“But how?”
“I can e-mail you tracks, send demos of anyone I’m considering for the band. Sometimes I might want to talk about nothing. Or about the tuna sandwich I had for lunch that doesn’t come close to yours. Who else will put up with me prattling on about nonsense?” He shifted his chair closer and stared into Sebastian’s eyes. “Everyone out there wants a piece of Henri Lafontaine. They see the money, the fame, and they want their share of the pie. They don’t see me.” Actually, Henri wouldn’t mind Seb wanting more of him. Where had such a thought come from?
The curtains ruffled on the window to their left. Henri nodded and the door opened. A lone violinist stepped out onto the balcony, now shadowed by dusk settling over the mountains. Henri stood and bowed to Sebastian. “May I have this dance?”
For a moment Seb hesitated, and Henri feared being turned down. Then Sebastian shook his head, a rueful grin on his face. “You know me too well. I can’t resist dancing.”
As before at the house, Sebastian took the lead, sweeping Henri a bit closer to his chest than he’d done in the music room. No matter how shy he appeared while dining, when singing or dancing he came into his own. Henri rested his head against Sebastian’s shoulder, swaying to something sultry and slow. Seb hummed along with the melody, his voice rumbling through his chest and into Henri’s ear.
Keeping their bodies tightly together shielded their rising erections from the violinist, and tantalized Henri with the brush of his cock against Seb’s. Still Seb kept rhythm, never faltering as Henri did, and never abandoning the dance to hump Henri’s thigh like Henri wanted desperately for him to do.
The song faded, and Henri pulled back. Seb stared down at him, eyes aglow and lips curled up the edges. If ever a moment cried out for kiss, this one did. If they were man and woman, nothing would stop them.
Oh screw it. Henri reached up, placed his hand against Seb’s cheek, and brought their lips together.
The violinist missed a note.
Just one.
* * *
“Where doyou want these?” Henri carried the vase of gladiolas into the house.
In true Sebastian Unger fashion, Seb grew humble. “I still can’t believe you bought me flowers.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve never gotten flowers from a man before.”
Seb’s face shaded to match the crimson of the blooms. “On some nights my dressing room is filled with bouquets from fans—some men, some women. These are special.”
Henri sat the vase down on the entryway table and swept a humming Seb into his arms to whirl him around the foyer. He’d gotten much better at avoiding toes. Sebastian kept time as they stepped through the hall, turning lights on and off along the way. They reached the bottom of the stairs. “I guess this is good night.” Damn, but Henri wanted to dance, and more, until dawn.
Sebastian studied the floor for a minute and slowly released a loud exhale. He lifted their joined hands and kissed Henri’s fingers. “It doesn’t have to be.”
Henri’s heart hammered against his ribs. “Are you sure?”
“How else will I get to see the rest of your body art?” Sebastian led the way to his room and closed the door behind them, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the floor. What was he afraid of? After a moment he recovered, resuming his humming and their dance. He lost his awkwardness while dancing, or singing, his former confidence returning. For a man who made the masses swoon, Seb seemed a novice at romance.
“I don’t do pity fucks,” Sebastian said.
An answer rolled readily off of Henri’s tongue: “Neither do I.”
Seb backed away, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. Henri batted his hands away and took control, making short work of the closures. The shirt rustled to the floor. When Seb bent to pick up the garment, Henri stopped him. “Let it lie. We’ll worry about cleanup later.” Henri’s T joined Seb’s shirt on the floor, soon followed by khakis and jeans. Seb wore nothing under his pants. And Henri hadn’t noticed? Damn, he’d lost his touch.
Sebastian peeled the tie out of Henri’s hair, unraveling the braid until Henri’s hair brushed free over his shoulders.
Henri kicked off the designer briefs he’d been paid to endorse before his meltdown. At last they stood naked, Henri self-conscious about his skinny frame, multicolored ink etched into his skin: dragons, demons, warrior princes, and, carefully hidden in the midst of flame, the image of a man, sword in hand. Henri had never before told anyone the meaning, hinted at in one of his earlier, lesser known songs: “Walk Through Fire.”He’d gotten the piece during one of his sappier moments, back when he’d still lived and breathed music and hadn’t yet become a commodity. He’d screamed out the words, “I’d walk through fire for love,” and young women had screamed them back at his concerts.
Seb was beautiful without adornment. And solid. A thick coat of reddish-brown curls covered his chest, a lighter coating on his belly, arms and legs. His semi-hard cock matched the rest of him, tall and thick, rising from the only trimmed hair below Sebastian’s neckline.
Henri rose up on his toes to enjoy one of Sebastian’s kisses and press his own hardening flesh against a furred thigh. For a man who professed to not having been kissed much, Sebastian learned fast.
He caressed Henri’s tongue with his own, unhurried, arms held stiffly by his sides. When Henri ran his fingers up Sebastian’s spine to grip his shoulders, Sebastian responded, timidly at first, then more assured in his exploration of Henri’s back, never venturing below the waist until Henri did.
The curls on Sebastian’s chest were interesting to touch, and most of the guys Henri had been with in the last few years trimmed or shaved their body hair. Henri’s patch of roughly three dozen chest hairs didn’t require much maintenance, though he did trim the dark pelt around his groin. Shaving wasn’t happening. A “hmmm” sneaked out.
“What?” Sebastian craned his neck to peer down his chest to where Henri now slithered his fingers though silky swirls.
“I like your fur. It’s sexy.”
