by K. L. Noone
Over miniature steaks and grilled artichokes—the champagne sauce was a minor miracle; Kris caught Justin’s eye, thinking of pizza—Charles tilted his wine-glass Justin’s direction. “We’ve actually met.”
Justin, halfway through a bite, froze, and then remembered to swallow, hastily, and then tried to hide the cough. Kris turned to look at him, very slowly. Sex demon. Stories. Many of them.
“You wrote that lovely profile piece on the Rosebud the year before it burned down, remember?”
“Oh,” Justin said. “Right.”
“You were there the night Tiffany Glass set her guitar on fire and the orgy started backstage, you were writing for Spike then, as I recall, and we weren’t sure about a journalist and the club, but five or six people vouched for you, Josie Q and her whole group, and you were so kind and it turned out to be such a generous article.”
“Orgy,” Kris said. The Rosebud had been legendary. Kinky sex dungeon plus underground punk club. Pink leather and raspberry vodka. He’d been three times, years ago, and had lost most of those memories to a hallucinogenic blur.
“I wasn’t in the orgy,” Justin hissed back. “I was writing a story.”
“No, of course you weren’t, you were far too young.” Charles looked as if he wanted to pat Justin’s arm and couldn’t quite reach across the table. “Don’t worry about not recognizing me, either; I was much younger—thinner—and I was wearing the most gorgeous purple brocade and lace-up boots, and, you know, we felt good about you when you showed up with glittery silver nail polish, dressed in that matching—”
“I still have that corset,” Justin said. “Silver and blue and black. Not that I’m nineteen anymore. Which is not too young, thank you, but I was technically working. I remember the boots. I quoted you, didn’t I? Lady Charlie?”
Lady Charlie glowed at him, having been recognized years later in the body of an aging publishing magnate.
“It’s not as if you’re old now,” Kris said. “Twenty-eight.”
Justin raised an eyebrow at him. “You want me to find it and model it for you?”
“Charles,” Willie said, voice purposeful and clear and affectionate as the swing of a riding-crop, “you can properly reminisce later; have you discussed job titles and a formal offer yet?”
“Ah,” Charles said, deflating, “no, dear, not quite. Justin, how do you feel about editing? About editorial staff, as it were?”
“Are you asking whether I like them in general,” Justin said, “or whether I have experience, because, um, most underground scene magazines weren’t exactly—”
“Oh, no, but you do know good writing.” Charles did lean over to pat his hand this time. Kris stared at the patting and tried not to think about boots and corsets. “We know you do. And of course you could hire anyone you want. That very fierce friend of yours from your previous—er—well, you could if you’d like.”
“Sorry, I could what?”
“What my husband is failing to offer you in any intelligible way,” Willie put in—her glance was loving, not annoyed, though with promises of delightful corrections later—over her wine glass, “is a position as editorial director of the music and fine arts field of literature we’ve just now decided to branch into. Monthly trends in magazine form, histories of genres, biographies of musical artists, deluxe editions, definitively researched editions, whatever you’d like, really. I imagine you’d contribute a volume or two yourself. Perhaps a history of the meteoric rise and fall of Starrlight? Unless that’d be rather too close to home.”
“No offense,” Kris said dryly.
“None intended.”
“I’d want him to write it anyway. He’d be fair.”
And Justin’s smile, though wordless, made every year of heartache worth it. Everything that Kris had done or had said: he’d be safe in those hands, he believed it, and Justin knew he believed it. Allegiance, written in chandelier-light, in knives and forks, in the caress of marks on his arm, under his suit-sleeve.
Justin turned back to Willie. “You’re offering me a job.”
“As well as chocolate mousse,” Charles said. “My research suggests that demons consume quite a lot of calories. So I’ve made quite a lot, too.”
“You’re doing this to be kind,” Justin said.
“Of course we are, dear.” She leaned forward. “But we’re not simply doing it to be kind. We haven’t got much of a presence in that particular area, we’d like to expand, and you know the field and good writing. It’s a job, not a favor.”
“I don’t know how to manage my life in general,” Justin said. “Much less an editorial department.”
