21. Niles

Chapter twenty-one

Niles

D id caving make me a masochist? I wanted so badly to believe in August and for this to mean something. Did it stem from desperation or loneliness? We didn’t click. We clashed. For two people who’d only met a few short weeks ago, we argued like a married couple. None of this boded well for the future, but did I care? Of course I did. I’d been looking for Mr. Right since my university days.

Maybe this was dating in your forties. Giving in. Giving up. Taking what you could get.

I drove home, August’s headlights shining blindingly in the rearview mirror. The star-speckled sky made the night seem later than the glowing numbers on the dash claimed. 6:27.

I parked, and August pulled in behind me. He spent a minute texting before getting out of the vehicle. Even then, he regarded his phone for several long seconds before pocketing it. His hands followed the device, stuffed deep within, shoulders raised in apprehension, body a taut bowstring.

“Is everything all right?” I motioned to where he’d tucked the phone.

“Yes. I wanted to be sure Constance was okay,” he explained. “She’s suddenly far too interested in her father’s affairs.”

I smirked. “Sounds about right. Teenage girls are whimsical. They have yet to learn that romance in real life does not reflect what they read in fiction.”

August seemed to consider as he glanced along the darkened street. “I won’t spoil it for her. She’s already growing up too fast. I’d rather she believe in fairy tales.”

“Unfortunately, she’ll learn the truth someday.” I located my house key on the ring and turned to the door. “We all do.”

Inside, I offered August a drink, which he readily accepted. We lingered in the kitchen, sipping red wine and silently staring across the room at one another, neither choosing to sit. August leaned in the doorframe, visibly on edge, while I relaxed against the counter, waiting for a sign.

“You’re jaded,” he observed.

“Meaning?”

“Your comment outside. You don’t believe in fairy-tale love?”

“Not anymore.”

“You’ve been burned.”

“Haven’t we all at some point?”

August shrugged noncommittally. “Do you still love him?”

I didn’t have to ask who. I’d only spoken of one past relationship, and my feelings toward Koa had never been masked. “I do, but I’m not in love with him anymore. Being in love with Koa was a lesson in futility, and it took finally letting those feelings go for me to walk away.”

“His partner, the hockey coach—”

“Jersey.”

“Yes. He seems like a decent guy.”

“He is, and Koa’s different with him, but that’s a whole other story, and I’d rather not chat about exes if it’s all the same.”

But August wasn’t done with the inquisition. “Were there others?”

“Other men? Of course.”

“No, others you loved. Others who contributed to this… vexed viewpoint.”

“Oh.” A sad, quiet laugh tightened my chest. “Yes. I loved almost all of them, but that’s a me problem. I’m sentimental to a fault.”

August’s furrowed brow said he didn’t understand.

“I have a knack for falling head over heels with every guy I date. It’s a character flaw. Hence the extreme caution here.” I swung a finger between us. “I’d like to think I’m learning to hold back as I get older, but…” I shrugged. “Fret not, Maestro. I don’t love you yet. You annoy me too much, for starters. I’m not even sure I like you half the time.”

August smiled, unaffected by the stab at his person. “No offense taken.”

“How about you? Any wildly romantic love stories in your past?”

“No.”

“None? I can’t believe that.”

“Music is the only thing I love… and Constance, but my love for her is uncontested, unchallenged, and unchanging. I wouldn’t know how to not love her.”

“But no one else?”

“None so far. I’ve always been… coldhearted, I suppose. Closed off. I don’t open myself up to the possibility of love. Or rather, I haven’t to date.” He stared into the burgundy depths of his wine, creased forehead betraying serious contemplation. “But…”

“But?”

A wistful smile softened his features as he glanced up and sipped the wine. “You never know. If I’ve learned anything in the past couple of months, it’s that life is unpredictable. If tragedy can befall people out of the blue, why not love? I’ve heard it can blindside you when you least expect it. My only fear is, I’m so unfamiliar with the concept, I might miss it even if it’s staring me in the face.”

The concentration and devotion in August’s eyes spoke of those fairy tales I was still gullible enough to believe in. The hairs on my nape and along my forearms prickled.

He advanced, setting his wine glass on the counter before depositing himself between my legs. He didn’t stop there and boldly kissed me, cupping my face between his palms. No compunction. No hesitation. No questioning, contemplating, or ruminating over consequences. For every confidence, August possessed an equally grave weakness. He was perfection and destruction. He called to something deep within me, yet I feared the ace up his sleeve. Somedays, I was no different than nineteen-year-old Niles, who’d gone off to university with his bags packed full of ambition and dreams.

I could handle August, this , so long as I reminded myself daily, hourly , not to fall in love.

