Off the Page (2 page)

Christina threw her head back and moaned, locking her legs tighter around Loring. Her heels caught the waistband of his leather trousers and pushed down, seeking the firm, unyielding globes hidden beneath. He twisted his fingers inside her and she moaned again, rocking herself up, held only by her own legs and the death grip of her arms around his neck.

“Will you take my weapon, my lovely girl?” he growled against her throat.

“Yes, my lord. Please.” She could scarcely manage her words, but somehow the message came across. For next he was raising her higher. She felt the warm blunt head of his sword rubbing wetly at her opening as he gripped beneath her thighs with one hand and then slowly, slowly, lowered her down as she nipped into his shoulder, trembling, hearing his panting become louder with each moment of descent until at last he was sheathed inside her velvet scabbard.

Christian read the passage over. He’d done a point of view shift. He could fix it later. Or he could hope that his readers were too busy cheering the fact that Loring was finally getting his moment to notice.

“I brought you coffee,” John said. Christian looked up, startled. John always seemed to appear from nowhere. He should be used to it by now, having lived with him for nearly a month, but when Christian was in the writing zone, Cindy used to say she could set a house down next to him and he wouldn’t see it unless it landed on him. A glance at his computer's clock told him that several hours had passed since John left for the beach. John set the mug on top of Cindy’s letter, which had become a permanent coaster, and picked up the empty mug that was already on the desk. As John bent down, Christian caught the whiff of coconut lotion and salt water lingering on his skin and hair. He inhaled, savoring it for that second, but leaned backward as John stood again.

“It’s vanilla blend. Or did you want more of the hazelnut? We’re out, but I can go get some.” John trailed off, sounding worried.

“No, it’s good,” Christian said. He said a silent prayer of thanks for John’s distraction, since it kept him from looking at the computer screen. Turning John’s attempts to be a good roommate into the source of passionate lovemaking for Lord John and Christina probably wasn't the smartest thing Christian had done. At least, not from an “I still have to live with him after he reads it” standpoint. From the “thousands of people are going to read this and give me money” point of view, the idea was a winner and, well, Christian had bills to pay.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” John said. He thumped Christian on the shoulder and walked out with the dirty mug.

Christian slid down in his chair, legs splayed, and pressed firmly on his cock with the heel of his palm. What the hell was he getting himself into?
He’s not for you,
he told his dick.

It didn’t care.

T
HEY
’
D
been living together two and a half months when John slipped a flyer for an upcoming performance of his band under Christian’s door while he was writing.

"You want me to come see you perform?" Christian asked when they sat down to dinner (pizza and wine in front of the television).

John shrugged and, for once, looked shy. "If you want," he said. "You don’t have to."

"I want to," Christian said. He turned the pamphlet over in his hands and wondered if he should tell John how flattered he was to be asked, if that would bring John’s usual confidence back.

John’s smile was so big and warm that Christian felt it heating his cheeks and ears, too.

O
N
THE
night of the performance, Christian went down early to get a good spot on the cushioned bench against the wall near the stage. He looked around for John as another band played. Finally accepting that John wasn’t in the bar, Christian settled back to wait. The band sounded good, so he didn’t mind. John’s band came out next. Christian leaned forward, trying to see John through the haze of stage smoke that billowed forward courtesy of a small fog machine. He was about to shout that no one could see when John began to sing.

Christian closed his mouth. John had mentioned that he could sing, but not that he could
sing
. As John belted out one of his band’s originals, Christian wished John had been more specific about the extent of his talent so that Christian could have better prepared himself. As the smoke cleared and John came into view, Christian amended that to also wish John had allowed Christian a preview of his “costume,” which consisted of glitter pants spray-painted on and a shirt made for a ten-year old child that barely stretched across John’s shoulders and made no attempt at covering his chest at all. No worries about that, though, because John had painted his nipples green. And pierced them. (When had he done that?) And rubbed oil on himself. If Christian had known these things, he would have sat at a table. Tables were much better for hiding hard-ons.

