All Note Long (15 page)

“Ung.” Michelin groaned as Lucky's thumbs dug into the column of muscles on either side of his spine. “Yeah. Just him. Too . . . risky . . . and . . . I'm weird . . . just not interested a lot of the time.” He had to pause between words as Lucky's fingers worked their magic to pull the truth out.

“Sweetie, you're not weird.” Lucky bit lightly at Michelin's shoulder, the perfect spot where his shoulder met his neck. Electric tingles spread everywhere. “You're probably demisexual. It's a legit thing. It means you only get turned on if there are feelings involved.”

“Sounds like a chick thing.” Michelin snorted, even if that was pretty much him in a nutshell. Even his attraction to Lucky had only really blossomed once they'd started talking. Not that he'd ever gone around looking for a label for himself. God, why did
everything
in his life need a label?

“Nope, sounds like a
you
thing.” Lucky's hands skated around to Michelin's front, down his chest, lower toward his rapidly hardening cock. “And seems you're plenty turned on now, old man. Twice in an hour, pretty impressive.”

“Speak for yourself.” Michelin bumped his ass back against Lucky's front and thick cock. Joking about erections was infinitely easier than admitting that yes, there were feelings at stake here, and yes, he probably wouldn't be turned on if there weren't.

“You ever do it like this?” Lucky soaped Michelin's ass and thighs. He was a couple of inches shorter than Michelin, but where Michelin was all torso, Lucky had ridiculously long legs, and they lined up rather conveniently, Lucky's dick gliding along the crease of his ass, slipping in between his thighs.

“I'm game.” Michelin sidestepped the question, even though the answer was a pretty solid no. Rubbing off, yeah, some of that with Steve. But this . . . everything about this was new. Lucky behind him, wrapping him up tight in a strong embrace, one hand on Michelin's dick, the other toying with his nipple, hard cock thrusting between Michelin's thighs, dragging against his hole and his balls, everything all slippery and warm and wet.

“God. You feel so good,” Lucky whispered in his ear. His strong, sure dancer's hips snapped against Michelin's ass, the rhythm pushing Michelin's cock through Lucky's fist in long slides. Lucky had some conditioner or something on his hand, and the slick grip was almost as good as Lucky's voice giving directions. “Tighten your thighs. Yeah. Like that. Squeeze me tight.”

“Fuck me.” Another thing he'd only ever said deep in his own brain. It wasn't right how much he liked this, liked Lucky's directions and his praise. His stomach felt all wobbly if he thought too hard about what it meant that, for all he'd loved Steve—and he had, he really had—the sex hadn't been anywhere near this. In fact, he'd just assumed that sex was a bit overrated, at least as far his own odd wiring was concerned.

But there was nothing overrated about the hard wall of muscle behind him, the water cascading over them, the slap of their bodies colliding over and over, scent of soap and sex heavy in the steamy air, Lucky's growls in his ears. Michelin wasn't sure if he'd
ever
felt this alive.

“
Dios.
I got you, Papí. Come with me.” Lucky was moaning with each thrust now, and the sound echoing off the tiles was almost enough to get Michelin off without the hand on his dick. Lucky's fingers switched from idly stroking Michelin's nipple to a hard pinch. “Now. Come now.”

And then Michelin was coming, thick spurts that left his muscles quaking and his throat hoarse from groaning he hadn't even realized he was doing. Cursing and shaking with his own orgasm, Lucky collapsed against him, pushing Michelin against the wall.

“Oh fuck. That was amazing. You hit
all
my buttons, big guy.”

“Um . . . yeah . . . likewise.” Knowing he was blushing, Michelin slid out from under Lucky to rinse himself. Lucky made it sound so easy, admitting that Michelin turned him on and met his . . . kinks or whatever. It wasn't so easy for Michelin. Lucky did it for him in a big way, but accepting that meant accepting certain truths about himself, things he'd avoided for years.

“Okay. You can introduce me to your bed now.” Lucky nudged him to get out of the shower. Michelin grabbed them each a towel from the rack his housekeeping service kept well stocked. Lucky gave him a sleepy grin as he toweled off his hair. On second thought, maybe it was just that easy. Or at least, it could be if only he could keep the rest of the world at bay.

G
uitar music woke Lucky up. Or more accurately, music permeated his dreams, strange pieces of songs, until finally he blinked awake and the faint music was still going on. Still groggy, he looked over at the clock on Michelin's bedside table. Not quite six a.m. He stretched a hand out, not surprised to find Michelin's side of the bed cold and empty.

After the shower, the long day had caught up with both of them, and they'd tumbled into Michelin's bed. He'd been prepared for Michelin not to be all that cuddly, but Michelin had wrapped himself around Lucky and been asleep quickly. Apparently falling asleep fast wasn't enough to ward off the insomnia monster that Michelin complained so much about. The music came in stops and starts, fragments of songs, and Lucky was intrigued enough to rouse his tired ass from the bed.

In his own apartment, Lucky had no problem walking around nude, but he felt a little . . . exposed here. He spotted his bag in a corner of Michelin's room. Huh. The security dude in charge of bringing their stuff up to Michelin's place must have assumed they were sharing.