August had left his shame at the restaurant, transforming into someone else entirely. He dominated the kiss, hands roving, mouth claiming. Without pause, he relieved me of my shirt one button at a time, grazing the flat of his palms over my chest once revealed. The touch lit a path of fire over my abdomen, tingling the blood in my veins.

“I’m so incredibly attracted to you,” he said against my mouth. “Every part of you… since the moment I first laid eyes on you.”

His mouth landed on my neck, licking, sucking, and marking. I didn’t have the wherewithal to request he didn’t leave bruises where I couldn’t hide them. I fumbled with his belt, worried his sweater over his head, and tore at the confining clothes remaining as I sought skin.

“You’ve been with other men?” I asked, half question, half concern.

“I told you I have.”

“How?”

“What?” His tongue scored a path along the length of my collarbone as he tilted my head back and lapped over the swell of my Adam’s apple. His teeth caught my chin, grating the dense scruff as he nipped and tasted along my jaw.

“ How have you been with them?”

August chuckled. “Ah. I see. Every way possible, Niles. Don’t fret. I know what I’m doing.”

I clasped his face and forced his head up. His lips shimmered with saliva. Humor shone like moonbeams from the dark forests of his irises. “Clarify, Maestro. I need to be sure I thoroughly understand you.”

He tried to move in for another kiss, but I stopped him, brow raised. “Explain.”

“I can give, receive, or play any dirty game you’d like. Happy?” He stroked my hardening length through my pants. “You might think me a stiff on stage, but I’m not a slouch in the sack.”

“Fuuuck.”

More laughter. “That mouth on you.” He kissed it, bruising and deep and claiming.

Wedging a hand down the front of my underwear, August’s warm fingers brushed against the sensitive line of my cock before securing hold and stroking, flesh to flesh.

Cross-eyed with pleasure, insides vibrating, I pulled free from his mouth and removed the assaulting hand before shoving him toward the kitchen door. “Bedroom’s upstairs. So are the condoms and lube. We are not exchanging hand jobs in the kitchen.”

August backed out the door, determined not to stop exploring. Tongue, teeth, nails. Hands everywhere. Stroking, fondling, aching for more.

We crashed into a wall and remained there, letting it hold us upright as things escalated. Skin on fire. Mouths fused. August found the elastic band holding my hair back. It stood no chance, snapping and flinging somewhere into the room. He combed the long strands from my face and wrapped them around his fingers, securing me in a tight grip. There, he held me.

“And how about you? How have you been with other men?”

“Six ways to Sunday.”

“Adventurous.”

“Somewhat.”

“I have a lot to live up to, don’t I?”

“Is your whole world a competition? Can’t you enjoy something without being the best?”

He wedged a thigh between my legs, pressing against my erection. “When it comes to you, I need to prove myself. I can’t lose this time.”

I did not read too much into that statement and rocked against his leg. “How about this? Tonight, I want you on your hands and knees.”

“You still think I’m nothing but starch.”

“Are you denying me?”

“Heavens no. I couldn’t if I wanted to.”

Kissing replaced conversation. We fumbled our way upstairs and into the bedroom. I located supplies before letting August roll me onto the bed. From there, we became a tangle of limbs. I didn’t know where I ended and August began.

If I’d doubted his assertion of not being a slouch in bed, he proved himself in less than a few minutes. He was everywhere at once. When he swallowed my cock, I almost came off the bed.

When I returned the favor, he nearly tore my hair from the roots as he arched his back and drove into my mouth. I stretched his pleasure to the tautest edge of snapping, nearly drawing him beyond his senses before pulling back. I teased until he growled in frustration.

“Hands and knees.” I slapped his thigh and found a condom and lube as August flipped over.

“Keeping it impersonal, I see.” He glanced over his shoulder with an edge of humor dancing in his eyes.

I pressed him to the bed, lying across his back and holding him down with my weight as I nipped his ear. “Yes. Problem?”

“No. However you want it. Get to it, Niles.”

“I will. This is good too.” I rocked my hips, riding his ass crack as I angled his face for a kiss.

He reached around and ran a hand along the back of my thigh, guiding the motion and moving with me. My attempt at impersonal turned a corner, becoming personal. The frantic race toward an invisible finish line slowed.

August rolled me off his back, and we were once again face-to-face, him on top, kissing, touching, and sharing a cloud above Paradise Island, far from the rest of humanity.

Before I knew what was happening, August was in control. August was prepping me. August was inside me.

I could have protested all of it.

The intimacy.

The reversal of expectation.

The quiet words he spoke in my ear that weren’t English but carried weight.

The slow and gentle way he took me. No longer rushed. No longer hectic or feverish.

But I didn’t.

For a man who claimed to have never been in love, when it came to sex, romance flowed through August’s veins. He swept me up and took me away.

