The Gift (7 page)

"I don't recall telling you I was gay."

Doren didn't bother to tell August that he hadn't needed to say it. It would be too hard to explain with words. Still, Doren knew it. He knew it as strong as he knew that August was attracted to him. He'd heard it. He'd made words out of the emotions in the sound and then put those words to paper. Yet for reasons Doren couldn't understand, August resisted him like he was viral. He caught August's eye and smiled, the little smile that always seemed to make August's expression go soft, and August didn't disappoint him. So why then, he wondered, if August's body wanted him, if August's eyes called out to him, did August refuse to allow his arms to close the distance between them? Surely there was more to it than just the fact that they worked together?

He looked away and turned his attention back to the rain. If he kept trying to dig for the answer to that question he was going to drive himself crazy. "So," he said, his voice cool and calm, "ready to eat?"

He left August standing on the balcony while he located and studied the menu for room service.

Their meals had been good—overpriced and a little fussy for two coworkers sitting down to eat over a day planner and a notebook—but enjoyable. The room was warm, Doren's chest was bare, and it was as distracting as all hell no matter how insistently August told himself it wasn't.

He knew he was being stupid. Any man, any woman, any being with any sexual attraction whatsoever would take the leap with both feet and not question it for a second. Doren would have him; August didn't doubt that. But then Doren would take on just about anyone who offered. As would ninety-five percent of most single young men. So yeah, he was probably the most ridiculous being with a set of nuts this side of a monastery. After all, Doren could probably teach him things he would never forget. And if he gave in, if he let it happen, one day he'd be able to look back and say, "I slept with Doren."

But that was the problem, wasn't it? That he'd be looking back. Alone. With nothing to gain but a moment's experience. One night, after all this time, after all those twenty years of waiting, was not enough to make him cave just for the sake of sensation. He needed more. Somehow, somewhere, along the way as he'd watched the people in his life and learned how humanity operated, he'd decided that there had to be connection. Yes, that made him the oddity. He'd heard more than his fair share of retorts about the concept when he'd used to discuss it. Nowadays he just kept the thought to himself.

It was the phone that startled August back to reality. It was Doren's eyes that made him blush a dozen shades of red. Breaking the eye contact, August stood and waved Doren away. "Let me," he said. "I'm the assistant, remember? You never know, it could be a crazy stalker or something." He winked, identifying the words as a joke. But still … one couldn't be too cautious.

He firmed his voice, doing his best to attempt formal. "Hello, may I help you?"

"August? May I speak with Doren, please?"

The voice had professionalism down far more than August could have ever hoped to. He didn't recognize it though. It certainly wasn't Diana. It was way too feminine for Anton. "Sorry, whom? I think you have the wrong room."

"August? This is Glenda. Anton's secretary. I do have August, do I not?" She didn't wait for him to confirm. "I'm terribly sorry that we missed you at lunch. We all are, in fact. It would have been lovely to get to know you."

He was opening his mouth to return the sentiment when Glenda began again. "I apologize for the late notice but we'd like to see Doren in Boardroom Four, please. We're waiting for him now if he can make the time. Just let him know that we have the information he requested this afternoon."

He wanted to correct her. It was the information
he
had requested this afternoon. He didn't bother. "You mean now as in now? Right now?"

"Yes, now, please. Let him know we shouldn't be long. And it's right here, in the hotel. On level six in the northeast corner. There are signs."

August tucked the phone against his shoulder as he scribbled down the details. "Oh, and August?" There was a tone of disapproval in Glenda's voice that made the nerves in August's spine flare. "Did I dial the wrong room number? This is Doren's room, isn't it? Or is it not?"

August's jaw tightened. A retort flew to his tongue about implications and attitude, but he held it back. "Yes, this is the right room. And I'll make sure Doren gets the message. Is there an extension we can call you back on?" There was a click on the other end of the line and August realized he was talking to a dead phone. Well then, he mused, not so much of a request as a demand, apparently.

