June 14, 1998

Michael: I turned the Mercedes onto one of the small side streets not far from the University, streets lined with outdoor basketball and tennis courts. Several were in use, filled with students, both male and female, but I was looking for a very specific basketball court.

Ah. There. I pulled the sleek black car into an empty space and shut it off, watching the four men playing. They were all quite good looking with lovely athletic bodies, but my attention focused on the tall one with the golden tan and the red shorts. I could feel the corner of my mouth crook into a smile.

Randy: I never tired of looking at him, watching him move. On the basketball court, he was quick and surprisingly agile, playing aggressively, white teeth flashing in a grin as he tore past the man guarding him to shoot a basket that swooshed through the hoop. My own grin grew wider as he did this utterly ridiculous victory shuffle, whooping like a teenager. The slanting afternoon sun gleamed off his bare shoulders, shone blue-black in his short hair. I knew he'd smell of sweat and healthy man, and my mouth fairly watered to scent him, to taste him. I loved him just as much sweaty as I did fresh from the shower, if not more.

One of the other men, whooping just as much, ran by him, and gave his ass a pat. Although I knew it was just something done in the spirit of the game, I felt my eyes behind the sunglasses I wore narrow for just a fraction of a second before dismissing it as nothing of consequence.

I opened the door and stepped out, closing it behind me and leaning against the front fender, crossing long denim-clad legs and folding my arms across my chest, watching them play. Watching Randy move. He was such a busy man, always running here and there, that I'd remembered his schedule and tracked him down just to see him. Even if I only was able to see him a few moments, I would be very glad. My mouth crooked again in a smile.

Randy: There's nothing quite like the feeling of the ball as it leaves your fingers and swooshes through the hoop--unless it's the feel of canvas and ropes, and the smell of salt air. Basketball comes in a close second for me, and I grinned at Josh as he patted my ass after his own version of my victory dance. We were beating Cory and Quent by nearly twenty points.

"Randy--is that him?" Cory was the quiet one of the four of us, and we sometimes didn't hear him unless he shouted. But he jiggled my arm, then inclined his head to indicate the long, lean figure settled on the sleek black car. Michael.

I knew we were still in what Sandy always referred to as 'the honeymoon phase'--the phase where your partner can't do anything wrong, and all you do is fuck like bunnies. But my heart always seemed to speed up a few hundred beats per second whenever I first saw him...and just thinking about him always made me feel as if I had a fever--along with a curious swelling in parts south of my navel. I flashed the guys a grin, and raised my arm to wave at Michael. "Yeah, that's him." I could feel the grin spreading; it was going to be one of those stupid ones, the kind I know I always wore after he fucked me senseless. I turned and jogged a few steps toward the fence, then cupped my hands and yelled, "Michael! C'mere!"

Michael: I waited a moment so as not to seem as eager as I felt, then unfolded myself and strolled across the street and up to the chain link fence that surrounded the court. Randy stood grinning on the other side of it, long fingers threaded through the links, half leaning, half standing, his hip jutting out at a jaunty angle. So beautiful. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning like an idiot and was glad the sunglasses helped to hide my eyes; I was acutely aware of the others watching us. I raised my hand, and threaded my fingers through the links, stroking his fingers. I wanted to touch him, even if only a little bit. "Caro," I said softly. "Are you winning?"

Randy: "For a change." I wanted to kiss him so bad. It'd only been a few hours since I'd seen him; I'd left him muttering over something in the business section of the Times, after a Sunday-morning brunch for two. A few hours. God, I had it bad. I stared at him, then turned my head. "Break-time, guys and Josh."

"Fuck you, Taylor." I didn't have to see him to hear the grin in his voice.

"You wish." I gave Michael's fingers a squeeze, then let him go, pulling mine back as I moved over toward the gate. "I have some water in my truck, Michael. Come with me?"

Michael: "Absolutely," I said, and watched a quick flush of color over his cheekbones before he came out the gate. The others were frankly watching us, in various stages of curiosity. I had an urge to give them a rude gesture and slide my arm around Randy's waist and put my hand on his ass, just to give them something to look at. But that was a childish thought, so instead, I nodded solemnly at them and walked at Randy's side, my hands securely in the pockets of my denims. I didn't need to embarrass him in front of his friends.

At the Ford, he opened the door and reached in for a towel and a bottle of water. The towel he used to scrub over his head and neck and wipe down his smooth, broad chest before he uncapped the bottle and took a long drink. I admired the long length of his throat, and it was incredibly difficult not to touch him. Knowing we were partially hidden by the open door, I surrendered to the impulse and let my fingers trail over his belly down to the elastic of those brief red shorts; the muscles of his stomach shivered beneath my light touch. "Will you be very much longer? Not that I'm rushing you, mind."

Randy: I resisted the urge to dump the rest of the bottle over my head. I hadn't realized I was getting quite so hot; while we were all moving around, and the breeze was blowing, I was fine. When I stopped and stood still, I heated up. I took another long gulp of water, closing my eyes when his fingers teased around my waist, dipped briefly into my navel. "You keep that up, and I'm going to be a lot longer, very quickly." I took another drink, then capped the bottle before tossing it into the truck. I wished I could see his eyes; Michael's eyes show me things he doesn't show on his face. "We'll probably quit pretty soon; Josh and I are winning, and we generally stop after one team gets a good advantage over the other. What'd you have in mind?" I swayed a little closer, just hovering in his personal space.

Michael: I smiled at him, a genuine smile, not one of my political ones I'd perfected over the years. Just being close, talking to him, was enough to make me feel warm; how much time had gone by since I'd felt that way about anyone? Far too many years, I thought. I pushed my sunglasses to the top of my head. "Nothing really spectacular. Just dinner, and maybe some quiet time together. We don't get to see one another often enough." I let my hand rest on his slim hip. "I can make us a frittata and salad, and we can stay in, if you'd like." I leaned in a little closer. "I've been told I make a wicked frittata." Unable to resist any longer, I brushed my mouth against his.

Randy: I was intrigued by the idea of Michael cooking; it was hard to imagine him doing much around the house, or kitchen. Not that I had a lot of experience to go on yet. We were still in the first month of this...relationship. I shivered at that word, at the same time he deepened the kiss just enough to make my toes tingle, and I raised my hands to grip his shoulders. Both of us in running shoes made him about two inches taller than me, but it was workable.

I could hear Josh making a rude, cheering noise behind us and pulled back, a grin spreading over my face. "At least we gave the heathens a show." I leaned in and kissed him again, just a quick brush of my mouth over his, then said softly, "Dinner in sounds great. We don't get enough time together."

Michael: My fingers tightened a little on his hip, and I refrained from sliding my hand around to cup heavy genitals. "Would the heathens be shocked if we gave them more of a show?" I flicked my eyes to the young man he'd called Josh, who watched us with unconcealed interest, and couldn't resist the tease.

Randy: I grinned and leaned in closer. "Cory might, but he'll get over it. Josh'll probably cheer us again." I shrugged and winked. "I have no idea about Quent. Wanna give it a shot and see?

Michael: I felt the devil rise in me and grinned wickedly. "I won't do as I wish---I've no desire to be arrested for public indecency." I slid my arm around him, my hand into the back of his shorts, fingers spreading over his tight, hard ass cheek. The other arm went around his shoulders, pulling him close into my body. I didn't care that he was sweaty, that I'd end up as wet as he was. His green eyes flashed a moment, then I covered his mouth with mine and delved deep, careless of who watched or what they might think.

Randy: PDAs aren't normally my thing, but then, there's been nothing 'normal' about Michael and me, from the get-go. And this was too good to pass up. Much too good. I arched against him, feeling the soft groan he swallowed vibrate through me. God, he tasted good, smelled good, felt good. Some expensive shaving lotion that always smelled cool and fresh, with a sharp tang whenever I chanced to lick his neck. Behind me I could hear Josh cheer again and figured no one would mind if I called the game early. We'd played together for years, quitting whenever we needed to. And a kiss of this potential magnitude deserved my full attention. Basketball could wait for another day, when I wasn't thinking with my cock.

When I pulled back we were both breathing heavily, and I raised one hand to touch Michael's lips, now softly swollen. "Gimme about ten, and I'll be right behind you."

Michael: "Finish your game," I said. "We've all evening together, if you'd like." I licked my lips; I could taste him there. Though the offer was genuine, I had him, and we both knew it. The door and my body blocked him from view, and I couldn't resist slipping my hand down his shorts to wrap my fingers around his heavy cock and give a friendly squeeze. He was already half-hard behind the elastic of the supporter, and his cock pulsed as I touched him. "I shouldn't intrude on your time like this," I said softly, and withdrew my hand. "But I find I miss you during the week when I don't see you more than a few moments here and there."

The confession surprised me, and I think surprised him as well. I stepped back, pulled my sunglasses down again, feeling a bit exposed by what I'd said, and needing to regroup. The crisp white shirt I wore wasn't nearly as crisp; I smelled of his sweat, and was damp with it. Not that I minded; I'd become addicted to Randysmell in all its various forms. "Finish your game. I'll be at the flat when you're done." I flashed him a smile before turning away. His shorts tented out rather obviously in the front, and my own denims were much tighter than they'd been before. The young man who had been cheering us hung on the fence, unabashedly watching; I gave him a smile as I passed. At the Mercedes, I waved once more at Randy, then got in and drove away, my cock hard and hot beneath my zipper.

My confession had popped out before I'd realized it, but as I drove, I was utterly certain that it was the truth. I *did* miss him. I seldom saw him but for a few moments during the week; he was incredibly busy. Those times were good, filled with explosive, incredible sex, but I found that I wanted...more. I wanted to share quiet moments with him as well. I wanted to wake up with him, go to sleep with him more than once or twice a week. I wanted to sit with him and read, or play chess with him. Things we seldom had time to do.

I turned a corner, cutting it a bit too sharply and bumping over the curb as I realized that I wanted him to live with me. I swore softly, in English, then in Italian, and finally, in French, just for good measure. It surprised me and yet did not; had he been a woman I cared for just as much, it would have been a logical conclusion.

But Randy was no woman; he was a man, fiercely independent and his life was incredibly full. What would he think if I told him what I wanted? Would he even want the same thing? For all I knew, he was happy with the status quosex without strings. I was certain he didn't sleep with anyone else, but to actually move in would be a major step, one I didn't know he was ready for.