After, we lay among the tangled sheets, peering at each other in the dark. A thousand unasked and unanswered questions passed between us. August couldn’t keep his hands to himself, tracing patterns over my bare skin, tucking loose strands of hair around my ear, and brushing the pad of a thumb over my lips.

“Do you hate me?” he asked.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes. To me it does.”

“Then no.” But the answer had more layers than I cared to explain while lying in bed after sex.

August seemed to see what remained unsaid.

“Let’s try,” he said after a long silence.

“You and me?”

“Yes.” He shuffled closer, lips lingering near mine as he whispered, “écho tyflotheí.”

“You’re doing it again.”

His mischievous grin glowed in the dark.

“You hate it when Constance speaks ASL because you don’t understand her.”

“This is different.”

“How?”

He kissed me, drawing me against his body. A new blaze burned in my core, and I wanted him again. I wanted the slow way he’d made love. I wanted to feel worshiped.

“Auggie,” I said against his mouth. “Tell me what you said.”

“Another day.”

“You’re aggravating.”

Unaffected, August kneaded the globe of my ass cheek, hiking my leg higher so it sat on his thigh. “Tell me something random.”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Fine. Like what?”

“Doesn’t matter. Surprise me. It can be anything at all. A funny story, something personal, an anecdote from your childhood. The first thing that comes to mind. I want to know you, Niles.”

“All right.” I considered for half a beat, then smiled. “During my first year of university, I was meant to accompany a female vocal student doing a term-end performance, a gorgeous German aria. I can’t remember the name of the piece, but it doesn’t matter. We practiced a handful of times before she had to take to the stage, so I was relatively familiar with the lyrics despite not having a lick of German in my repertoire.

“Midway through the performance, she starts singing words that are completely unfamiliar. I panicked thinking I’d missed a cue or messed up, but as the piece progressed, she made no indication anything was wrong, but I knew we weren’t on the same page. Anyhow, we finished, and the second we’re offstage, I turned to her and said, ‘What the hell happened?’ and she explained that she had lost her place and her mind went blank, so she conjured every German word she knew and sang them as though they belonged there.”

August howled. “Oh my god. You’re kidding.”

“Nope, and she aced the exam.”

“The faculty grading her didn’t know the difference?”

“Apparently not.”

“Wow.”

“Her name was Analise. We stayed friends for a long time after that. She ended up on the West Coast, so I don’t see her anymore, but we text occasionally. She swore me to secrecy, so you can’t tell anyone.”

“Meine lippen sind versiegelt.”

“German?”

“Yes.”

“You need to stop showing off.”

“I said, my lips are sealed.”

I regarded August for a long time. His lazy, relaxed smile. “I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

“You’re a flutist, but I have yet to see you play. You spend an awful lot of time at the piano.”

Strain pulled at the edges of August’s smile. “You noticed that.”

“I did. Is there a reason?”

“I guess… I’ve been focusing more on composition lately. I don’t know when I’ll return to Chicago and if my chair will still be there when I get back. In the meantime, I can take commissions and work from home. I still play the flute a few times a week, but I’m enjoying the break. You’ve heard of embouchure overuse syndrome?”

“Of course.”

“Before signing on with the Chicago Symphony, I suffered what they call embouchure collapse. Almost had to revoke my contract. It took several months to recover. It’s more common in brass players, but don’t underestimate the tenacity of a world-renowned flutist who is determined to outplay and outshine everyone in the world.”

“Doesn’t proving yourself get tiresome?”

“Yes.” It was meant as a joke, but August wasn’t laughing. “I’m careful now. The break has been nice.”

“What are you writing at the moment?”

He appeared to hesitate and look away. “I’m supposed to be focusing on an assignment for an artist in France, but I’ve been uninspired, so I’ve taken on a personal composition as of late.”

“So you’re procrastinating.”

“Yes. Have you ever written anything?”

It felt like a diversion, like he didn’t want to talk about whatever masterpiece was in the works, but shining a light on my failed accomplishments stung. “Never finished anything. I’m great at beginnings but lose confidence halfway through and give up.”

“I’d love to hear some of your work.”

“That’s probably never going to happen.”

“Why not?”

“Tell you what. You translate those whispered sweet nothings from earlier, and I’ll think about sharing a piece with you.”

He didn’t and wouldn’t, so the conversation drifted elsewhere. It was long past midnight before August said he should get home. Reluctantly, we got up and dressed.

Lingering at the front door, we shared enough unspoken words to fill a book. The subtext was glaring.

“I’ll call you,” he said.

“I won’t hold my breath.”

“Niles,” he cupped my face, “I’ll call you.” Our parting kiss was enough to make me forget my pledge.