his thighs. The sheet finally slipped off the bed in defeat.

  “Enough of the mutual appreciation society,” growled Zeke. “About who’s been the making of who.” He licked his lips. “Roll over, Winter, and get ready to be truly appreciated.”

  Miles laughed and moaned as Zeke tumbled him onto his back on the mattress. He gazed up at the strong, lithe body leaning over him. “Anything I gave to you, it’s an investment, of course.”

  Zeke raised his eyebrows. “In me?”

  “In us.”

  Zeke snickered softly. He dipped his head and licked at Miles’ nipple. “Get dividends, do you?”

  “Damned well hope so.”

  Zeke’s tongue slid down
over Miles’ belly, licking into his navel. “You said it.”

  Miles sucked in a breath. Zeke’s voice was a sultry mumble and his lips nuzzled the base of Miles’ cock. Miles couldn’t find any response except a moan.

  “I want you, Miles. Not ghosts—just you. Only ever you….”

  Always talking. Miles sighed, fondly. For a man who says he struggles with words, he sure is full of them.

  “You’ve got me, Zeke, for as long as you want me. God, don’t stop. Yes. Yes. Right there.” He arched underneath the yearning, consuming lips. “And I’m real. This is real, isn’t it?”

  “Tastes like it, thank God,” came the answering mumble. “Could still do with a sandwich, though.”

  Miles tried to laugh but it came out as a groan. Zeke had tightened his mouth around the head of his cock and was sucking in earnest. He only paused for seconds at a time to speak, building the suspense. “Miles… we’ve got to go back to real life sometime, haven’t we?”

  “Yes,” sighed Miles. Maybe. Who cares? “Sometime, I guess.” He put his hand carefully on the crown of Zeke’s bobbing head, his heart a maelstrom of strong emotions. He felt the need to give support and guidance, that was all.

  Sexual desperation, more like.

  Or just… love.

  “Good answer. Sometime is good.” Zeke grinned. “Keep an eye on your investment’s returns, right?”

  Miles moaned softly. “Shut up.” He tried to reach Zeke’s shoulder, to shift him around so he could return the favor, suck him off at the same time. “You talk too much.”

  “Sure. Sorry.” Zeke had never sounded less penitent. “But I do give damned good head.”

  Miles rolled his eyes. That’d never make the shareholder report.

  Like he cared.

  About the Author

  CLARE LONDON took the pen name London from the city where she lives, loves, and writes. A lone, brave female in a frenetic, testosterone-fueled family home, she juggles her writing with the weekly wash, waiting for the far distant day when she can afford to give up her day job as an accountant.

  She’s written in many genres and across many settings, with novels and short stories published both online and in print. She says she likes variety in her writing while friends say she’s just fickle, but as long as both theories spawn good fiction, she’s happy. Most of her work features male/male romance and drama with a healthy serving of physical passion, as she enjoys both reading and writing about strong, sympathetic, and sexy characters.

  Clare currently has several novels sulking at that tricky chapter three stage and plenty of other projects in mind… she just has to find out where she left them in that frenetic, testosterone-fueled family home.

  Visit Clare’s Web site at http://www.clarelondon.co.uk and her blog at http://clarelondon.livejournal.com/

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