The only thing to do was to feel him out, to see what he wanted; I'd never pressure him. If he wasn't ready, then things would go on as they were; we'd catch our moments as we could, and I'd satisfy myself with that. If he was, well, all the better, because I was ready to offer myself in a committed, one on one relationship. I found the irony incredible; I'd never been one to want anything more than carefree sex. Randy, though, was different than anyone else, and made me look at things in a whole new light. A grin quirked my mouth as I turned the Mercedes toward the flat.

Randy: I watched Michael drive away for a moment, standing behind the imagined safety of my truck. Jesus, a few touches and kisses and I was as ready to go as a kid in his teens or early twenties. I'd have thought by the time thirty rolled around, I'd have things a little more under control. Apparently not.

I uncapped the water bottle and swallowed some more down; even tepid, as it was rapidly becoming, it was cooler than my body and felt good going down my throat.

Michael's comment about missing me surprised me. I missed him, though, so why not? I found myself missing him any one of half a dozen different moments throughout the course of any given day. Hard to believe it hadn't even been three weeks since we'd returned from our sailing weekend. I shook my head and gulped the rest of the bottle before tossing it into my truck, along with the towel, and shutting the door with maybe more force than necessary.

I wanted more...sometimes, and some days it was all I could do not to just disappear into the mists of the city. Michael made me want things I'd sworn not to want again for a long time, if ever. He made me want the security, and comfort I felt with him, all the time. He made me want love. At times that was cool, but some days it scared the hell out of me.

Quent was watching me closely when I jogged back over to the court; no small wonder, since it didn't take a genius to figure out this was probably the guy who'd sent me into his office in a frenzy of panic, one sunny spring day just over a month ago. I gave him a smile, warning him off with my eyes. I didn't *even* want to get into it, just now.

"He's hot, Randy." Josh pushed himself off the fence he'd been leaning on. "Where'd you meet him?"

Swell. I held my hands out for the ball, and Cory bounced it to me, his eyes asking the same thing Josh had just asked. I sighed, and then grinned. "At a work party. Y'know, one of those cocktail things I'm occasionally coerced into going to?"

"Sheee, man, if I thought I could find someone like that at a cocktail party, I'd start hitting all of 'em in San Fran." Josh jogged after me, laughing.

"Yeah, and Brian would so be lovin' that, wouldn't he?" I shook my head and dribbled, waiting to see what else was coming. Cory didn't disappoint me. It's always the quiet ones.

"What's he do?"

There was no way I was going to offer up all the details; not until I'd cleared it with Michael first. But vague, general answers would suffice for now. "He's in business. Works in the administration portion of the company."

"And then some." Quent's voice was right behind me, low and a little growly. Shit. I passed the ball to Josh, then swiveled, giving him a glare.

"And then some, *what*?" I was not in the mood for this. The part of me that had been glad to see Michael a little bit ago was rapidly becoming annoyed. I was having to deal with more than I'd been ready to deal with. Specifically, who and what he was.

"You think I don't read the financial sections of the paper? That I'm unaware of one of the largest pharmaceutical companies in the world?" All pretense of playing basketball was gone. Quent crossed his arms over his chest, watching me closely out of dark brown eyes. It was unnerving, to say the least. "Michael Pierson, CEO of Pierson Pharmaceuticals."

"Christ, Taylor!" Josh stuttered to a stop beside Quent, holding the ball. "You're fucking the *boss*?"

I flipped him off. "It's a little more than that, Josh." Well, hell. I'd said it out loud. But...it was, wasn't it? I sighed and shook my head, then headed for the bench on the side of the court. If we were going to do this here and now, I was going to sit for it.

"You're kinda playing with the big boys now, aren't you, Randy?" Cory settled himself beside me, and I looked over at him. "Pierson makes the financial news at least a couple times a month, for one reason or another. All you gotta do is read the Times or Wall Street Journal to know that."

"What, y'all don't think I can handle myself? It's not like I'm totally ignorant of the circles he plays in." I wanted more water. Juice. Orange juice. Lots of ice. I wanted Michael. I groaned and dropped my head in my hands.

I was so fucked.

"It's not a question of that--" Josh settled himself against the fence behind me, his presence a comfort.

"Yes, it is." Quent's voice, sharp, strong, disapproving. I raised my head and glared.

"We're *not* going there."

He raised one eyebrow, looking startlingly like a Mr. Spock clone for a moment. I bit my lip to keep from laughing. "Do *you* think you can handle yourself with him?"

"Yes." I let the word hang for a minute, liking the confidence I heard in it. "He's not Bran, Quent. He's...not. Not like him."

"Are you sure?" Only Quent would have the balls to push this, in a semi-public forum. Josh would probably grill me later, privately, but Quent...much as I loved him, sometimes I wanted to stuff his tongue down his throat. "You've only known him a short while...can you make that judgment?"

"*Yes*, goddammit! Do I look like a kid, who can't make an informed decision?" I did not want Cory and Josh to know how bad I'd fucked up the first time around with Michael. It was bad enough Quent knew. Bad enough I knew.

"Enough, Quent. Leave 'im alone." Josh's hand was warm on my shoulder, and not for the first time, I was glad he and I'd never gone to bed together. I needed him as a friend. "We all know what happened with Bran. There's no way any of us could've predicted what happened. And there's no way we can stand here and determine whether or not Michael could end up that way--though statistics would indicate probably not. He's had plenty of time to crack under the strain before meeting Randy."

I leaned back against his legs and grinned up at him. "Thanks, I think." Sometimes it was unnerving how easily Josh switched from jock-extraordinaire, to psych prof and back again.

He ruffled my hair. "You're welcome."

Cory was still watching quietly, and Quent's eyes were dark with things he wanted to say, but wouldn't--at least now. I nodded at them, then shifted to stand up. "If y'all are done for the moment, and if we're done playing, I'm gonna head on out. I've got an invitation for the afternoon and evening." Cory grinned then, and I rolled my eyes. "Dirty mind."

"What can I say? You've taught me well."

"I'm not gonna take the blame, man. You hang with Josh, too."

"Hey! I resemble that remark." He laughed, leaning down to grab the ball. "Call me, Taylor. We'll have lunch one day this week." He patted Cory's shoulder. "And you owe me a beer."

"I thought it was 'winner buys the beer'." Cory smiled. "I'll see you, Randy. Take care."

"You, too." They headed toward the gate, leaving Quent and I standing, staring at each other. I frowned at him. "More lecture?"

"Not now. But you and I need to talk. Soon." He reached down to pick up his gym bag. "And I want to do another blood test."

"He's clean, Quent."

"And after only a few weeks, and some seriously unsafe sex, you're going to take him at his word?"

I considered, then frowned and sighed. "Fine. I'll call and make an appointment; we can have lunch, then."

"Good. Within the week."

I rolled my eyes. "You need some work on that sympathetic bedside manner you guys are supposed to have."

"Bye, Randy." He smiled briefly, then headed out the gate and down the street toward his car.

I unlocked the truck again, climbed inside, and sat for a minute. Hell, that had accomplished exactly nothing. Michael and I were going to have to have that talk again. Yes, I was willing to take him at his word. I trusted him.

That was what counted, right?

I put the truck into gear and headed for Michael's.

*****

Michael: Once back to the flat, I kicked off my trainers, pulled off my socks, and headed for the kitchen. Miles stood perusing the cabinets, his shirt and trousers covered by a sedately blue protective bib apron that, as far as I knew, had never known a food stain.

"Good afternoon, Sir," he said politely. "I was contemplating dinner. Have you any preferences? Or shall you be dining out tonight?"

I poured a goblet of crisp white wine; the bouquet rose to tease my nose. Miles' accent was still sharp, while mine had blurred a little from my time spent in the states. He was much more formal than ever I had been, though he and Clara, the family cook, had practically raised me from infancy. It didn't really surprise me; he was of the generation firmly ingrained with class consciousness, and he'd always treated me with a certain formality, no matter our years together.

"Oh, I feel rather like cooking myself, tonight," I said, and smiled as his brown eyes went skeptical.

"You feel rather like cooking?" He paused a beat, his timing perfect. "God help us all."

"I'm wounded...mortally wounded...by your doubts," I said with a grin. "I can cook...Nonna and Clara made certain of it, as I was always underfoot as a child."

"Yes, well," he murmured. "Just be advised that smoke damage is costly to repair."

"It hasn't been that long since I've taken a turn at the stove," I replied with some asperity, leaning against the countertop, crossing my legs at the ankles. The tile was cool and smooth beneath my feet.

"Two years," Miles replied promptly. "I remember it quite well. Some peasant food, as I recall."

"Ah, yes, but *excellent* peasant food. And there was no destruction of property involved. I was nine the last time that happened, for god's sake."

"It is indelibly etched in my memory, Sir," Miles replied dryly.

"Well *unetch* it," I replied. I took a sip of wine, then moved past him to pull out eggs, onions, and green peppers from the refrigerator.

Miles shed his apron, hung it on the hook, resigned to the fact I'd be puttering about in *his* kitchen, his domain. He didn't look particularly pleased at the prospect.

"As you wish. The number to the fire company is on speed dial," he said helpfully.

"Your wit overwhelms me at times, Miles," I replied from the depths of the refrigerator, looking for my container of fat black olives.

He recognized what I intended to make and pulled out a cooking pan. "I live to serve, as always. Will you be needing anything else?"

"I think not," I said, and emerged triumphant. Few things were as lovely as Calimari olives. "The evening is entirely yours now. I'm having company." I placed the jar on the countertop and set to washing my hands.

"Ah." Though the word was simple, I turned back from washing my hands to look at him. His face was utterly expressionless, the perfect manservant's face, presented when something displeased him. Unfortunately, I knew it well from years of seeing it frequently. "Dr. Taylor, I presume?"

"You presume correctly," I said, rolling up my shirtsleeves, watching the non-expression in his face.

Wisely, he said nothing else, though I knew he disapproved. He cleared his throat. "Shall you be needing me in the morning, Sir?"

I knew that the last thing that Randy wanted to see in the morning was Miles; I knew it made him very uncomfortable and was something we'd have to hash out, as Miles was integral to my functioning well. He was employee and family, all in one.

"I think I can manage, thank you," I said. "Enjoy your time off, and I'll see you tomorrow afternoon."

"I'll be taking your newest suit in for cleaning...do you wish anything else to go at this time?"