Hiding one with a bottle of Heineken and a miniature plate of nachos was more difficult, but Christian did the best he could.

He’d learned a lot about himself with John. For example, he now knew that the following things gave him erections: John making coffee, John bringing him coffee, John doing the laundry, John setting dinner on fire, John walking away while almost naked, John singing.

If Christian were a speculating man, he’d predict that John naked while singing and bringing him coffee and/or folding laundry as he put out a fire would also arouse him.

Or just John naked. Being a writer, Christian knew how to cut out the unnecessary bits.

When the set finished, John hopped off the stage and came directly to him. Christian pushed on his cock with his empty plate and mentally told it to behave.

“Did you like it?” John asked. He squeezed into the space between Christian and a random girl. Even in the bad lighting, Christian could tell that John's cheeks were flushed. He wanted to reach up and brush the sweat from John’s brow, but John took care of that with a swipe of his forearm. Before Christian could regret the lost opportunity, John put an arm around him and settled back against the wall. His breathing was a little rough, probably from the rush of performing.

“It was amazing,” Christian said. “I had no idea you could sing like that.” He tried not to think about the heat radiating off John’s arm into his neck and shoulders or his desire to sink into it.

“Really?” John asked. “You thought so?” He looked hopeful.

“Yeah. I mean—wow. How are you just a barista?”

John grinned wider, and then his mouth was on Christian’s, hard and pleased and open. Christian opened too, wanting, but before he could take, John reeled backward and removed his arm. “I’m sorry. I’m—shit.” He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and moved farther away. “Fuck. Sorry.”

“It’s not, it’s fine, it’s—” But he was talking to no one. John had already retreated across the room. “Shit.”

The girl looked at him. “Did you say something?”

“No.” Gathering up his bottle and plate, Christian stood and dropped them into the trash. John had suggested separate cars that morning since he had to arrive early to help set up. Looked like those separate rides would come in handy on the way home, too. John stood at the bar talking to a few people. From the distance, Christian couldn’t tell if they were friends or new fans. He waited to see if John would look in his direction, but when John moved it was only to turn away more.

When Christian stepped outside, the chilled ocean air smacked him in the face. He closed his eyes, thinking that it was about time
someone
smacked him. Might as well be God.

He stopped in the bathroom when he got home and tried to see the back of his neck in the mirror to ascertain how many fingernails’ worth of glitter he needed to scrape off from John’s arm lying on him. He hoped John wasn’t so mortified about kissing him that he wouldn’t give him tips for getting glitter off his skin. His bed would be ruined. It could be
years
before he was glitter free. It wouldn’t be so bad, except he wasn’t a glittery guy, and now he was going to associate glitter with John looking horrified.

Christian gave his neck a swipe with a damp washcloth and dropped it on the floor with his shirt as he headed back to his room. He got into bed and pulled the laptop in with him. At least the night had inspired another adventure for Lord John.

“
Y
OU
don’t have to do this,” Loring said. “I can kill them all.” He strained against the bonds that lashed him to the dank stone at the front of the great hall. He glared at the row of nobles who stared impassively back at him.

Christina brushed her petite hand over his grizzled whiskers. He turned toward her touch like a lion tamed, though his eyes remained alert and feral. “I will soothe them,” she promised, "and there will be no need for killing.” Her hand trailed down his bared torso, tracking through the dark, sweat-pressed curls to cup his leather-clad bulge. “You must trust me.” She squeezed him with confidence, her eyes on his, and turned to face their captors.

“I will sing for you,” she said, her voice steady and defiant, “exactly as you wish.”

Standing before them, Christina began her song, the song that held secrets, the song that had led them here, the song that was currently the only thing keeping her and Lord John alive because only she knew it. Surely Christina understood this. These men were not going to thank them for the concert and release them. Loring struggled, his muscles like fire as he reached for futile freedom.