“Consider it a challenge,” Willie said. “Besides, you’ve taken care of Kris Starr decently, haven’t you? Kris even has an interview on Thursday. New album. Promotion. Marianne May’s morning show. We do enjoy her.”
“That’s just people,” Justin said. His hair ruffled itself, sending up sparks. “That’s just being nice to them.”
Willie and Charles both lifted eyebrows at him: expectant executives regarding a new hire.
“Fine,” Justin conceded, “but still…it’s not as if I have experience on that scale…I mean, if you wanted to launch a book series, you’d need big names, with credentials…Peter Queen over at Stone has been collecting interviews with the guys from Phantom Fighter for the last twenty years, I wonder if he’d—I don’t know anything about publishing timelines!”
“You know about deadlines, and contributors, and about working with artists,” Willie said. “You have contacts in the industry. You’re trustworthy.”
“And you’re sending a message.” Justin fiddled with his wine glass but didn’t retreat. “With me.”
“Yes,” Willie said. “About the kind of company we hope to be. About our image. Inclusion. Faith in people.”
Altruism and profit, then. She wasn’t embarrassed about it; she gauged Justin’s reaction, unflinching. “You’d have a support staff and editorial assistance, of course. And an acceptable salary.” The sum she named as a starting-point would’ve purchased Kris’s entire childhood housing block. Justin’s mouth opened. No words came out.
“Negotiable, naturally.” Willie sipped wine. Her pearls shone smooth and milky as armor in moonlight.
“I can’t…” Justin said. “I mean…can I? You’d be okay with this—with me? You know what people will say.”
“They’ll say what they’ll say, and they’ll go shopping out of curiosity, and because you’re good at what you do,” Charles put in. “And it’s not as if you’ve ever eaten anyone’s soul. Unless you have, in which case I’d love to introduce you to my terribly bigoted great-uncle Herbert, and you can do what you’d like with him. Though on second thought I doubt he’d taste very good. We’ll ensure that you aren’t the one signing any author or contributor contracts directly, in case that comes up, but you wouldn’t in any case; we have legal teams for that, so no fuss about demon-deals and such. I do like your idea about the Phantom Fighter book; they’ve got decades of fans who’d be interested.”
“Kris,” Justin said. It was a question. Pleading for permission or denial. Wavering at the brink.
His hair was doing the playful curl and flicker it did when excited. Active cheerful giveaway flames.
Kris took his hand. Heart thumping. Pulse resounding in his ears, a warning: don’t fuck this up. “I think you’d be amazing at it. You already are. Thirty seconds and you’ve come up with a book idea. You want to, right?”
“Yes,” Justin said. “I’m…I think so. Yes. I do. If that’s…okay?”
“I’m not making this decision,” Kris said. “But I think you just did.”
Across the table, Charles and Willie exchanged glances. They’d started holding hands too. Willie’s hand lay on top, and she stroked her thumb over her husband’s wrist, casually dominant, unremarked.
“Yes,” Justin said again, to them, to the future; he’d seen the motion too, from the flicker of his eyes, the catc
h of breath. “I’m…accepting the job offer. I—thank you.” Kris slid fingers through his, turned the position into an intentional mirror, and a press of thumb over pulse-point. Justin’s gasp was almost too small to be audible. Kris, beside him, heard it.
“Excellent,” Willie said briskly. “We’ll be in touch with details and paperwork. Charles, chocolate mousse?”
Charles got up. The room, plates and wine and heartbeats, exhaled. Clarity, bracing and chocolate-drenched. Choices made. Commitment. More than one, in this room, here and now.
By the time they left midnight had settled in, late hours soaked in wine and companionship and discussions and stories. Stars erupted drunkenly amid inky velvet, a spilled pirate’s chest of glitter; the city caught tipsy incandescence and flung it back a hundredfold in Midwinter splendor and traffic-lights and neon signs and pavement hazy with the phantoms of rain. Each inhale felt like wine too, an effervescent bubble of life and elation and Justin’s hair lit up like a bonfire against darkness.