"I think not," I replied, chopping green and red peppers. "You repaired the button that was loose on the sleeve. Thank you."

"You're welcome, as always." He lingered a moment, and I looked up, thinking he might want to say something else, but whatever he thought, he didn't express. "I'll say my good night to you then, Sir."

"Good night, Miles. Sleep well."

"One of us shall," he murmured, and disappeared as I laughed.

"Truer words," I said to the empty air. I poured olive oil into the pan, and when it bubbled, dumped the onions and peppers in.

Randy: By the time I reached Michael's building, I'd had a chance to get some of the more complicated feelings and emotions back under control. I didn't need to go in there freaking out, or all angry, though I was a little. Mainly at Quent, but a little bit at Michael himself, for reasons I wasn't even completely sure of.

I parked and rode the elevator up, pacing in the small box, rather than standing and relaxing like I usually did. Why was this all so complicated? I wasn't usually so ambivalent, and figuring out what I was feeling wasn't generally this difficult.

I raised my hand to knock; I had a card-key, but still felt awkward just letting myself in, though Michael had told me any number of times it was alright, he wanted me to. I just didn't feel comfortable walking into his space--though I'd taken over some of his space, lately, with various pieces of clothing, books, and whatnot making their way over here, bit by bit. I waited a minute, then knocked again; he might have the stereo on, and not hear me. After another minute or two of waiting impatiently, I dug the card out of my wallet and swiped it through, letting myself in.

The sound of sizzling food told me why he hadn't heard me, and the air was filled with the scent of sautéed peppers and onions and spices. I breathed in deeply and my belly growled, reminding me it'd been some hours--with heavy physical exercise no less--since I'd last eaten.

I half-expected Miles to be at the stove, in spite of Michael's earlier comments about frittatas, but it was Michael. Tall, lean, gorgeous enough to eat. I dropped my gym bag on the floor and kicked off my shoes before going over to wrap my arms around his waist and kissing the back of his neck. "Mmmmm. Smells good."

Michael: I shivered and laughed, then elbowed him gently. "The food, or me?" I set the pan of sizzling vegetables on an unused burner and turned. Randy had pulled on a plain white tee shirt that looked really good on him, stretching across his sleekly muscled chest and arms in the most wonderful way. He smiled at me, and I wrapped my arms around him. Ah, wonderful. Solid, sweaty man. Few things better in the world. His mouth was hot and wet, tongue aggressive, as were his hands, squeezing my ass. Testosterone was a *good* thing. When I could breathe again, I leaned in and bit his neck. "Now, or after dinner?"

Randy: "After dinner." Everything inside me was screaming, my body suddenly on full alert, but I could control it, right? Surely at some point in time, I'd learned to shut out chants from the little head. I shifted, pushing his face away from mine, pushing his head back slightly and to the side. He shivered when I kissed his ear, then whispered, "The food smells good, but you smell better, darlin'." I bit down, then, sucking just long enough to hear his groan before I let go. I'd mark him later, where it wouldn't show.

Michael: How little it took to make my body come alive. One touch, one kiss, one smile. I let him pull away, though every instinct told me to hang on tightly. "Later, then. Get something to drink, and shower---by the time you're finished, dinner will be done."

Randy: I gave Michael one more quick kiss then headed for the bathroom. It felt good to strip off damp, sticky clothes and stand under a cool spray. I lathered myself up with the gel Michael used, something that smelled kind of oceany and fresh, then washed my hair quickly afterward. I needed to shave, but I could do that later; maybe tomorrow morning, or even this evening, before bed. I wasn't in the mood right now; this was just to get the sweat of basketball off me.

By the time I was clean, dried, and dressed again in sweat shorts, I could smell the frittata. My belly rumbled again, a little more forcefully this time. Michael was chopping something up--stuff for salad, maybe?--so I kissed his neck once, then headed for the fridge to grab a bottle of water. "Want me to set the table?"

Michael: "If you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate it," I replied, and paused to take another sip of wine before combining the salad vegetables together on plates. Miles had already mixed up a carafe of dressing, and I handed it to Randy as he passed by, trailing a mixture of my bath scent and his own sweetly musky smell. He wore those sweat shorts I liked so well, and obviously, nothing else, from the way they clung to him. I watched him unashamedly as he set the table, moving with surprising grace. He caught me watching, and grinned at me as he set down a plate. I smiled back at him, then pulled the pan from the oven, and slid the frittata onto a serving platter. It sizzled a little, perfectly golden brown and fragrant. No smoke alarms went off; I'd have to tell Miles he needed to have more confidence in my abilities.

By the time I brought the food in, Randy stood riffling through my CD collection, looking for something to put on. "It's your turn to choose," I said, placing the food on the table. "We listened to blues the last time, I believe."

Randy: "I believe you're correct." I arched an eyebrow, waiting for the exasperated smile Michael always gave me when I did my rendition of his accent. He didn't disappoint me this time, either. "That *really* smells good, darlin'." I didn't find anything I wanted to listen to, particularly, either from his CDs, or the batch I'd brought over one day last week. I turned the stereo on and flipped stations until I came to the one I usually listened to in the truck; they held all commercials and did them at the end of the hour, rather than interspersing them throughout the music. It was a rather novel approach to radio, as far as I was concerned.

Michael cut large pieces for both of us while I shook the salad dressing vigorously, pouring healthy dollops onto both plates. It made a good dip for the bread he served, too, I'd decided. I waited almost until we were both actually sitting to take my first bite; it was loaded with herbs and spices, the sharp tang of peppers and cheese rolling over my tongue. "Very good." I eyed him consideringly. "Maybe I should stop slaving away and let you into the kitchen more often. It's good to be domesticated, y'know."

Michael: "This is just about as domesticated as I get," I said with a smile. "I can cook only enough to prevent starvation, thanks to Nonna and Clara. When I first went off to University, I shared a flat with a young American student whose idea of cooking was running out for fish and chips." I took a bite of frittata; perfect. "One can live only so long on fish and chips. My cooking lessons kept us from starving. Sometime I'll make pasta puttanesca for you."

Randy: I laughed at that. "You sound like you're cussing." He grinned back at me, his eyes dancing warmly. I heave a mental sigh; *this* is what I've missed, being with someone. The chance to laugh and joke, and just...be together. And it's a good thing.

I devoured my piece, plus another, and my plate of salad, plus several hunks of bread before I was ready to call it quits for the time being. It was early yet; not much past five, so I could have another small piece later, as a snack. I waited until we were pretty much finished--only the cleanup left to do--before I brought up the game, and the guys' responses to Michael's appearance.

"You've been ratted out, Michael. I wasn't going to say anything...who you are...but Quent recognized you. I guess you're quite the celeb in the business world, eh?"

Michael: "One might say something like that, though I try to stay away from the press unless it is absolutely necessary. I've never been one to like the limelight." I carried plates back to the kitchen, left them stacked neatly by the sink for Miles to take care of tomorrow. "A few years ago, I was more in the public eye because Nicole loved the public life, but since then, I've managed to keep a very low profile. Bribery helps." I grinned at his expression. "It is nothing less than the truth. Lay enough money over enough palms, and they'll leave you be."

Randy searched through the cabinets, and finally found some cello wrap to cover the last of the frittata, putting it into the refrigerator, presumably for later.

"I take it your friends were disapproving, then?"

Randy: "Not...disapproving. Exactly." I thought of Quent's face, and his demand that I come back in for another test, and sighed. "Josh is impressed that I'm 'fucking the boss', as he so delicately put it. Actually, I think Josh is just impressed I've finally met someone. That you are who you are..." I shrugged. "No one ever knows exactly what Cory's thinking--he's the epitome of 'still waters run deep'. If he has something to say, he'll tell me eventually, but for now, he didn't say much." I bumped the fridge closed with my hip, then turned to face Michael. "Quent...is a different story. I don't think he...disapproves, per se, though he certainly disapproved of the fact that you and I did the dance without any protection. He's just cautious. I got...it took a long time to start healing after Bran, and I know he's afraid I'll get hurt again." I paused, then looked him in the eye. "He wants me to go back to his office this week and get another blood test done. He's probably never going to be satisfied that I'm clean...or that you are."

Michael: "I cannot say that I blame him," I replied, pragmatic. "He knows nothing of me, other than the fact that I was incredibly foolhardy. He has no reason to believe I've tested clean for as long as we've had testing. If he'd like, I can speak with him and have my doctor fax him my file with test results. He may take another, if it pleases him. It will be clean, also." I shrugged with one shoulder. "I have no desire to come between you and your friend."

Randy: I nodded. "I hate to have you do it, but if you don't mind, I'm going to ask you to. It might be the only way to get him off my back about it." I leaned against the counter, fiddling with the glass I'd been drinking from. The ice cubes were mostly melted; nothing more than tiny, translucent chips floating in water. "You're not going to come between us, Michael--I've been friends with Quent for too many years. He disapproves of a lot of things--he's pretty straight-laced, for a guy who spent his collage years playing the field with both men and women--but he's a good guy. But," I straightened up, looked him right in the eye. "By the same token, I'm not gonna let him--or any of them--come between what you and I are...building. You're a decent guy, and I...like you a lot. And I want a chance to see where we can go with it."

I could feel the heat along my cheekbones. Nice time to blush, I decided ruefully. But there it was. Funny how you always instinctively know when it's time to fish or cut bait.

Michael: I studied him for a long moment, until he fidgeted slightly in discomfort at my intensity. "This...thing we are building...does it please you? Are you satisfied with what we have to this point?" I watched his flush deepen, the shift of his weight from one foot to the next, the tensing of the line of his shoulders.

Somehow, discussing this in the kitchen, watching his toes curl on the cool tile wasn't how I pictured having this conversation. But then, I wasn't certain what I expected of it, given I'd never done this with a man before. Still, for better or for worse, it had begun. In for a pence, in for a pound, no matter how uncomfortable it made me. "Do you want...more?"

Randy: There has to be a better way to do this. A better time, a better place, a better anything. But no, I had to pick the *kitchen*. I sighed and shook my head, then gave Michael a half-smile. "I don't know what I want, truthfully. Part of me says 'yeah! more!', and the other part of me...that part is ready to run screaming for the door, just from having this conversation." I set my glass down and nodded my head in the direction of his living room. "I know this much, though: I do not want to stand here on chilly kitchen tiles to do this."

