I’m always impressed by how much risk Zee and Nik are willing to accept. For all their contracts and privacies and nondisclosure agreements, there’s no legal recourse for them if one of their guests should suddenly decide to sell a story. But I think it shows their deep understanding of human nature that they have chosen honorable, loyal people who would never sell them out.
People who are dedicated to this way of life. To living their entire lives according to a specific philosophy.
Oliver, though…
He’s loyal, dedicated, honest. But everything he’s said points to a man who has no intention of making service his life’s purpose. It troubles me more than it should, especially since, as everyone seemssointent on reminding me, he’s leaving tomorrow.
So why should it concern me? He can live however he chooses.
And yet, itdoesbother me. It bothers me a great deal, his casual compartmentalizing of separate selves. His admission that he pulled on his “work persona” on our second day together. The way he delineates between our time together and his “real life.”
I’ve not felt something so real for years. If anything, Oliver has pulled me out of a fog of desolation backintothe real world, a world of color and wonder andmusic. This is reality for me.
Heis reality for me.
* * *
It takes Oliver half an hour to make his preparations, and by the time he rejoins me, I’m seated at the piano again. The session tonight in front of an audience has shown me a possible path for this piece to take, and I want to set it in my mind before it escapes me again.
When he comes back into the room, he doesn’t disturb me. I sense him pausing in the communicating doorway, but then he joins me, curling up at my feet without a word as I play on. I pause to run my fingers through his hair in silent thanks, and then repeat the piece again.
Ten minutes later, he is breathing deeply, and I feel a quiet satisfaction with my work. I am not yet at the end, but it’s not far out of reach. Looking down at Oliver’s bowed head, I can’t help smiling. I pull the headphones off, comb my fingers through his hair again, and give a little tug. “You’ve been very patient, Oliver.”
He tips his face up to me and beneath the mask I see the dreamy, almost glass-like sheen in his eyes again. His lips part, and after a moment, as though he has to wait for the words to wind their way through his brain, he says simply, “Thank you.”
“I’m not quite finished for the night,” I tell him. “There’s one last section I’d like to get written down.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
“I’ll need a fresh music sheet.”
The lips part slightly, almost in protest, but then he says, resigned, “Would you like me to fetch—”
“Actually, Oliver,” I tell him, “I think I have what I need. Come with me.”
He rises, only slightly unsteady, and I can’t resist sliding my palm down his flank, pulling him into an embrace as I stay there, seated. The skin of his belly is smooth and still warm from the shower as I rest my forehead on him, inhaling his scent. I smell the soap, yes—but under it,him. His cock is thickening, and when I press a kiss against his hip, I hear him hum with pleasure.
I stand and lead him over to the valet station so he can undress me. “You’ve learned well,” I observe, as he works. “I’ve been very pleased with you today, Oliver.” He smiles, but before he can thank me, I go on. “And I want you to know that I’m grateful to you for staying one more night. I want you to remember me when you leave here, and so I’m going to give you something to remember me by.”
And then I explain to himexactlywhat I want to do, until his breath has quickened and his pupils enlarged. “What do you think, Oliver? Will you dance with me again tonight?”
“Green, my lord,” is his only reply.
At my command, he lies down on the bed, letting me direct his position so that his head is slightly over the end, and I look down into his upside-down mask. Later, in the dark, I will pull off that barrier between us and enjoy kissing him again without any impediment. But for now, it must stay in place.
I take a step back to look him over in the soft lamplight glowing at the side of the room.
He’s gorgeous. Sturdy and well-toned, his tanned flesh rounding over those worked-for muscles. It’s a cliche that LA is full of the Beautiful People, but I’ve always found it true. Oliver is proof positive.
His chest rises and falls as his breath quickens under my gaze, and I enjoy watching his nipples bead, as though begging for my attention. I reach to play idly with one of them, and he gives a little moan, shifting under my touch, his growing cock rolling over on his thigh in a most inviting manner.
But I have other things I want to do to him before we get tothat.
“You must stay very still, Oliver.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“This will take some time.”