Well. Duh. The deception's working, you idiot.
Funny, it didn't feel as much like a deception after that sex. And oh holy hell, Michelin might be the one hard-wired to be a serial monogamist, but it was entirely possible he was ruining Lucky for all other guys. The hungry way he kissed, the greedy way he grasped, the desperate sounds he made, and especially the eager way he responded to praise—all of it was better than even the high of nailing a routine, better than the rush of applause from the crowd.

Lucky's cock gave a jump at the memories, and he had to tell it to behave as he pulled on a pair of orange boxer briefs and padded down the hall. The music got louder and he discovered Michelin sitting on the corner of the large leather sectional, guitar in hand, sheets of paper and pens scattered in front of him on the large upholstered ottoman.

“Can't sleep?” he asked.

“Oh crap. Didn't mean to wake you up. This place is so much smaller than the house and sound carries . . . Sorry.” Michelin frowned, looking angrily down at his guitar like it was to blame. He was wearing jeans and nothing else. Unlike Lucky, who waxed as a professional necessity, Michelin had a nice smattering of fuzz on his pecs and stomach.

“Don't be.” Lucky perched behind him on the couch arm. He'd drag Michelin back to bed soon enough—he wanted that fuzz rubbing against his back again while they dozed a little more. But first, the music he'd heard in his dreams had him super curious. “It sounded really nice. What are you working on? Something new?”

“Yeah.” Michelin turned a bit pink.

“Play it for me?”

“It's not ready yet.” Michelin scratched the back of his neck. “May never be. I mess with stuff all the time, especially middle of the night. Three-quarters of it isn't worth a damn in the light of day.”

“I'd still like to hear it. I liked your stuff at the concert, way more than I thought I would.”

“High praise.” Michelin laughed.

“Hey, not a country fan here. But I like how all your songs tell a story. I see why ‘Graduation Day' hit number one. It's fabulous. Is this one like that?”

“All songs should tell a story. Even those booty shakers you like. There's a story there. And this one is . . . different. Might see if Stand Out wants it. Doesn't feel country.”

“You mean it's got a gay vibe?” Lucky leaned forward trying to read the pieces of paper, but Michelin shoved him back. “Now I really want to hear it.”

“No, I don't mean . . . not really. Been workin' on a couple things. Not just one song.”

Michelin dug at his neck hard. Lucky knocked his hand aside and started rubbing his neck. Better to save his poor muscles.

Lucky massaged Michelin's neck. Judging by the knots under his thumbs, he wasn't getting a sneak preview anytime soon. “If it works out, maybe you could debut a new song at the concert Ruby was talking about. That would be fun.”

“I don't think so.” Michelin's muscles went stiff as the steel pipe cages at The Broom Closet. “Doubt I'll do the concert.”

“Why not? It's a great cause!”

“I'm sure it is. I'll have Henry cut them a check. But performing . . . no, I can't do that.”

“Sure you can. It's one night. You grab your guitar, you sing a few songs. And because it's you, you'll bring in a few viewers who might not otherwise watch. You're a big enough draw to get them more money from new people.” Lucky didn't get why Michelin didn't want to do this.

“That's just it. Because it's
me . . .”

“Oh, I see how it is.” Lucky stopped rubbing Michelin's neck. “It's too gay for you.”

Michelin closed his eyes and clunked his head back against the sofa. “Yes. Okay. Yes. I do that concert and I
am
the token gay cowboy. The gay country star. And that label starts to feel a bit permanent, you know? Starts to feel like I'm a . . . movement, not a musician.”

“So you're . . . what? Hoping people forget you're gay?”

“
Yes.
”

Lucky wasn't sure whether to hug Michelin or shake him so he settled for doing neither. “I'm not sure that's possible. Or a good thing. And Michelin . . .” Lucky took a breath. The same instinct that had told him this was a bad idea back in the truck was screaming right now. “People are going to read that message into your music. You might as well embrace that.”

“What?” Michelin's eyes sparked. “That's crazy talk. I wrote that album long before this . . . mess. There's no . . .
agenda
there.”

“Like it or not, you
are
gay. That's going to color things for a lot of people. And you're connected to the larger movement for rights and equality and protection, whether or not you want to be.”

“Do we gotta fight about this right now?” Head still back, Michelin's eyes pleaded with Lucky's to understand. Lucky didn't. Couldn't. But it was hard to argue with the pain in Michelin's eyes.

“I don't want to fight.” He resumed rubbing Michelin's shoulders, trying to convey that this wasn't a friendship-ending disagreement. Just a bit disappointing. And yeah, enough of this ridiculous reluctance and Lucky might start to chafe a bit, but right now, his body still tingled with the memory of earlier and his heart still swelled with the need to comfort the guy who was struggling so much with what coming out meant. “But I'm not going to drop this. Maybe you'll change your mind as you get more comfortable.”

“Maybe.” Michelin's mouth twisted like he'd stepped on a particularly painful rock. “Fuck, that feels good. You could talk me into an awful lot with those fingers of yours.”