Michael: I made a courtly gesture to indicate we should move to the main room. I'd have preferred to have this conversation lying in bed, drowsy after some truly spectacular sex, but perhaps it would be more appropriate with a clear and unfuzzy brain.

Randy curled up onto the pale leather couch, rearranging throw pillows to his satisfaction, thumping them to some specification of his. I folded up in the available space left to me, wrapping my arms about my knees. I drew a deep breath, let it out slowly.

"It was not my intention to make you uncomfortable, and honestly, it surprised me probably far more than it surprises you. I do not have the best record in terms of relationships; I've avoided them as I would the plague. But I think what we have is a bit more than casual fucking, and I would like to have it fill more of my life."

Randy: I stretched one leg out and rubbed his foot with mine, needing a small amount of grounding. Amazing, how quickly he'd become my touchstone. I sighed again. I was *really* fucked.

"You're not making me uncomfortable, darlin'. Nothing I haven't thought about off and on over the last few weeks. Hell, I thought about it even when I wasn't sure I'd ever see you again." Which was as much reference as I was going to make to that first wild, incredible weekend we spent together. "I think...we have a lot more than just casual fucking going--and to answer your first question, yes, I'm pleased with what we've built so far." I scrubbed my hands over my face, then gave Michael a wry grin. "I'm not very good at this stuff. I can emote with the best of 'em when it doesn't have anything to do with me directly, but..." I shifted minutely. "I've had exactly two long-term relationships in my life. Both ended badly. One couldn't cope with the idea that he was gay; the other... well, he couldn't cope with reality." I swallowed hard, and looked at Michael. He was listening intently, watching me. It was almost unnerving. "I want this to work, Michael. The thought of it not working--" I glanced down, then back up, and shook my head. "It means too much to me. You mean too much to me."

Michael: His toes moved over my ankle, an odd little caress, though most welcomed. It was almost amusing. Danie or Nicole would've taken the reins and run with the conversation, yet Randy and I had to struggle. I felt a smile quirk the corner of my mouth. Why did it have to be so difficult?

"As I said earlier, I find that I miss you when I don't see you---a wholly novel situation upon my part, let me assure you. I would like you to consider something, and you needn't answer me right away." My fingers found his foot, stroked idly in a caress. "I find you mean more to me than ever I expected. I want to be with you more than I've wanted to be with anyone in years---enough that I would like for you to move in with me."

There. It was said. I squeezed his ankle with my fingers for a brief moment, watching his face for a reaction.

Randy: "Wow." I wasn't sure what else to say; all I could think of was, so soon? Bran and I dated for months, literally, before we made that decision...and Angel and I...well. 'Nuff said on that. I shifted a little when he stretched his leg out, and I mirrored his idle caressing of my ankle; it felt good to touch him. It would feel good to touch him more often. To not feel like I had to think of a reason to stay over, or come over, or whatever. I cleared my throat, not sure what to say, or what would come out if I opened my mouth. "I miss you, too," I blurted, then frowned, surprised that came out quite like that. Swell. "I don't...are you sure, Michael?"

Michael: "Yes, I'm certain," I replied, and found that, yes, I was very sure. I wanted to be with him more than our schedules allowed; I was weary of trying to find excuses for him to stay over. I wanted to live with him. "But the choice is yours entirely," I said gently. "If you are not ready, then I'll wait until you are---if ever. I have no intention of pressuring you for anything."

Randy: "You don't think we'd kill each other, fussing over bathroom space every morning?" I grinned at him, feeling a little of the seriousness of the moment lifting. No pressure. My decision to make. In giving me to option to say yes or no, it almost automatically made it a yes. I rubbed my foot gently upward, along the lean length of his leg and thigh. "Fourth of July is a good weekend to move, I've heard. And I work for this great guy who always gives his employees a four-day weekend."

Michael: I found myself grinning. "Strangely enough, I've heard that he's quite a demanding prick."

My heart did an odd little flip. Moving in. He had decided to move in, and relatively soon. It made me happy, it made me nervous, it made me anticipatory---name the emotion, and I'm sure they all flashed through me in varying degrees in that moment. But when they'd all crashed through, the predominant one was happiness. "I know," I said, and transferred my hand from his ankle to his wrist, and squeezed gently, "I know it won't be easy, at least initially. But I think...I think we'll be more pleased than displeased."

Randy: "That's because you haven't done a true-blue, can't-get-out-of-it morning with me yet." I smirked at him, feeling uncertain, incredibly excited, fearful, anticipatory, and so much more I wasn't able to--couldn't--catalogue it. "I'm *not* a morning person, Michael. And chances are, you'll hate me when you see that for real." I shifted forward and moved my hand until I could thread my fingers through his. "But I'm willing...to take the risk. I think you're right."

Michael: Perhaps awake and alert was the best time, after all to have this conversation. I smiled and pulled him closer. "Sometimes I am right. Sometimes." He shifted, looming over me, so big and broad and substantial, his scent tickling my nose, his green, green eyes depthless. "Word of warning," I breathed against his mouth. "I'm one of those fucking cheerful morning people," before pulling him down atop me.

Randy: Swell. I laughed against his mouth, then forgot what I'd found so funny when his arms went tight around me and his mouth opened up under mine.

God, even after nearly a month to get used to it, I'm blown away by how well Michael can *kiss*. It was shocking, exciting, arousing, incredible. He tasted me, then dove in like he was trying to eat me alive--which was maybe the case. I pushed downward, shifting myself so I could get my hands to either side of his head to hold myself up a little. He's big, and I didn't have to worry too much, but I'd bet I could get heavy, quick. Then I just went along for the ride. There are so many details to be hammered out, but just then, I wanted to ride the wave of feeling like I'm flying.

Michael: I shifted again, wrapping my legs about his waist and pulling him down closer so I could press up against him. He was heavy, but I liked it. I wrapped my arms around him, fingers smoothing over sleek muscle as he gave me everything in his kiss. A moment of drowning in his taste, and I was hard and needy. When he finally pulled back to gasp, I dove for the long, strong column of his throat.

Randy: "Don't mark me--" I could hardly get the words out; his mouth always turned my brain to complete mush. Not that I minded the marks, per se, quite the opposite, in fact. But I didn't need to advertise around the department that I had a sex life again. Just as he doesn't. Which was why I bit beneath his hair, high on the back of his neck, or much lower, on his chest or shoulders. Pity, too; Michael's neck was incredibly sensitive. I loved to bite, to scrape my teeth along its length. I shivered hard when he did just that, scraping his teeth over my skin. I was ticklish there, and his teeth felt like hundreds of tiny feet moving over my skin, sending up a wave of goosebumps. He did it again and I groaned, pushing myself down against him, feeling the heat and hardness of his erection pressing against me. "Michael--god."

Michael: I laughed gently against his skin, fragrant and slightly salty. I loved the sounds he made, the soft, breathy, catching moans when I did something he found particularly pleasurable. He was so open, so free to take pleasure offered; I'd yet to find something he didn't like, to some degree or another. Licking over his neck, where I'd bitten a little too sharply, I had an incredible urge to mark him, but wouldn't. He shuddered over me, pressing his groin, heavy with need, into mine. It felt wonderful, the heat, the pressure, and I pushed back. I ran my hands over the heavy muscle of arms and shoulders, felt them ripple beneath his smooth, tanned skin. His skin was as soft as a woman's; I wasn't sure how or why, but it was lovely tactile pleasure, and I never wearied of it. I slid my hands forward as I leaned up and nibble at his Adam's apple. His chest was so wonderfully smooth and hairless, his nipples tight and hard, and the sound he made as I scraped across them lightly with my nails was incredibly gratifying, and made me throb against him. I laughed again, and tongued the hollow of his throat as I sent my hands skimming down belly and over the front of his shorts, the soft material stretched tightly over his cock. A quick, teasing touch, then I dove into the back of those shorts to cup his ass, as hard and firm as apples.

Randy: "You know...just where to touch." My voice came out kind of breathless, huskier than usual, accompanied by a full-body shiver when he teased his fingers along the cleft between my cheeks. I was torn then: should I push up against his fingers? Or down against his cock? Both were good choices, definitely options.

Michael scraped his teeth against the skin of my throat, just below my Adam's apple, and I growled softly, pushing against him. "Tease." He laughed, and it sounded almost like a challenge. I shifted around until I could push his head to the side, then I leaned in and licked at a spot just above where his collarbone protruded. He made a muffled sound that turned into a growl of his own when I scraped my teeth over the area. The growl turned to a whimper of pleasure when I bit down hard and sucked. I knew it would leave a mark, but it was low enough his shirt collar would cover it. I sucked harder, feeling warmth rushing up toward the surface, and he wiggled beneath me.

Michael: There were too damn many clothes between us, I decided as heat tore through me. He bit again, lower, and heat/pleasure/pain blossomed in that place, making me gasp, my fingers tighten on his ass until I knew he'd have bruises. Off. I had to have him naked. I pushed at the shorts, working them down to mid-thigh, and his cock spilled into my palm, hot and wet. I wanted to taste him, to smell him, bury my nose in his groin and suck him until he came. My breath caught as he bit more sharply as I stroked him.

"Let's move...let's go to bed," I said, voice husky with need. "I need to spread you out...so hungry for you..."

Randy: I didn't want to move, but I had to admit he was right. Two big men, wrestling with one another on a couch--it wouldn't work, ultimately. Well, it would...but it could be so much more satisfying on a bed. I sucked once more, then released him, levering up and off, slowly. Michael tracked every move I made, his eyes dark and hungry looking.

I pushed my shorts down when I was standing, then stepped out of the puddle of soft fabric. He was still fully dressed, and I reached out, ran one finger down the row buttons. "One of us is horribly over-dressed for this occasion." I pushed the first button through the hole, then the second, grinning when he shivered. Dark curls showed through the opening, a nice contrast to the white shirt. I leaned in close to kiss him, breathing against his mouth. "You're awfully sexy, darlin'."

Michael: His voice, slow and deep, his accent like honey, never failed to make me ravenous. I loved how he was so vocal, how he talked during sex; a contrast to myself. I pursued a kiss, my fingers wrapping around his cock, thumb stroking over the broad spongy head, now wet with his juices. His hands faltered in unbuttoning my shirt, then resumed again, a little more hurried, a little clumsier. I sucked on his tongue as he began on my denims, and reached down to cradle his heavy balls, squeezing them gently in my hand. He pulled back with a quick intake of air, then pulled my shirt off one shoulder and bit the flesh hard; I almost came in his hand, worked into the opening of my fly. "Bed...now."

