by Josh Lanyon
Miles laughed.
“I’m serious. You have no idea how refreshing it is to—” He seemed to change his mind mid-sentence. “I thought I terrified you. We all did. You used to turn around and go in the opposite direction if you saw me down the hall.”
Miles shook his head. He could joke about it now. “I was just shy in your godlike presence.”
Linley’s eyes widened, he inhaled sparkling water, and began to cough. A lot. It was not a graceful or sophisticated procedure.
“My God, I’m sorry,” Miles said, though he was laughing. There was definitely something disarming about seeing Linley shoot sparkling water out his elegant nostrils. “You should put your arms above your head.”
Linley, struggling not to drown, shot him a look of outrage and spluttered and choked some more. When he finally had recovered enough to speak, he said hoarsely, “You should come with a warning label.”
“Contents may explode under pressure,” Miles agreed.
Linley laughed, set the bottle aside, and drew Miles into his arms. His face was still wet, eyelashes dripping, but his mouth was warm and sweet. His lips pressed against Miles’s. He was still smiling, and Miles could feel the smile in his heart. He had waited twenty years for that kiss.
When Linley drew back, he said, “It was over with Giles a long time ago. A long time before we actually split up.”
“Oh.”
“Afterward, I swore I would never do that again—let something obviously wrong drag on and on because I was too busy or too tired to deal with the drama.”
“Was there a lot of drama?”
“Yes. There was a lot of drama.” Linley’s smile was derisive, but meeting Miles’s gaze, his expression softened. “The other thing I never want to do again is drag my feet when something is so obviously right.”
Miles studied Linley’s face. He was talking about sex, of course. Nothing serious. Nothing life-changing. Well, considering that kiss, maybe life-changing. For Miles. But that was all right. He was not a kid. He knew how it worked. He wanted this night too—even if it was only going to be this night.
“I agree,” Miles said softly. “Life is too short.”
***
More kisses. Soft kisses, hard kisses. Hungry kisses, cherishing kisses. Warm as sunlight, tender as something newborn. Kissing had never felt so…intimate. So important.
“How did you get this?” Linley dropped a tiny kiss on the small curved scar on Miles’s chin.
“I crashed my bike into a cement wall when I was fourteen.”
“Ouch,” Linley murmured. He dropped another nuzzling kiss on Miles’s chin. “Montreal is a very bike-friendly city.”
“That’s good.” Miles had never had anyone spend so much time on the preliminaries of sex. Had never had anyone focus so much attention on him. It made him a little shy. He knew how to have sex. He wasn’t sure he knew how to do this.
“It’s unusual to have such blond hair with so black eyebrows and eyelashes.” Linley grinned. “Do you tint your hair, Miles?”
“Me?” Miles shook his head.
Linley’s mouth curved, he bumped his nose against Miles’s, brushed his eyelashes against Miles’s flickering ones. “You taste like peanut butter foie gras.”
“I forgot to brush my teeth.”
Linley chuckled. “Such an American reaction. I like the way you taste, Miles. I want to taste every inch of you.”
And he kind of sort of did, while Miles gasped and blinked, gulped and tried to reciprocate in kind.
He was surprised—and maybe this was unfair on his part—to find that Linley was an attentive, even sort of courtly, sexual partner. Miles was not used to receiving so much attention—or having to pay so much attention. Linley offered compliments and asked questions. Not the necessary safety-related questions, but low, husky inquiries.
“Do you like this, Miles?” or “Are you sensitive here?” or “Will you tell me what you want?”
Not that Miles had ever had a bad sexual encounter. A few awkward ones, maybe. But he’d never had anyone who tried to charm and seduce him once he was already in bed. It felt sort of decadent. Like peanut butter foie gras sandwiches.
He would definitely have to up his game if this was how sex was played in Montreal.