He looked at Doren and was surprised at the expression he found: a distant look, like Doren was drifting. August waited for Doren to look at him and when Doren did, it was with distraction and unresponsiveness. Was he coming down with something? Had the rain caught up with him? "That was Glenda, Anton's secretary. They want to see you in Boardroom Four on level six."

Doren nodded, lethargic. He rose.

"I can tell them no?" August said. "Or put it off for now? Or I could come with you?"

August frowned as Doren stepped past, and when Doren looked back, August wasn't sure he was even focusing. "No. Not this time. You should go now. I might be late."

He left the room without looking back, not bothering to stop for a shirt. And wasn't that just great, August thought. Wouldn't that make a lovely headline? Rock star found wandering—dazed and half-naked—in local hotel. No doubt Anton would be able to twist that into somehow being his fault. He should probably follow. But Doren had said no.

August shrugged, disappointed for reasons he couldn't get a grasp on, and went back to his own room. After all, Doren was the boss. And he was a big boy. He could take care of himself.

August locked the door behind him, praying Doren had the good sense to have grabbed his entry card before walking out.

They were three of the most gorgeous woman he'd ever seen in his life. Ursula: tall, blonde and leggy; Glenda: slim, dark and sexy; and finally Medea, a petite redhead with the pout and round eyes of a child. It was them, he figured, that he'd heard in the hotel room—beckoning like Sirens through the phone line, whispering promises of interesting games as though they had been standing in the room alongside him and August.

"Hello, Doren." Anton's smile was about as feral as anything Doren had ever seen before, including the weasels they used to chase out of the chicken barns. The ones with the teeth like razors and the eyes of midnight. "Have you met my secretaries?"

Doren grinned at the ladies, swiveling the chair to get a better view. "Why, yes, I have indeed. And let me say again that you have lovely taste in associates, Anton. But I have yet to figure out the necessity for all three of them to come out, after hours nonetheless, just to deliver a few papers."

Anton chuckled, resting his chin on his fist, his eyes drifting over his employees. "Only the best for you, Doren. Besides, how can I turn them down when they tell me how badly they want to see you, hmm? But please, business. We don't want to keep you after all. You no doubt have big plans for tonight what with your newfound celebrity lifestyle." Anton waved his hand, his voice bored. "Parties, groupies, music and such."

Doren didn't answer. Anton didn't need to know him that personally. And really, what was he supposed to say? That he'd been sitting in his hotel room, doing nothing more interesting than trying to charm his frigid, and most likely virginal assistant? Yet even as the thought lanced through his mind, there was a voice in his head berating him for walking out and leaving August alone like that. But where August was cold and frightened, the voices of these women had been hot and willing. And Doren was, after all, neither confused nor timid. August would have to work that out for himself.

"So." Anton reached for the paperwork that Ursula handed as she hung seductively low over the table, her eyes fixed on Doren. He couldn't help but flash a smile for the efforts and he was instantly rewarded with one back. "Here are the payroll details you wanted, and the invitation to the gala. It's black tie, of course."

Ugh. Doren barely contained the sound. He repeated it in silence just for the sake of doing it though. Goddamn, but he hated that kind of event. Not that he'd be wearing black tie anyway; he'd come dressed as he always was. They'd expect him to; he was a rock star. But everyone would be so fussy. So important. So … ugh. Everyone except August; he didn't seem to like pompous asses any more than Doren did. Which was cool. Most of the people Doren knew would be hell-bent on getting their claws into an event like that—people to see, to chat up, to get to know. Yet instead of rushing away from Doren to network and connect, he could imagine August clinging to the loops of his jeans, peeking out from behind his shoulder. In those horrid navy slacks … with some god-awful cotton button-up that was two sizes too big in the shoulder and shoved into August's waistband like an accordion.

The image his mind came up with made Doren want to grimace. August would need something to wear. No damn way was his assistant walking in looking like he was going to Uncle Billy-Bob's wedding. Linen … something that would drape over August's smaller shape properly … and form-fitting in the shoulders and upper arms to bring out the definition … definitely something snug over the ass.