Randy: "Pushy." I winked at him, groaning when he pressed a fingernail into the small slit at the tip of my cock. God. It wasn't taking him long to figure out that I liked it rough, didn't mind--enjoyed--when it hurt some. Even little bits like that. I stepped back enough to let go of him, and Michael pushed his jeans down the rest of the way. My heart skipped a couple beats watching him, aroused and ready for me.

It was like a feast, sometimes...most of the time. I never knew where to start, or what to start with. Hands? Mouths? Fucking, right off the bat? My body opened easily, readily for him, and I loved being fucked. Not everyone I knew did, but that was their loss. I spit in my hand and worked it over my cock, rubbing just enough to make goosebumps prickle over my arms. Michael narrowed his eyes and I grinned, more hunger than amusement to it, as I turned toward the bedroom.

He was a hot presence at my back for the whole ten or twelve steps it took to get from living room to bedroom, and the five more it took to get through the door to the bed. I turned at the last step and reached for him, my quiet groans and growls echoed by him when I pulled our bodies close together. "Tell me what you want, darlin'."

Michael: "Everything," I murmured. I backed him against the bed, and another push sent us sprawling atop it, with me on top this time, his long legs to either side of my hips. I rubbed against him a moment---god, that felt good---then worked my way down his body, licking, kissing, nipping randomly, as I felt like it. His hands moved over shoulders and arms and his fingers slipped through my hair as I curled between his thighs, pushing his legs up and out, opening him for me, baring him for my avid inspection. His cock lay on his belly, a heavy arc, glistening with juices, red and needy-looking. I dipped my head and scented along the crease of his thigh; clean but fragrant with male musk. Almost I wished for him to be sweaty from the basketball game, but this was just as good. A pleased hum escaped me as I nosed beneath his heavy balls, licking over the sensitive skin of perineum. His opening was so close, and I couldn't help but lick over it; he swore, loudly, and his ass clenched then relaxed for me.

Perhaps later for that particular pleasure, I promised myself. I mouthed over his balls, sucking at first one, then the other, loud, obscene wet noises, and finally, sliding the flat of my tongue up over the big vein pulsing in his cock. His juices were bittersweet on my tongue. I laughed softly. "I want to suck you and then fuck you until you scream."

Randy: "Works...for me." God, his mouth was fantastic. How many years had he been sucking cock? Sometimes I realized how little I still knew about him, but it wasn't a worry; I figured I had a lot of time to learn. He nipped lightly at my shaft and I groaned, caught between pushing out and pulling into myself, my body shuddering in an undecided convulsion of movement. "Christ, Michael--"

He looked up at me, and his eyes were so dark; no longer grey, but stormy-sky black. The kind of black that promises a wild ride. I pushed my hips upward, seeking his mouth, wanting that wet heat all over me. I ached, inside and out. "Finger me...please."

Michael: Oh, gladly. I wet one finger, circled his opening, and his body arched upward, seeking. I tapped lightly against the pucker, and it spasmed. Pressing more firmly brought a gasp and he opened for me; one finger slid in easily. Tightness, and heat. I sucked at his balls again, letting him feel the score of teeth, and his body tightened even further. I wished a moment for lube, but he would open readily enough the more excited he got. I licked up his shaft, fucking him with the one finger, aiming for the spongy mass of prostate; I knew I'd found it when he swore again, and arched up higher, harder. I licked over the spongy head of his cock, probing into the hole with my tongue; his taste exploded on my tongue. Two fingers now, and his body clasped them frantically. Perfect. I sucked and licked and nibbled with all the skill at my disposal. Two fingers was enough; I needed lube for more, and definitely for fucking; he liked a little pain, but that would be too much for even him. My own cock throbbed, wanting to be inside him instead of rubbing against the sheets.

Randy: "Fuck me, Michael... god..." He hit my prostate again and I howled, arching toward him. I wondered how long this would...could...last. The absolute need, the frantic desire and arousal. Here was hoping for forever.

I reached down and threaded my fingers through his hair, tugging gently. I wanted hard and fast, I wanted slow and easy. Pain. Pleasure. The two so closely twined, I wouldn't be able to differentiate. I wanted dominance and submission, I wanted sex between friends...lovers. He capped my cock with his mouth and sucked gently, then harder, ignoring my fingers, and I sobbed and thrust upward, downward, just *pushed*, when he rubbed my prostate again, then pressed.

I felt the top of my head come off as orgasm exploded through me, boiling like lava in my veins. God, I hadn't felt it coming, not so hard, not so fast. I shuddered and shook, riding the storm out.

Michael: Randy in orgasm was simply...incandescent. He *glowed*. I swallowed rapidly, my ears almost ringing from his shout of completion. Salty-bitter-sweet; he spent so much. One last pulse, and his tightly-bowed body began to relax down into the sheets. His breathing was deep and ragged, loud in the quiet of my bedroom. I pulled off him slowly and licked him, seeking every last drop of his seed; he was still hard, and very red from my attentions. A moment, when he began to soften, and I'd be able to take him in entirely. I licked and nuzzled around his tight-drawn balls, and even though he was lax with the aftermath of pleasure, his body tightened around my fingers reflexively. My own cock throbbed as I thought of being inside him, of the incredible heat and tightness I knew was my reward.

He had softened enough but was still firm, and I indulged myself by taking him in, working my mouth down his thickness, until at last I could press my nose against the smooth, silky skin just above his cock. Perfect. I wished I could do this with him still hard, but my gag reflex was an iffy thing, even after sucking cock for so many years. I was aware of his soft deep sounds as I swallowed him, then pulled off with a wet, obscene sound. I kissed his belly and tongued his navel as I pulled my fingers slowly from his body.

Randy: I let go of my urge to laugh and wiggle when he teased my navel, and his fingers sliding from my body made the laughter turn to a breathy moan. God, I was tingling from head to toe. I lay there, breathing heavily, feeling my blood pumping furiously, as Michael kissed his way back up my chest, lingering on my neck, before brushing his mouth over mine. I could taste myself on his tongue, and it made me shiver. His cock was hard against me, pushing aggressively into my groin, and I shifted, bringing my legs up again to make space for him. I bit his neck when he released my mouth, then whispered against his skin, "I think you melted my brain, darlin'."

Michael: "Rather a lot of brain to melt," I replied, shivering when his tongue, warm and wet, slipped over my throat. My own brain felt distracted, most of my attention centered in the heat, the demand, between my legs. I pushed hard against him, sliding against his skin, feeling ferociously needy. I wanted to be within him, moving in and out of his tight heat. I pulled back, settling between his widespread thighs. He looked sleepy-eyed and sated, and I realized, with a warm rush, that I loved to see him look this way. I loved knowing I had made him feel so good. It went beyond simply wanting a lover to feel good before gaining my own pleasure; it was somehow...very important that Randy feel as treasured as he truly was. I stroked over his inner thighs, scratching his soft skin lightly. "Inside you. I want to be inside you," I said softly. I held out my hand for the gel we kept stashed in the bedside drawer.

Randy: He had a look in his eyes I hadn't seen before, and it made me feel warm, at the same time it disconcerted me a bit. I wiggled under him, shifting until I could reach the bedside table. "Inside me is a good place to be," I answered, my voice as low as his. At some indefinable moment, this had turned from having sex, to making love, and it both dismayed and delighted me, by turns.

I groped until I touched the half-full tube--we'd gone through a lot of the stuff in the last three or four weeks--then pulled it from the drawer. Michael's eyes were dark, hunger still present, but joined with something else. A softer emotion. I blinked and drew him down for a kiss, passing the tube to his hand while I tasted him, lost myself in him.

Michael: Something had changed; I could feel it, but my body was too busy clamoring for release of the incredible pressure that had built up. I felt if I didn't do something, and right *now*, I'd explode. But his mouth was so warm, so lush, and he'd tightened his fingers in my hair, holding me in place for a wet, thorough exploration. When he finally released me, I could only gasp for a moment, my mouth feeling swollen and hypersensitive. His green eyes were hazy, pupils huge and depthless, then he shifted, opening himself widely, offering his body to me. *Now*, his body demanded, and I could no longer resist. Hurriedly, I slicked myself thickly with gel, fisted myself once, and pressed against him, moaning as he opened for me, tight and hot and so very perfect.

Randy: "Ahh...God...." It was enough to make me see stars, the sensation of him sliding into me, hot and hard and thick. I groaned again when he stopped, holding still just inside me, and pushed my hips upward, urging him onward. He bit me then, right at the point where my neck and shoulder meet, as he pushed the rest of the way inside. I convulsed around him, shuddering, as pleasure crawled through me in heated ripples. Somewhere, almost distantly, I heard panting and hoarse, rough sounds, but whether I was making them, or Michael was, I wasn't sure. It just felt so *good*.

And then he shifted above me, and looked down at me, and I could see...something...shimmering there, soft and warm and larger than both of us, and the heat building inside me grew, fueled by a different heat. I gasped once, when he moved, then pulled his head down again to kiss him, needing that contact as well.

Michael: I wanted to move, so badly---needed to move, but Randy's kiss seemed somehow more important. He put everything into it, tongue, lips, teeth, heart, soul. His fingers curled over my jaw and around the nape of my neck, holding me to him, giving, demanding, submissive and aggressive in turns. Buried deep within him, I wrapped my arms about him, and his long legs came up to lock over my hips. Gently I rocked against him, into him, as close to him as was possible. He was so hot, so tight, his skin so soft, muscles hard and firm against me.

I was utterly certain in that one moment, I'd somehow attained a state of absolute grace.

Randy: I wanted to laugh, to cry, to beg for something I couldn't even name in that moment, and I wanted to do all three of them at the same time. What I did do, instead, was shift under Michael, pushing up with my hips, shuddering when he slid further into me. I could hear the soft, hoarse sounds he made in his throat; they filled the air around us, even through our kiss. I had to let him go after a few minutes, even breathing shallowly through my nose while we kissed, I wasn't getting enough air. Not with him full on top of me. I didn't want to let go; what I felt was about in line with what paradise should be. I threaded my fingers through his hair, then kneaded the back of his neck, teasing at the short, short hairs at his nape. The words were there, stuck in my throat, but I wasn't ready to say them yet. Even acknowledging them made my stomach churn uncomfortably. Instead, I tried to tell him with my eyes, with my body, and I moved under him slowly, holding tightly to him. "Do it... make...let me feel you, darlin'."