They wandered down steps toward the mansion’s gate, framed by window-light and tasteful holiday garlands. Kris had Justin’s hand tucked into his arm because that felt right; Justin could take them home in an instant, and would momentarily, but this was beautiful and the world was beautiful and Justin was beautiful, and he knew he was projecting and did not care, iridescence redoubled and shared and built up again and again until it threatened to flood free across the universe.
Justin tipped his head back, laughed, flung arms wide: bathed in moonlight and city-light and astonishment. “This is—I can’t even—”
“You deserve it.” Kris wanted to kiss him. Wanted to take his hand and pull him close, to feel and taste and laugh with that electric exhilaration. “You deserve it all. What was that about you wearing a corset?”
“Yesterday I didn’t have a job, the world was afraid of me, I didn’t have a—” Justin stopped, laughter arrested, not banished but hovering. His eyes met Kris’s, sure as gemstones under glimmering skies.
They’d stopped halfway down the path. Paving-stones lay cool as starshine underfoot; the air tasted of jasmine and wine and quick wondering inhales, breaths on the edge.
Justin finished, deliberate and fearless, “I didn’t have a boyfriend. Yesterday.”
“Yesterday.” Kris held out hands. Open. “Tonight?”
Justin put both hands into his. No hesitation. Open eyes, too: as sure of his place here and now as he’d once been, as hopeful as he’d ever been, Kris could see it. “Tonight I work for Willie Randolph. Who isn’t scared of me. Who I’m pretty sure is also about to have a very fun night. And I’m coming home with you.”
“Yes,” Kris said, or begged, or hoped with all his might too.
“Yes,” Justin said. “Yes—”
The Randolph house dissolved. Smoke and hearth-fires on the air. Swirling vision that cleared into his own bedroom, his apartment, his detritus of necklaces and shirts and rings and Justin’s skinny jeans from earlier folded at the foot of his bed, and denim and lamplight ached with anticipation—
In the penthouse apartment’s bedroom, between city and stars, Justin Moore kissed Kris Starr.
Justin tasted like cinnamon lip-gloss and expensive wine and chocolate, and kissed like everything Kris had never known he needed: nothing held back, everything joyously given, sweet and ardent and fierce. Justin liked to be touched, gathered in, held close; Justin liked to be teased and nibbled at and claimed with little licks and deeper plundering. The last of those ended with a moan and a devoutly pliant demon in Kris’s arms, arching up into him, sighing, deliciously surrendered to kisses and hands in fiery hair and lips discovering the graceful line of that throat.
Kris paused. Nuzzled words under that jawline, breaths over soft skin. “Still good?”
“Please…” Justin’s voice was ragged, soft, almost dreamlike: swept away by pleasure. “Yes, good, please, more…Kris…”
Suits shed. Shirts on the floor. Tripping over shoes and socks and the corner of the bed, laughing helplessly. Knocking Justin’s folded jeans to the floor. Silk sheets and the whisper of Justin’s hair, tumbling into them.
Justin had been wearing navy-blue briefs. They were clinging and tight. Kris, still in trousers and an undone belt, bent over him. Kissed him swiftly, rested a hand on his hip.
“I want to,” Justin said. “I want to, I want this, I want you—”
“You can,” Kris said, between kisses at the corner of his mouth, his chin, “always tell me to stop. If anything doesn’t feel good. If you don’t feel—”
“I will,” Justin said. “I swear I will, I promise, Kris, I’ll tell you, but right now please don’t stop—”
And Kris laughed—laughter in the middle of sex, sex with Justin, and he had to laugh more because this was brilliant—and tugged at snug fabric. Justin obligingly lifted hips. Then blushed.
Kris considered this new revelation for a moment. “You’re actually a redhead?”
Justin let out a tiny squeak of annoyance and poked him in the shoulder. “You know I dye my hair! Quit staring.”
“You dye it because it’s on fire if you don’t.” The nest of lovely curls was not on fire, but was a lovely ginger. Of course, the rest of Justin was lovely too: not overly sized, but beautifully proportioned between slim long legs, flushed hot and upright and plainly aroused, already wet at the tip. Kris ran a reassuring hand over his thigh, slid the hand up, wrapped it around him. Justin’s cock jumped, and more wetness appeared. Kris trailed a thumb through it; heard the gasp. “You don’t mind me staring.”