Linley’s naked body was lithe and strong, golden as a California summer. He had the powerful legs and shoulders of a skier—not to mention the taut abdomen and ass—bracing himself on his arms, blue eyes glinting as he gazed down at Miles.
“Since we have all night, who goes first? Hm?”
“F-first?” Miles had been thinking—assumed—Linley would probably bang the bell and run, but wrong again. We have all night.
Linley laughed softly. “Are you still a little shy, Miles?”
Miles laughed too because no, not really, but Linley was full of surprises, and he was enjoying discovering each and every one.
He reached out, taking hold of Linley’s cock, feeling hot blood beating beneath silky skin, and Linley sucked in a sharp breath and threw his head back. “That’s lovely. I like that.”
Miles liked it too, sliding his palm farther down to cup and caress the twin fragile sacs. Linley made a sound like a purr and pushed into Miles’s touch.
“Mmm. What would you like, Miles?”
“You can fuck me,” Miles said.
Linley’s nose wrinkled. “So romantic!”
“Is there a French word for it?”
“There are words and phrases. Some better, some worse. Faire des galipettes. Making somersaults. Tremper le biscuit. Dip the bis—”
Miles burst out laughing. “You’re totally making this up.”
Linley chuckled. “No. So you want to fuck?”
“I want to fuck and be fucked,” Miles said.
“Your wish is my command…”
Linley was off the bed in one agile jump. He rifled through his jeans pocket, pulled out a foil-wrapped condom, and tossed it to Miles. “Hold that thought.” He stepped into Miles’s bathroom and switched on the light. He returned a moment later with a small tube of Crabtree & Evelyn.
“Verbena and Lavender de Provence.”
“Lavender? I hope it doesn’t put me to sleep,” Miles said.
Linley grinned. “I’ll try my humble best to keep you awake.”
He joined Miles on the bed, and they shoved the comforter and blankets out of the way and settled themselves in the pillows and sheets.
Miles stretched out, shivering, as Linley kissed and sucked his way down his spine, nuzzling the small of Miles’s back, his fingers lightly tracing the crevice between Miles’s cheeks.
Miles gulped, but that was pleasure, not alarm.
The earthy perfume of lavender, verbena, and precome warmed the air as Linley’s finger inserted itself delicately, deliberately into Miles’s body. The cream was warm from Linley’s fingers and stung ever so slightly.
“You’re so quiet,” Linley whispered. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, don’t stop,” Miles whispered in return.
Linley did not stop, and when he had Miles sighing and squirming pleasurably in the sheets, he maneuvered him onto his knees and elbows and guided his cock slowly, sweetly into Miles’s body.
“Oh God,” Miles breathed. Linley was not extraordinarily large, but the moment was.
Linley paused, courteous and concerned, and Miles pushed back until his ass pressed up against the soft, furry warmth of Linley’s groin.
Linley began to move, slow, steady thrusts, the labor of love. Miles shoved into his strokes, and they slipped into an easy rhythm that picked up speed and then grew urgent.
The mattress bounced beneath them. Linley’s breath was hot against Miles’s ear. He was quiet now, focused, intense… Miles too, concentrating, reaching out for that dancing, elusive light sparking behind his eyes and flickering up and down his spinal cord until at last it ignited.
Release came rolling up out of that deep profound silence, a hot, wet, s
ticky, joyous eruption.
They collapsed, wet and shaking in each other’s arms, like storm-tossed survivors on an uncharted beach.
***
Sometime later, Linley asked lazily, “How can it be you’re making this move on your own?”
Miles kept his eyes shut, savoring the light touch of Linley’s hand stroking his hip. “What do you mean?”
“Just… How is it no one snapped you up before now?”
Miles snorted. Snapped you up sounded like he was a handful of nuts and pumpkin seeds.
“You don’t have a boyfriend or a partner?”
“If I had a boyfriend, we would not be here now.”
“Apologies,” Linley said. He sounded more satisfied than apologetic. “One likes to be sure.”
“Probably one should be sure before hopping into bed?”