Michael: I gasped for air as he released me, and slowly unwound from him, enough to raise myself to begin a slow, deep thrusting. Randy's grip didn't lessen, just shifted, and powerful legs tightened to draw me even deeper. I couldn't look away from him, though a part of me wanted to do just that, to close my eyes and concentrate solely on the feel of him, the sensations of fucking him, slowly and strongly. But the greater part of me could not. I was caught by those green eyes, held as surely as his strong arms held me. In a moment of almost painful awareness, I realized that this, this man, this act, this closeness, this intimacy, was what I'd searched for in a lifetime of casual, meaningless sex, of now faceless, nameless partners. I had unknowingly been looking for this, my entire life. Even the ones I'd loved---and yes, I'd loved---had never made me feel quite this way. Had never made me feel so connected, so a part of them. So complete. "I wish...I wish I could be inside you...forever...." I wished I could be with him forever, but kept that thought firmly behind my lips. He wasn't ready to hear that, nor was I ready to say it; the realization had rattled me, and would make Randy, skittish about his own personal space, uncomfortable in the least and panicky at the most. So instead, I concentrated upon what I could give him: pleasure.

Randy: "Yes...." I grunted as he shifted, thrusting harder, a little faster, making me feel the vibrations all the way through me. I held his gaze for a moment longer, feeling the moment's tension easing after a bit. So many things to say, to feel, to think...and I wasn't ready. Was Michael? I frowned briefly, then smiled at him, feeling the shift of emotions. It wasn't gone; it was simply pushed back for now. Until he--and I--were more ready to deal with it. I leaned up and bit at his ear gently, then suckled the lobe. "Fuck me, Michael. Hard and fast."

Michael: I shivered at his warm breath in my ear, his wet tongue, his wanton words. I levered myself off him completely, and slipped my hands behind his knees, pulling them up, spreading them apart. Opening him completely for me. His hands stroked over my chest, over his own, then he flung them upward, crossing his arms over his head at the wrists, surrendering himself completely. The sight of him, half-hard again, open and completely mine, made heat tear through me, and with a soft growl, I gave him what he asked...I fucked him hard enough to send us both sliding across the sheets.

Randy: I wanted to feel him in the back of my throat, and damned if he wasn't trying to give that to me. Part of me wanted to stroke my own dick, to make myself come again, while the other part of me wanted to just take what he was offering. I loved the idea of submission to Michael, although we hadn't done much with it--yet.

I hoped that would change, eventually. Not tonight, though. I didn't want that...at least not at the moment. Not more than my arms over my head. I wanted Michael. Wanted to feel him just like this, hot and hard on me, in me, fucking me. Making me his. I shuddered and stared up at him, then tightened myself around him, keeping my arms still above me. "Yours, Michael."

Michael: That soft, quiet affirmation, the steadiness of his green eyes, the absolute submission to me---he wasn't even touching himself, though he was hard again---was enough to tip me over, to send me out of control. Four hard, deep thrusts more, and I came. I exploded deep inside him, pressing him down into the bed, almost folding him double as I surrendered to orgasm with a hoarse cry.

Randy: It was incredible to watch him, to feel him, to know he was coming deep inside me. I shifted when he thrust again, lightly, some of the intensity clearing from his face, though he was still tense. He eased my legs back down and lay on me, then rolled us onto our sides, facing each other. I brought my arms down to wrap around him, watching him intently, listening to the heavy sounds of his breathing as he came down from his orgasm. When his long fingers wrapped around my cock I jerked, so caught up in watching his eyes change color and hue I hadn't realized he was reaching for me. I shifted closer and kissed his neck, letting my lips tease the very sensitive skin there.

Michael: I slipped from the heat of his body and let myself melt back into the pillows, breathing heavily, my whole body tingling. I could feel him watching me, and made an effort to smile for him. He was still hard, and made no effort to reach for himself, so I wrapped my fingers about him and began stroking purposefully. Randy almost always came twice to my once, but then, I never really had since I was an adolescent, and could spend easily and rapidly. His big hand folded around my own, and together we stroked him as he kissed and tongued and bit lightly at my neck. My cock gave a twitch, but I was spent for the moment, and just lay back and enjoyed both his mouth on me and my hand on his cock.

Randy: It took longer for me to come this time, coming down off the high of my first orgasm, and of the incredible...well, bonding, Michael and I shared. It felt good, though, just to kiss him, to feel his hand on me, stroking and sliding over my skin. I felt smaller, somehow, and larger, all at the same time, lost inside the feelings tonight had produced.

When I got close, sweating and humping into his hand, gripping him tighter where I covered his fingers, Michael increased the pressure and speed, and I gasped when it rolled over me, sensation seeming to melt my bones. I pressed hard against him as I came, burying my face into the hollow of his neck. I panted, hoarse fragments of words rising up, then it was over and I was sagging against him, my arms going full around him to hold him tight to me. I wanted to say...something. Anything. I wanted to say something in particular, but my throat swelled shut, and my stomach heaved once, and I swallowed roughly and settled for muttering against his shoulder, "I love the way you make me feel... love doing this with you."

Michael: It was enough for now, as close as I knew he would come to saying it. I knew he meant more---it was there, as I could practically feel it between us as a tangible thing. I pressed my cheek against his short sweaty hair, my hand rubbing his cream over his cock, his balls, his belly. I could feel his muscles still quivering beneath his skin. I felt a rush of possessive tenderness; he was mine, and had admitted it, had given himself to me. He would be moving in within a week; he had told me he would. He trusted me, and I'd be damned if I did anything to betray that trust; I just knew he didn't give it easily or readily, and that it was a gift worth more than all my fortunes.

I petted him until our bodies began to cool from the passion, then slowly, unwound myself from him, tugging him out of the bed; I wasn't sure how we ended up crossways and almost off the other side, but we had. Surprisingly malleable, he let me tug him into the shower and put us both into the hot spray. Silently, I washed him, running the sponge over chest and shoulders and arms, down flat belly and around heavy genitals. He watched me, green eyes bright, long dark lashes spiky with water.

"You're thinking too hard," I said softly, and turned him into the wall and running the soapy sponge over his back.

Randy: I laughed, and even to me it sounded breathless, unlike me. What was going on here? Had a fairy godmother popped in and waved her magic wand? I turned back around and leaned against the shower wall, reaching for the sponge in Michael's hands. A squirt of bath gel, then I was lathering it over his chest and torso, watching the short dark hair on his chest swirl into curlicues. "Lots to think about," I answered, just as softly. I stroked him slowly with the sponge, loving the way he felt beneath it, beneath my hands. Even with Bran, before he'd lost it, I'd never felt as relaxed as I did with Michael. Never trusted him like I did Michael. Hell, I trusted Michael more just then, after only a month, than I'd ever trusted anyone I'd been intimate with, no matter the amount of time I'd known them. I looked up and into dark grey eyes, studying him for a long moment before stroking the sponge downward, over his tight stomach, following the line of hair to his groin. I knelt in the hot water and sponged him, then looked up. "I...want this, Michael. All the...time."

Michael: I let my fingertips run over the sharp planes of his face, the handsome straight nose, the dark brows and the long lashes, over the curve of his mouth, still swollen from kisses. "Yes," I said simply, though the answer was to many unvoiced questions, more complex than I wished to consider at this moment. We were both too tired, too close to the edges of emotions to delve into this further. So I tugged him out of the shower, and we dried off and went back to bed. I seemed always to feel the cold more acutely than he did, and curled gratefully into his warmth, pulling the covers over us both, settling in against him with a grateful sigh. I could hear the soft ticking of the bedside clock, a familiar sound, and Randy's slow, steady breathing beside me. Absently I ran my hands over his skin; it comforted me. Previous lovers had always thought I did it for them, but it was a wholly selfish act upon my part, and I'd never seen fit to let them think otherwise.

Randy: "I don't think I'm going to have time to get everything sorted, packed, and stored between now and this weekend." I stroked Michael's shoulder and arm, trying to find a neutral subject, one that wouldn't make my skin goosebump or my stomach twitch. Moving was sort of iffy; it implied a lot of things--like the ones making us both nervous. If I stuck to the actual details of *moving*, though.... "It'll probably take a couple of weeks to get me completely out of my apartment, though for all intents and purposes, I'll be in here by the end of the weekend." His hair was soft, the layers closer to his scalp still damp. I ruffled my fingers through there, feeling the heat from his head mixing with the dampness of water. I looked down at him, curled into me, and had a strange desire to shelter him--which struck me as rather crazy, since he was a strong, capable man all of his own. "Do you want me to get a PO box, or anything, for mail purposes at work? When I change my address, someone's bound to recognize the new one." I hesitated, feeling Michael stiffen briefly under my hand before relaxing again. "I'm not...ashamed, Michael. But you--have a lot more reasons not to be public."

Michael: "I've always done what I wished. My wealth, and the diligence of those paid to keep me out of the news, has protected me. You haven't any such protection, so I think it would be more difficult for you by far. Perhaps a post box might be best for you at the moment." I paused for a moment. "I can't imagine people would make it very easy for you if they knew you slept with me."

Randy: I shook my head, even though he couldn't see from the angle he was at. "There're a few I know who don't make it easy just for my gender preference. Knowing who I was involved with would simply be icing on the cake for them." His hands hadn't been completely still since we settled into bed, petting me, stroking me, touching any inch of skin he could reach, and it brought a smile to my face. Touching me for me? Or for him? I wondered. I reached out and tilted his chin, raising his head so I could look at him. Beautiful man. I gave him a quick kiss, then grinned. "We're a couple of slugs, y'know. In bed at seven p.m. on a Sunday."

Michael: "Hmm. Very true, but I haven't a bit of guilt about it." Nor was I sleepy, though my body hummed contentedly, sated for the moment. I'd never had a telly in the room, so that was out of the question. "I'm not at all sleepy---would you care to play a bit of chess, perhaps?"

Randy: "We could do chess." I shifted until I could push him over under me for a long, thorough kiss. When both of us were breathing roughly again, I pushed up and off him, then sat on the edge of the bed for a minute to catch my breath. He swung himself around to sit beside me, and we stayed that way for a long moment. When I looked over at him, he had an odd expression in his eyes. I stood up and walked to the closet, where I had a drawer now, and grabbed his robe at the same time I pulled out a clean pair of shorts. I tossed it casually toward him. "Michael--how much does Miles do for you?"

