Heshouldn’t…but shouldn’t was just as dangerous and unpredictable asshould.
He followed the young man inside and shut thedoor.
The room was kept dark, and Laurence reached out to find the switch on the wall when a hand stopped him. Its fingers slid across his palm sensually, then laced into the spaces that separated each of his digits. The hand was soft and warm, but as Laurence’s fingers curled over its back, tracing each knuckle, he found that it wasn’t smooth. A rough, broken patch of something clung to one of the hand’s knuckles. Laurence didn’t think it was dry skin. A dot of dried glue,maybe?
He closed his eyes. In the dark, they did him no good,anyway.
What was that rough, flaking patch he’dfound?
He didn’t have long to think. Delicate words traced his neck like cursive over creamy paper. “To return to the topic of our previous conversation, I’d argue that science can be passion, just as art can be procedural. Before you interrupt, allow me to elaborate.” The playful, cunning quality of the whispered words painted a picture in Laurence’s mind. A charming smirk. A glint of mischief in beautiful blue eyes. The sharp, gorgeous features of a face, head quirked to the side. Full lips so close to Laurence’s neck, they were almosttouching.
Almost.
But where should was dangerous and unpredictable, almost was a temptation never realized. It went hand in hand with never. And while what remained of Laurence’s logical mind told him that he should side with the concept of never—especially when it came to the young omega who seemed to be doing his very best to seduce him—his heart told him that it had hadenough.
No morealmost.
No morenever.
He’d denied himself longenough.
“Take, for consideration, the art of sex,” the young man murmured. He came closer, his words hot on Laurence’s skin. A shiver shot down Laurence’s spine and stiffened his cock. How could words feel so good? “The process of procreation is science, isn’t it? The swapping of fluid, the introduction of gametes, the evolutionary drive of an omega’s heat, and the alpha’s instinctual reaction to the pheromones itproduces…”
Laurence’s lungs were shriveled. He couldn’t fill them if he tried. Breath was a secondary consideration. All he wanted was to feel the young man in front ofhim.
No.
Toclaimhim. To make himhis.
When he spoke, his words were hollow with effort and only carried as far as the young man’s ears. “So, you’d argue that sex isscience?”
“No.” Another unseen smirk. The young man dipped his head down so his words ghosted across the hollow where Laurence’s shoulder met his neck. “Sex is science, but it’salsoart. For every mechanical, utilitarian thrust, there is a breathtaking arch of a back, or a stretch of a long, beautiful neck… a breathy moan like music, or a shuddered gasp that’s prettier than any equation could be. Sex iseverything.It’s the most beautiful thing in the world, because it shows that bridge between the mundane and the artistic. It embodies perfection. It flaunts duplicity and embraces it. And the most stunning thing about it? It’s so transparent in what it is. It is the ultimate triumph in science, and a masterpiece that inspiresbillions.”
Laurence’s tongue went rogue and allowed words he never should have spoken to be heard. “And so here you are at an artgallery…”
“Looking to make amasterpiece.”
There was no more room for should, nor was there room for almost. Not now. Not ever again. The bumbling scientist in Laurence was gone. The lofty, rational part of his mind had been dismantled. All that was left was what his walls of logic fought so hard to contain—rampant, chaoticneed.
He tugged the young man closer, pinned him to the door, and found the line of his slender neck with his nose. The young man’s breath hitched as he sucked air into his lungs, and his body went rigid from the suddenness of it all. If the stranger was the artist—the one who’d laid the groundwork for the scenario they now shared—then Laurence was his painting, and his conquest was his work ofart.
“What color is pleasure?” Laurence asked. His lips brushed the young man’sskin.
No morealmost.
The reply was so quiet, he barely heard it. “Let me paint with my cum and we can find outtogether.”
2
Alex
Without vision,there was only touch and sound. Alex closed his eyes and tilted his head back until it met the door. The cold, solid wood was in contrast with the heated body now pressing against him, and it made the intensity of the moment all the more evocative. Like this, only the most vivid images of the man he’d led into his studio stuck in hismind.
His sharp suit, and the way it fit his solidshoulders.
The curious intensity in his dark brown eyes, and the way the glasses in front of themshimmered.
The stubble along his rugged jaw, slightly unkempt, but achinglygorgeous.