Lucky laughed. He doubted Michelin meant it as quite as dirty of a double entendre as Lucky's dick thought it was. “I'll keep that in mind.”

The room got quiet for a bit with only the soft sound of Michelin groaning as Lucky stroked his smooth, warm skin, then Michelin started strumming the guitar idly.

“Play me a song and I'll give you a happy ending to this massage.” Lucky kept his voice light, trying to recapture some of their earlier easiness. And honestly, he'd give Michelin an orgasm and drag his ass back to bed either way, but a bargain was kind of fun.

“You're gonna have to drop your hands. Don't think I can sing with your magic fingers on me.” Michelin shifted a bit. His jeans looked more than a bit snug. Apparently Lucky's man liked the idea of working for his reward. “Which song do you want? New album? Cover song?”

Lucky thought for a second. He wanted something more personal than what Michelin shared with the big audiences. He wanted all the man's secrets, one by one. “Play me your favorite cover. One you don't do at the shows, but that you love all the same.”

“Hmmm.” Michelin tapped the guitar body with his long fingers. “Okay. This is one of the first songs I learned to play. It was one of Mama's favorites, and I played it at her services, even though I don't quite have the right voice for it anymore. My range is too low now, but I play it for myself a fair bit, too. Reminds me of her and . . . stuff.”

Lucky's next breath got all tangled up in the lump in his throat. This was even more personal than he'd hoped for. Michelin strummed for a few minutes, and Lucky recognized the opening chords to “Please Come to Boston” even before Michelin started singing. Lucky's dad kept the oldies station on at work, and Lucky had heard this one more than a few times, but never like this.

Michelin's fine, soulful baritone lent the song a depth and mournful edge beyond even that inherent in the wistful lyrics. He was wrong about not having the voice for it—his voice made the song into something far more epic than a simple ballad. As Michelin sang, a deep longing built up in Lucky's chest. Oh, to make this man
feel
. That seemed like the best life goal ever. He'd never known anyone who could feel with the intensity of this big guy with all his many layers and complexities. It wasn't the stereotypical “hidden heart of gold.” It was more like a live oak tree, rings and rings of
feels
waiting for someone to see it and appreciate all that it had to give.

Lucky wanted to be that someone.

He wasn't sure whether to applaud or what as Michelin finished the song. Applause seemed too hollow for all that Michelin had just shared with him. Michelin glanced up, giving him a sheepish smile with the final notes. “Want more?”

“Oh yeah,” Lucky said reverently, bending to claim Michelin's mouth. The kiss went from thank you to something hotter and more urgent quickly, Michelin setting the guitar aside to tug Lucky down on top of him. The thin fabric of Lucky's boxers dragged against Michelin's jeans, and their erections ground together.

Lucky slithered down the length of Michelin's body, landing on the rug right in front of him. His hands went right for Michelin's fly, freeing his cock.

“You don't have to.” Michelin's voice was soft as the rug under Lucky's knees.

“I want to.” Lucky looked up and their eyes locked, and Lucky saw a lot of truths there—Michelin hadn't had this done for him very often, wasn't sure he was worthy of Lucky's attention in this way, would rather be the one to give.

Well, tough. It was Lucky's turn to give, and as he worshiped Michelin with his hands and mouth and tongue, he tried to convey over and over how worthy Michelin was, how much he pleased Lucky just by letting him do this. Through it all, their eyes stayed linked, emotion welling up between them as surely as the chords of a song that only played for them.

Truthfully, Lucky usually liked getting oral a bit more than performing it, in no small part because most guys seemed to assume that being a dancer meant that Lucky aspired to spend all his time on his knees. When Michelin had gone straight for Lucky's dick, not even a bit of hesitation or negotiation, Lucky had had to struggle not to come from the first brush of Michelin's breath against his boxers.

And because Michelin was so incredibly pliant, so willing to hand himself over to Lucky, it made him want to give Michelin every ounce of pleasure he could. He went deep, setting a fast rhythm, sucking hard as Michelin groaned. Michelin's sex noises were the best because they always sounded pried loose, like he held onto the sound until the last possible second when his control gave way to primal need.

“Want to come,” Michelin panted. Fuck, that was sexy, too, how he seemed to get more worked up by begging to climax, giving Lucky control over that, too.

Lucky broke away long enough to say, “Do it, Papí.”

Michelin's tip was an elongated oval, sexy as fuck, and it slid against Lucky's tongue, heavy and thick, veins pulsing. Lucky's cock leaked against the fabric of his boxers, but he made no move to do anything about it. This needed to be all about Michelin—he could get his later when they went back to bed to nap. He wasn't worried. All he wanted was this, Michelin's cock filling his mouth, him making breathy noises, Michelin's eyes squishing shut at the last possible second before he shot down Lucky's throat.

Lucky milked the last bit of his orgasm from him, then crawled back up Michelin's body.

“That was so good. So good.” He knew somehow that was what Michelin most needed to hear. “You were so hot.”

Michelin pulled him in closer, kissing him with an intensity that belied the fact that he'd climaxed moments earlier. This much closeness couldn't be wrong. Lucky gave himself over to the kiss, trying hard to trust in the possibility of a future he now desperately wanted.