Michael: I caught the robe easily, and wrapped it about myself as I thought.

"Miles takes care of all domestic matters," I answered. "He's the organizer of all home details. He does the cooking when I'm not eating out, or wish to do it myself, as tonight. He keeps my wardrobe in order..." I gestured at the meticulously neat rows of clothing hanging in the closet, and the perfectly aligned and sorted bins and chests beneath the hanging clothing. "He drives me wherever I need to go. He takes care of all the minutiae of daily living. He picks up the flat, though a maid service takes care of the cleaning. He keeps things running smoothly."

Randy: I boggled slightly as he talked, then shook my head. "And Erich--" I stumbled momentarily over his name, hating even that much of the man, before going on, "--he handles the same general functions, except on a business level, right?" Michael nodded, then gestured me toward the living room. The chessboard was still set up from our last match, earlier in the week. We were surprisingly evenly matched for chess, and it wasn't easy to predict which of us would win any one game. And what a beautiful set it was: polished marble, gleaming black and ivory in the late evening sun. I sat down on ivory's side; last time I'd played black. "Is there anything Miles does...that you could without him doing? I mean, on a daily basis?"

Michael: "I'm not certain what you mean," I said, disappearing into the kitchen to pour us glasses of pineapple-orange juice. I was thirsty, and I knew he must be, also. I settled into my chair and studied the board. We were closely matched in ability, though Randy tended to be more methodical and thoughtful, whereas I tended to cut bloody swathes through matches; University players had found my "scream and leap" approach rattling. Inelegant, they'd said, even as I razed the board. Psychologically effective, I called it. I took a sip of juice, and leaned in to study him, curious as to where his thoughts were leading him.

Randy: "Thanks." I downed half the glass, then set it aside to stare at the board, considering my first move. Michael sipped, and watched me while I tried to work strategies around in my head. I settled on my first move, then sat back in my chair. "Well...like cooking. If...when...when I move in...will you need him to cook for you all the time?

Michael: "I honestly hadn't given it much thought. Whilst I was married to Nicole, his duties in that area were very light---she preferred to dine out almost every night. At the moment, he primarily prepares only the evening meal." I made my move, leaned back in my chair. "Does he make you nervous, Caro?"

Randy: I narrowed my eyes at the board. Apparently it was going to be a 'slash and burn' sort of game. Fine. I moved my rook, then glanced up at Michael. "I think I make *him* nervous, actually. But yeah, kinda. I'm used to doing for myself, Michael. It's--unnerving as hell, to have someone picking up after me, cleaning up after me, fixing stuff for me." I frowned at the board; too late to reconsider my move. Playing with Michael sometimes made me reckless. I'd have to work on that. "He disapproves of me."

Michael: I couldn't deny that; Miles *did* disapprove of Randy. He had never approved of any same-sex liaisons I'd had, though he was well-bred and well-trained enough to never say anything. But he'd gotten the freezing, superior glance down to an art form. In my youth, he'd been more flexible about it, supposing, I guess, that I'd needed to sow my wild oats. That I had, and enough for half the population of London, I think. But after Adrianand how I hated that my mental voice still stuttered at the mention of his name...he'd changed, and was much less tolerant of my tastes, becoming more conservative as we both grew older. I made my move, then rested my cheek on my hand. "I won't lie and say he doesn't. It is in his nature to be...protective. And conservative. He has been with me his entire life; his son Andrew cares for the family back in England. The Stuarts have always served us for generations."

Randy: "Shit." He took my knight. I sighed and stared at the board, then back up at guileless grey eyes. Guileless. Yeah, right. A python going after a rabbit. I grinned at the imagery, then took his rook. "Look. I'm not asking you to...get rid of him, or whatever. I don't have that right, and even if I did, I wouldn't. But it's...awkward, Michael. I work with people who disapprove of me. The only family member I have left in the world doesn't see me very often because her husband disapproves of me, and it's hell on her to choose between me and him. I lost a lover because he couldn't deal with his family disapproving. I can't come home every night, and have to feel like I'm going to be disapproved of in my own home." I frowned, vestiges of the anger I'd felt earlier toward Quent rising up again. "Is there some kind of compromise, maybe? Like...he has all evenings off, or something?"

Michael: He was obviously distracted; I took another piece without mercy. "There's always a compromise, Randy. I cannot...would not...send Miles back to England unless it was of his own choosing. He would find it...disgraceful, being sent away. He has much pride in what he does, and he does it very well. In actuality, he's rather like a king, here---everything is under his control, and I've made him quite a wealthy man, in return. I realize you don't understand how he could spend his life in servitude to another, but you underestimate the power he wields." I shifted in my chair, crossed my legs. "But we are all adults here, and compromise is in order. I see no reason why he cannot have every night to himself after he brings me home from work. You needn't see him much at all, unless you have cause to stop by the flat in the middle of the day, as highly unlikely as that may be."

Randy: I almost laughed; might have, if I hadn't been frowning at what seemed almost like a lecture. Stop home in the middle of the day? Yeah, right. "Like I said, I'm not asking you to send him away. I just...would prefer to minimize contact, if possible, at least until--" Until what? He got to know me? Liked me? Hell froze over? I shook my head, then realized whatever my next move was would probably be checkmate for Michael. Well, hell. "Anyway, no, I don't get the whole serving thing...not on the scale you're talking. I know people do it...but I've never had much contact with it. Any contact with it." I shrug. "Something I'll have to get used to, I suppose. I'll cook for you, though. And--" I narrowed my eyes, trying to inject a little humor into my voice, but wondering how well I would succeed. "You can help me with the dishes, afterward."

Michael: I made my move, and Randy scowled and tipped over his king in acknowledgement of defeat. His mind hadn't been on the game; generally, he won as often as I did.

"As you wish," I said easily. "I'm adaptable. Though I'm not sure just how sexy you'll find me whining on about my poor dishpan hands." I dropped a slow wink at him and grinned.

Randy: "I doubt dishpan hands are going to change my mind on how sexy you are." I frowned at the board again, then shrugged. Win some, lose some. It was my choice to bring up this topic while playing. I stood up and picked up my glass, then reached for his. "Want some more?" Michael shook his head and reached for the board, presumably to set it up for our next match.

I rinsed both glasses and set them in the drainer, then got a bottle of water out. I felt antsy, nervous, a little restless. "It's still pretty early. Want to go for a drive? A walk? I need to get out and move, Michael."

Michael: I set all the pieces back into order; Randy was particular on some things, and I was particular on others---I always replaced all the pieces after a game.

"I wouldn't mind doing either," I said, and stretched widely.

Back into the bedroom, I shed my robe and pulled on a pair of denims and one of Randy's sweatshirts, this one red. I pushed the sleeves up to my elbows and then sat to pull on socks and trainers.

"Anywhere in mind, or just a leisurely drive about?"

Randy: "Let's drive up the coast, then maybe walk for a bit. And if you're a good boy, I'll buy you some ice cream." I shucked the shorts and pulled on some jeans, and a loose t-shirt, then socks and running shoes. I was more comfortable in my boots, but even I would admit there were some places they weren't as useful. Like on the beach.

I didn't bother with a comb, just ran my fingers through my hair, then grabbed my keys off his dresser. Our dresser. God. I swallowed and looked in the mirror at Michael behind me. "Ready?"

Michael: "Ready." I slipped my wallet into the back pocket of the denims and turned, sliding my arm about his waist and giving his ass a squeeze. "And it's a matter of record that I'm always good," I teased. "I have references listing my stellar qualities. They're good enough to earn Rocky Road ice cream."

Randy: "Oh, god, you're one of *those*," I groaned, laughing. "A marshmallow person. Gimme Chocolate Toffee Crunch any time. Double scoop. In a sugar cone. The regular ones fall apart too easily." He elbowed me when I pinched his ass for the feel he copped, then we headed out the door and into the decorum needed for the hallway. "I thought I'd just drive us up Highway One for a while, we can stop when we want, then back track."

Michael: I had an insane urge to unzip his jeans and suck him as we entered the lift, and controlled it only by shoving my hands in my pockets and leaning against the far wall, out of reach. If the lift hadn't had cameras, I'd been game to see if he could come yet again in such a short time. So I settled for staring at him, making him fidget and ask, "What?" I smiled a slow, lecherous smile and didn't answer.

We nodded at security, and entered the parking garage, heading for his big red truck. Cameras all about here, also, so I remained a gentleman, though it was difficult.

Randy: I gave him a sidelong look as we got into the truck, fastening seatbelts down. "It kills you to have to behave yourself, doesn't it, darlin'?" The only answer I got was a slow, hot smile that made my blood percolate a little. I shook my head as I put the truck in gear and headed out of the garage. I'd been thinking with nothing but my cock for a month now. Sooner or later higher reasoning was going to have to kick in. At least, I guessed it would. I wasn't entirely certain; I'd never felt this completely bowled over by Angel or Bran. I turned the radio on to an oldies station, then turned the volume down. The sun was starting to set, but it didn't matter. The coast was still beautiful, even at dusk. If it'd been just a little earlier, we could have taken the boat out, but it was too late for that. "So how much room are you willing to make for me in your closet and your office?"

Michael: "Half the closet and half the office, naturally. I'll have Miles take down some of my clothing to storage; I don't actually wear all that hangs there. And I'm certain that we can rearrange the study to accommodate your desk and things. However, you have enough books to recreate the Pyramids of Giza, so I'm not certain of what we'll do with those."

Randy: I laughed and reached out to touch him; it turned into a rather unexpected handholding, threading my fingers through his. "I'll put 'em in storage with the rest that aren't out." I glanced over to see his shocked expression, and laughed again. "You didn't think that what I have in my apartment is all I have, did you?"

Michael: I couldn't help but laugh. "I should have guessed as much. I kept tripping over stacks of them whenever I was over to your flat." We rode in companionable silence for quite awhile, listening to music and watching the scenery slip by, watching dusk slide over the land. It was peaceful, and lovely, and I had no need to speak for long moments. But when I recognized where we were, I stirred and squeezed his hand. "Turn right, here, please."

Randy: I frowned, not sure why he wanted to turn, but shrugged and made the lane change and turn smoothly. "What's up?"

Michael: "You've shown me sailing, your passion---I want to show you one of mine."