“I—I—Kris—I don’t know!”
“You like me looking at you. Touching you, playing with you…” He was. Idly stroking, pumping up and down, watching Justin’s length move in his hand. His own cock had gone so hard it hurt: throbbing with need, hyperaware of every rub of his trousers, every tiny moan and whimper from Justin beneath him. “You do want me, don’t you, love?”
“Please.” Justin was nearly sobbing now, already quivering on the edge, lying spread out across Kris’s bed in a tapestry of black silk and pale skin and visible desperate need. “Please. I could—can I, I’m already—so close, can I—”
“Already?” He put a bit more effort into the grip: not enough to outright hurt, but definite firmness. Justin moaned, melting into the bed. “Should I say yes?” He meant the question as teasing; it unexpectedly flipped itself around and became genuine. He wanted to know what Justin wanted, needed, from him.
Justin lifted his head. He was panting. Even his hair had ended up messy, flames standing out like a halo. “You—you know I’m yours, I always was, even before—daydreams, I said—oh! I have an idea.”
Kris looked at his hand, currently busy; looked at his trousers, needing to come off; looked at Justin.
“That too.” Still breathless, naked, lovely. “I’ve always had to be human in bed before.”
Kris stared at him some more. Deliberately did not imagine anything. No images. Not even an attempt.
“Oh Midwinter gods,” Justin said, “not like that, I don’t even know what—no! Oh no. Sorry. I, um, I meant I can…I can sort of, um, multiple times. If I let it reset. Um. If you wanted to let me, once, now—I mean I’ve never done this with anyone who knew what I was so even four was pushing it but—”
“Are you saying,” Kris said, having had a moment to recover and process, “that you can come more than four times?”
“I think my record—just me and some toys, over a couple of hours one night—was seven?”
“You are,” Kris told him, “fucking incredible,” and kissed him, kissed him everywhere: arm, shoulder, small delectable nipples, stomach, a hip. “You taste incredible too. Did you say if I wanted to let you?”
“I’m yours.” Justin reached up to touch him: those fingerprints, crimson dust glowing in topaz light. “I like…belonging to someone. To you. Is that…”
“I like you being mine,” Kris said, heart and soul and emotions
wreathed around and through the words; and Justin sighed and shivered and seemed to relax even more beneath him: safe and cherished and home.
He did not say the yes immediately, not after that; he teased Justin a bit more first, learning every way he liked to be handled, to be caressed, to be drawn up to the brink. Justin moaned and whimpered and begged and made gorgeous small noises; his cock grew slicker and wetter at the tip, and Kris played with that too, until his demon was sobbing his name and jerking in his grip; and then whispered, “Go on, you can, show me.”
Justin didn’t even make a sound, only froze in place, hips lifting, whole body shuddering with bliss. White heat spilled out over Kris’s hand, his own stomach, bare skin. He lay in place trembling after.
Kris bent down and kissed the tip of him, sticky and sweet, and licked traces of climax from his stomach. Justin moaned, sounding dazed, lost in ecstasy.
Kris petted him for a moment. Yanked off his own last remaining irritants of clothing. Came back.
Justin’s eyes were open and approving. “Oh, hi…”
“Now who’s staring?”
“I’m appreciating. I think I had this dream, once…more than once…you’re perfect. Everything I ever wanted.” Justin bit a lip, vulnerable and disheveled and newly embarrassed. “I never thought you could want someone like me. Even if I’d been human.”
“You’re human.” Kris sat down beside him, ran a hand along his arm, down to his wrist. Justin willingly let him press it to the bed above sparkling hair, and moved the other one to meet it. “You’re human, and you’re a demon, and you’re more than both of those. You’re you. You make me smile. You make me write terrible lyrics about ginger. Which I’m going to write more of now.” They both looked down the length of Justin’s body, to the spent but gradually filling length of him, nestled into curls. “I wanted you back outside Steve’s recording studio. Because you were eating chestnuts and you found my scarf.”