He must have sounded tart because Linley gave a quiet laugh. “True. But sometimes the little head thinks for the big head.”
Fair enough. Who hadn’t made that mistake? Hopefully Miles hadn’t made it that very night.
No, whatever happened or didn’t happen, he was not going to regret this night.
Miles sighed. “I’m the guy whose friends are always saying I have the perfect match for you, but it’s always a disaster.”
Linley made a little tut-tut sound. It made Miles smile. “A disaster?”
“Maybe not a disaster, but never the perfect match.”
“Are you so hard to please?”
Until that moment Miles had taken it for granted everyone else was the hard-to-please one. It dawned on him that maybe he had been the problem all along. And maybe problem wasn’t the right word. Maybe in this part of his life too, he had just been waiting for something else, holding out for something more.
“I wouldn’t think so.” He said thoughtfully, “Selective?”
“Discerning,” Linley offered.
“Persnickety.”
Linley gave another of those low chuckles and captured his mouth again.
***
In the morning they had breakfast at Café Joe on Rue Saint-Antoine, Linley declining the bounty of Chateau Versailles’s breakfast spread in preference of the eight-minute drive to one of his favorite eateries.
“I’m afraid I don’t do buffets,” he informed Miles as they dressed.
“Wow.”
“You think I’m a snob.”
“Absolutely.”
“Is that a problem?”
Was it? Miles considered. He already knew several things about Linley, besides the fact that he was a snob: he was arrogant, he was used to having his own way, he liked to fix things whether they were broken or not. He was also surprisingly tender, occasionally self-effacing, and generally considerate. Also really good at sex. Miles did not see any deal breakers. “Is it a problem I’m not?”
“No. Not at all.”
Miles shrugged. “There you have it.”
As Linley was heading straight for the gallery after breakfast, Miles grabbed his backpack and sketch pad. His appointment with M. Thibault was not until after lunch, so he planned to spend the day exploring.
Linley observed him, started to speak, seemed to change his mind.
But of course, being someone who liked to fix things, he could not let it rest there, and over the ham and eggs Benedict, Linley said, “I’d like to see your work one day.”
Miles chuckled. “No, you wouldn’t.”
Linley said, “I’m serious.”
“So am I,” Miles said. “No.”
Linley stirred his coffee, frowning.
“When you came to the gallery—before you began teaching—”
“That’s all right,” Miles said quickly. He did not want to hear about The Necessary Spark again. Did not want his confidence or his joy in his work destroyed, did not want this bright and promising day spoiled by the reminder that Linley could be an asshole.
But Linley forged on. “I was still very new in my position at the gallery. New enough—young enough—that I didn’t always trust my instincts. I feared being wrong.”
“Mm-hm.”
“I had received a lot of attention, and it went to my head. Not in the way you might think. More…I feared discovery. I feared my reputation was built on a few lucky guesses.”
“Imposter syndrome,” Miles said. He found it hard to believe Linley had an insecure bone in his body.
“I suppose so. So when you showed up—”
“Really, we don’t need to go over this. I kind of wish we wouldn’t.”
Linley was silent.
Miles drank his tea, uncomfortably aware that Linley was studying him. He did not want to argue over this, but why couldn’t Linley leave it alone?
After a moment, Linley said with unusual diffidence, “I think in order to clear the way for the future, it would be best to deal with the past.”
“Is there going to be a future?” Miles asked cautiously.
“Yes. I hope so.” He made a face. “This is probably too fast for you?”
“Well, I mean, I’d definitely like to see where things go.” Miles was proud of himself for managing to sound so calm when his heart was hopping and skipping like a tap dancer in one of Capucine’s beloved musicals.
Linley nodded gravely. “So. When you showed up with your paintings, I was predisposed to…”
“Not like them.”
“No, as I recall, I did like them. But I was inclined to believe they couldn’t be anything more than competent, workmanlike. You were the son of my mother’s best friend, a shy little boy—”
“I was sixteen the last time we visited Capucine.”