He looked at me curiously, and I smiled. "Be a good boy and I'll buy you ice cream," I said sweetly, earning a laugh from him.

In spite of the fact it was almost dark, I knew Sheila would be at the stables. She had let me ride even later than this in the past, when the urge to ride had been strong and daylight hours had been short. She would let me do so now.

The road wound leisurely along, a beautifully scenic view during the daylight hours; a pity we couldn't see much now. After a little while, the scenery became pastureland, surrounded by tall white fencing; this was all Sheila's land now.

Sheila's house came into view, a huge old ornate Victorian, and not far from that, a cluster of buildings including a barn and a sawdust-covered riding ring. "Pull into this drive. We're here."

Randy: I gave him a suspicious look. "Where is 'here'? And what's your passion?" We were further inland than I'd been in a while; I didn't go in very far, outside of city travel. It smelled fresh out here, though; removed for the most part from the smog and other pollutants of the city. I missed the crisp ocean scent, but otherwise, it was a nice one. Hard to see a lot of color detail, since the sun was nearly completely down, streaking the sky with violets and blues and pinks and mauves, but it looked pretty. Kinda rural, if that word could be applied to anything in California.

Michael: Randy pulled in behind a big Land Rover. If I squinted, I could see a couple of people moving about in the area of the stables.

"This place belongs to Sheila Bingham. She is the proprietress of a riding school, and she stables my horse here. It's a good arrangement---I get to ride whenever I have spare time available, and Murphy gets ridden on a regular basis by her advanced students. A completely win/win situation. Come and let me introduce you to them both."

Randy: I swung down from the cab and stood there squinting into the dusk. I could see outbuildings, and the shadows of a few people moving around. Riding. Horses. I pursed my lips briefly, thinking. "You have to *promise* you won't laugh when you see me up on a horse, Michael. I mean it. I want a solemn vow on whatever you hold most sacred."

Michael: "It surely cannot be that bad, Caro...you have a tremendous amount of grace. It was lovely watching you on the basketball court this afternoon."

Randy: "Hah." I snorted, then shrugged. I would either disgrace myself, or the horse and I would come to a peaceable agreement. I was hoping for the latter. "How often do you come out here and ride? Does she have extras I can ride? Hopefully a very gentle, broken-in horse?"

Michael: I slipped my arm about his waist and pulled him close, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck in the shelter of the big range rover. "Yes, she has several, for those who aren't quite as certain of themselves." I released him and started toward the stable, coaxing Randy along, as he really didn't seem very anxious to get there. "I try and get out here at least once a week, but it's been two since I've been back. Someday, I'd like to have a place of my own where I can have Murphy close at hand." I flashed him a grin. "It's a dream, something to think about in the future when I'm old and grey. Grey-er."

Randy: "I like the grey." I slipped one hand up, touched his temple, then the moustache and beard growing in on his chin. I'd casually mentioned one night that I liked the 'small beard'--goatee--and thought he'd look good in one. Next thing I knew, he was starting one. "I like it here, too. Makes you look awfully distinguished." I could hear the horses whickering to one another now, as we were on the outer perimeter of what I guessed was the stable. For some reason, I didn't want to pursue the "place of his own" thing; I hadn't even completely adjusted yet to the idea of sharing the space he had *now*. Anything beyond moving me in there was simply too far in the future, and too unstable to consider.

I reached down and squeezed his hand quickly, softly. "Remember--you still have to promise not to laugh," I said quietly, smiling a little.

Michael: "I promise. After all, you didn't laugh at me the first time I was aboard your ship. All's fair, yes?"

"Michael!" We both turned at my name, and I smiled as Sheila Bingham came out of the stable, a young lady at her side. She immediately launched herself at me, hugged me soundly, and kissed both cheeks. The scent of hay, horses, leather and woman was strong in my nose, and I held her still long enough to kiss her lightly on the mouth. She laughed and wriggled away, smoothing back her brown hair, caught into a tail at the nape of her neck. Her round cheeks were flushed, and her blue eyes fairly sparkled.

"You'd think I'd been away a year, instead of two weeks," I said, smiling at her. "That's a lovely welcome."

Sheila laughed, then turned to wave at the young girl. "See you tomorrow, Alyssa!" With a grin still on her face, she turned to face us again. "Well, it might as well have been. Murph and I miss you when you're not around." Her blue gaze slid past me to Randy, standing at my side. "Oooh, very nice," she said, her eyes widening appreciatively. "Good breeding. Quality stock."

I reached forward and pulled her tail of hair. "Off him, please. Sheila, this is Randy Taylor, a very good friend, and Randy, this is Sheila, whom I've known for god knows how long. You'll have to forgive her, Randy---she spends too much time with horses and not enough with people. Her manners are atrocious."

Randy: I laughed and shook my head. "Her manners are fine. It's nice to meet you, Sheila. Nice place you have here."

"It is, isn't it?" She grinned at me, and very reluctantly let go of my hand, only to slip in between Michael and me, sliding one arm around each of our waists. "Let's show you around the place a bit, then. Find you a nice horse to ride." She glanced over at Michael, frowned a bit. "It's too late to go on any of the trails, Michael. But you can ride around here, and in the training ring, if you'd like."

"Actually, that'll be fine for me for now... it's been a while since I've been on a horse." Since the last time Josh coaxed me onto one and the damn thing bounced me around like a sack of potatoes. I frowned at the memory, jumping when Sheila goosed me. Michael gave me a funny look when I let out a soft, surprised sound, and I laughed--Sheila was actually looking at me, waiting to see what I'd say, I think. I shook my head at her. "I thought it was the horses that were supposed to play hell on my butt."

She laughed and let go of both of us, letting us follow her into the large, well-lit stable.

Michael: On an old table near the front of the stable was a basket of apples and an old butcher knife. I picked an apple at random and sliced it into quarters before following Sheila inside. I took a deep, appreciative breath. "Nothing like the smell of a horse stable," I said, pleased. "It makes me think of my childhood. I have...very fond memories of stables." I slanted a look in Randy's direction, then smiled and strode down the main aisle. Box stalls rose up on either side of us, some empty, some with a liquid-eyed occupant, who looked out curiously and whickered gently as we passed.

Third from the last, and as he smelled me coming, Murphy stuck out his fine head and snorted at me as if to tell me to hurry it up a bit. His velvety black nose was so warm, so soft as I stroked him, then offered him a bit of apple, crooning a greeting to him. I slid a hand up his face and scratched beneath his long forelock before looking over my shoulder at Randy. "This is Murphy. I've had him for almost seven years now, give or take, and Sheila's kept him for me all this time. He's a lovely lad, Murphy is---as clever as he is beautiful."

Randy: "He is beautiful." I scooted in closer and petted him, scratching lightly under his mane. He smelled warm and, well, horsey. Not an unpleasant smell, just a bit stronger than anything I'd experienced lately. Michael fed him another bite of apple, muttering soft things in a funny sing-songy voice. Sheila patted him once, then moved back. I stepped a little closer and hissed softly, "What sort of memories do you have of stables, exactly?"

Michael: I thought for a moment of Ian, of his broad shoulders his gentle hands, his sweet mouth, his scent of clean earth and hay, the soft sounds he made when I pleased him. Surprising, really, how strong that memory was, and how it still had the power to affect me. I could feel the corner of my mouth crook up a bit. "Bittersweet," I said, finally, and turned as Sheila brought out my saddle, a proper English one, from the tack room.

Randy: I wasn't sure he was telling me what I'd asked. He was telling me something else...but not necessarily what I'd asked of him. I gave a mental shrug then stepped back out of the way as he opened the door--gate?--to let Murphy out, or Sheila or himself in.

I was a little surprised, though maybe not, upon reflection, when Michael took the saddle and went into the stall. If he'd not had any experience other than owning Murphy for seven years, he was still pretty experienced; I had the feeling he had a lot of other time invested in horses. He moved very smoothly, very efficiently. It impressed the hell out of me to watch him.

I stepped back a few paces, further out of the way, when he led the horse out of the stall and down the hall of the stable. Sheila raised an eyebrow. "I can saddle one up for you, Randy."

I shook my head. "Not yet. I want to watch him first."

Michael: Sheila bounced ahead of me to turn on the outside lights for the big training ring. Murphy kept butting me with his head, nibbling along the top of my shoulder, snuffling in my hair, glad to see me. He wasn't a high-strung creature as were some of the horses I'd known before, but rather friendly as a big dog. Sheila allowed only the advanced students to ride him though; he had a sensitive mouth and needed only the mildest of corrections to guide him. He would have made a perfect dressage mount.

I heard Randy snicker behind me as Murph ruffled my hair the wrong way; I gave the big horse a shove off me as Sheila opened the gate. Leading Murph in, I said, "I wish I'd known we were coming out---I'd have brought boots and gloves. It was rather a spur of the moment trip."

"No harm done. You just enjoy yourself. I'm sure I can find something to occupy me." Sheila grinned lecherously and leered at Randy, and I had to laugh.

"I'd best not find bruises on him," I warned, then set my foot into the stirrup and swung upward with the ease of a lifetime of riding. Murphy shifted beneath me as I settled and found my balance; it felt good to be astride him again. I clucked to him and squeezed my knees against him slightly, and he broke into a quick walk, bridle jingling, his hoofbeats muffled by the thick layer of sawdust and wood chips. After a few rounds of the ring, I urged him into a trot, smiling as we moved into smooth, effortless communication.

Randy: It was something else to watch him ride. He made Josh--pretty comfortable on a horse himself--look like a rank amateur. For a minute I lost track of where Michael stopped and the horse started; it was almost as if they moved as one.

Sheila nudged me. "He rides like a dream, doesn't he?" I nodded absently, still watching. Michael had a look on his face that seemed to mirror how I felt when I was standing on the deck of my boat, surrounded by water and rope and canvas. There was movement beside me, and I was vaguely aware of Sheila murmuring something before moving away from me.

I had the weirdest feeling inside me, watching Michael, watching the concentration on his face, watching the way his body moved in time with the horse. I wanted to...wrap myself in that emotion playing out there. I wanted to feel it all around me, to submerge myself in it. Michael drew closer, and I stepped forward a pace, not sure he'd hear me, but wanting to ask. "Can Murphy hold us both?"

"He will, but I don't think he heard you," Sheila said as Michael rode past. "Next go round, flag him down. Once you're up there, you just kinda get into your own little w