Doren chuckled out loud and shook his head when he realized where his mind had wandered. That little bug had wormed himself into Doren's psyche and Doren had no idea how it had happened. Maybe they were right, those damnable "theys." Maybe forbidden fruit really was that much sweeter. He glanced up at the beautiful women in front of him, no doubt brought to tease and tempt him back to Anton's side of thinking, and realized that the only place he wanted to be was with August—even if August had no intentions of giving it up. Who could have imagined?

He picked up the papers, shook them into a stack, and gave the table a salute. To the stunned expressions of the assembly, Doren got up and left. He was going back.

*~*~*

"Doren."

The word nipped at his consciousness from the depths of a sound sleep. August had been gone when he returned. And he'd cursed himself over that fact for a long time afterwards. But the door had been locked between them, from August's side, and he'd snapped his own closed too in retribution. All signs of life from within August's space had been nil, the wine he'd ordered still unopened on the cart, his t-shirt folded neatly and placed on the end of the bed. Even August's wet clothes had been gone. Apparently, Doren had snorted unpleasantly, August had made sure there were no excuses to come back.

So he'd reread his new song, tweaking both lyric and chord before tucking it away for safekeeping. At least he'd got something out of the day.

"Doren."

It came again, like a whispered prayer, tempting him from his bed and pulling him in a drowsy haze to the door between their rooms. There was so much want within the sound—longing, desire—that Doren could feel his body hardening even as his eyelids struggled to respond.

He walked naked, half in and half out of awareness. He paused at the door, tried the handle, found it locked. Didn't matter. He had to go. August was calling.

Doren closed his eyes, searched out the sound of August's dream voice, and dragged it to him. It came easily: into his mind, down through his chest, racing through his extended arm and spread fingers. "Open," he whispered, and he heard the confirmation of both locks, loud in the silence, first his and then August's, agreeing to the request. The door swung free.

He stepped into the smaller room, shivering as August's call found his senses again. It lapped over his skin, ignited him, and teased him like the touch of a feather. The walk towards August's bed was almost painfully slow. August's voice took so much space inside his mind that it was hard to concentrate on anything else. Pretty … light curls pressed into the white of the pillow, air being drawn in and out in deep, even breaths. And oh, the sounds inside August's head; the games August's mind played in sleep. Exhilarating. Enticing.

He lifted the covers and stole in beside, tucking against every angle of August's, meeting August body part for body part, and dropped the covers back over top of them. He trailed his hands over flannel pajama bottoms, over a thigh that was warm and hard. He remembered the way August had looked, wet and cold, and when a light groan fell from August's lips, he couldn't stop his fingers from snagging August's shirt and dragging it up his side. Skin met skin where the protective layer of cloth had lain only seconds before and a deeper sigh danced off August's tongue.

"God, please touch me …" The request didn't have to be spoken to be heard. It didn't have to be repeated to be granted: down chest, over belly, nudging fingertips under elastic to the warmer depths inside and August rocked against him while Doren wrapped his palm around August's aroused body. They moved against each other like they'd known each other forever, August moving in and out of Doren's fist while the opposing motion did amazing things to Doren's own body, stiff and pressed tight against August's ass.

Warm fluid trickled over Doren's fingers, sleep-softened sounds became sharp breaths and August's body began to tremble in Doren's hold. He couldn't stop the groan. God, yes. Cum. Just cum. Just to know … just to be part of that moment …

"Jesus Christ!" Body heat tumbled away, sheets and blankets went with it, and Doren sat up, exposed and surprised, his body still at full attention as August clicked on the lamp beside the bed.

"You fucking dick!" Both of August's fists were clenched. Even with the flush of lust on his face and chest, August looked ready to kill. "What the hell are you doing?"

Doren shook his head, confused, the ache not subsided, the song in his mind still fading. "You … you called me?"

August's laugh was harsh and cold. "Called you? I called you, did I? I was fucking sleeping, Doren. Sleeping!"

"No." He shook his head again, frowning. "You called me."