“And later a shy teenager who left the room whenever I entered. I’d known you for years and never even knew you painted. It seemed impossible that there would be—”
“The Necessary Spark.”
“What?”
“That’s what you said my work was missing.”
Linley groaned. “Oh my God. What an ass I can be.”
It was so heartfelt, Miles laughed.
“I don’t remember much about your work. That’s the truth. I believe I thought it had promise, but it lacked… It felt young.”
Miles shrugged. “I was young.”
“Yes. Also, it felt to me that you were asking me to make a major decision for you. A decision that might affect the rest of your life. It’s not easy to make a living as a painter. In fact, it’s damned difficult.”
Miles had not considered any of these things.
Linley said, “When I looked into your eyes and saw how much my opinion meant…” He shook his head. “But I also thought, if he’s serious, if he has what it takes, he won’t give up based on what I tell him. If he does give up…”
Miles had not given up, but it had been close.
But wasn’t that really on him?
“There’s no crying in art,” Miles said.
“Actually, there’s a lot of crying in art,” Linley admitted.
Chapter Nine
“I’ll call you,” Linley said as they were saying goodbye in front of the Metro stop. “Maybe we can have dinner again?” His smile was confident, but there was something tentative in his eyes.
Miles’s heart leaped like a fish on a hook. “Sure!”
“Maybe tonight?”
Miles just managed not to say, Really? He didn’t want to appear thunderstruck that Linley would ask him out again so soon, but he was surprised and delighted.
More so when Linley leaned in to give him a quick kiss on his mouth.
***
Only one Thibault of Thibault, Thibault & Thibault remained.
The current M. Thibault was a small, elderly French-Canadian with shrewd black eyes and a mouth that looked permanently pursed in withheld judgment.
He was clearly reserving opinion on Miles as he ran briskly through the details of Capucine Martel’s will.
When they came again to the subject of Miles living in the house on Braeside, the
lawyer informed Miles he was not an immigration lawyer, and then could not help pointing out a few additional realities.
“Yes, the house itself is paid for, Mr. Tuesday, but there are other expenses to consider. There are property taxes. There is home insurance. There are repair and maintenance bills. A house that old requires a great deal of upkeep. If you plan to keep staff on—and the property is far too large to try to maintain on your own—those salaries will need to be paid. There are utility bills. And you will need to eat.”
“I realize that,” Miles said. And he did, though it all sounded more daunting when spelled out by M. Thibault.
M. Thibault permitted himself a small, pained smile. “Forgive me, but do you have additional financial resources?”
“No.” Unless he counted his 401K, and even then, that $31,000 was not going to last long. It sounded like it would not even cover a single year of property taxes. “I thought I could sell some things,” Miles said.
“You can. The most obvious thing to sell is the house,” M. Thibault said acerbically. “Were you to sell the residence, you could buy a much more reasonable property and live in comfort for the rest of your days. Alternatively, you could sell the contents within the house and keep the property going for a few years, but eventually you will be forced to put the house on the market anyway.”
“I could rent out the carriage house.”
M. Thibault looked surprised. “You could, yes.”
“There may be other possibilities.”
M. Thibault sighed. “There are always possibilities, Mr. Tuesday.” He pressed the intercom. “Mr. Wesley, bring me the Martel file, s’il vous plaît.”
While they waited, Miles asked M. Thibault if the police had been in touch, and then proceeded to tell him about Erwan Dube’s doomed attempt to steal the fat-horse sculpture.
It turned out that, yes, M. Thibault had already been informed by the police of the events on Saturday night. He listened grimly to Miles’s version of the incident and then offered the opinion that Erwan Dube’s criminal actions should not come as a surprise to anyone.
“I tried to warn Madame Martel. She was very fond of Agathe.”
“Is it true that Agathe is allowed to stay in the house permanently?”