“Don’t.” He did not mean for it to come out sounding like a plea. Was this what he was reduced to now? What she had done to him? “I have killed five hundred men,” he bellowed, but this also sounded like desperation and not the proof of his virility that he wished it to be. No one responded or even looked at him.

Christina’s voice lifted to the heights of the Gothic arches, carrying the Latin words with it. Loring stared out at the greedy faces of the nobles as they bent over ancient maps, tracing out the path that Christina revealed with her family’s song. His cock throbbed, though he fought against it. She was hypnotic, irresistible. He tried to keep his mind focused on freeing himself so that he could save them both, but the more she sang, the more he knew that their fates were sealed and there was nothing he could do about it.

Christian shoved the laptop over to the chair. He hadn’t heard John come home. He tried to sleep anyway. After an hour of listening to the house's noises, he fell into a fitful sleep.

Christian stood fidgeting on the stage. He stared at the crowd of people holding their drinks and looking at him with expectation. What was he supposed to be doing? Surely not singing. These people couldn’t expect him to….

He was naked. He moved to cover himself, but suddenly there was someone behind him drawing him backward by the shoulders to stand against a strong chest. A firm, confident arm slid around his waist.

“Trust me,” John said.

Christian found himself nodding and pushing backward as John’s erection prodded the small of his back. He sighed and let his legs fall open when John grabbed his cock and stroked.

“Don’t do anything. Just
feel
.”

Christian crumbled into him, neck arched to expose more skin for John to mouth over with delicious nibbles as his hips rocked Christian forward into his hand.

“John. John. God. Touch. God.” His eyes closed. He sank down until there was nothing but he and John. John touching him, licking and kissing him, his hand slick and smooth on Christian’s cock.

When he came, it was like awakening. His eyes flew open and his heart pounded as he cried John’s name.

And then he was awake. In bed. And staring at John. The actual John, who was sitting next to him
with Christian's laptop
. John, for his part, stared right back at Christian.

“Morning,” John said. He sounded stunned, as if he were just as surprised to be in the room as Christian was to see him.

“Um,” Christian said. John arched an eyebrow, as if to say he expected more eloquence from a
writer.
Christian ignored it. The running joke in his family was that if he wrote anything before ten a.m., all his characters would be monosyllabic. He scooted backward so he could sit up, sticking his hand beneath the blanket to check. Sure enough, his pajamas were damp. Shit. He’d had a wet dream about
John
while John sat beside him. Breathing deeply, he forced himself to stop panicking. Why was he getting defensive? John was the one in his room. “What are you doing in here?” Christian put some fire into his voice. Maybe John would get the hint and clear out so he could wallow in his embarrassment
alone
.

John’s stare seemed to get more intense. He gestured to the laptop. “I… spilled tea on mine, and I needed to check my e-mail and—”

Christian sat up, intent. "That’s not an excuse. It’s the middle of the night, and you don’t just use someone’s laptop without asking, and you were
sitting on my bed
."

"It’s almost noon," John said. He sounded snappish. "And I’m
sorry
. I was going to wake you up, but you said my
name
, so I stayed to see what else you were going to say. And then I just—when you—" He gestured at Christian’s lap. Christian pulled his legs up beneath the blanket. "I read your book, okay? I didn’t come in here intending to, but it was already up when I opened the computer. I was going to close it, but after you kissed me last night, and now saying my name… I had to know."

"Had to know what?" Christian felt cold all over. John wasn’t supposed to find out like this. He’d leave now and then what was Christian supposed to do? If John could pretend nothing happened, it would be fine. Christian could go back to having a secret crush on John, to jerking off thinking about him, and John could go back to being his oblivious muse. Win-win.

“Christian.”

“What?” Christian tugged the blanket up farther and shifted around, trying to wipe himself off in his pajamas without being obvious about it.