Duet (28 page)
Just when he felt his heart might break from reliving the agony of his solitude, his lover stepped up beside him, and together they began the final score—the triumph of love over death. A crowd of thousands sat out there somewhere, but they didn’t matter. All that mattered was the music and Aillil.
When the last note faded and the applause began, Malcolm shook with barely restrained emotion, as he always did after such a brutally honest performance. Playing from the heart left him drained, but at the same time, exhilarated. And sent CD sales through the roof.
A warm hand gripped his shoulder, and Aillil stepped from the shadows as the house lights slowly rose. He and Aillil took their bows before leaving the stage together, greeted by a beaming Neil. “That was absolutely fantastic!” Neil gushed, leading them toward the inevitable meet-and-greet.
They answered questions and allowed pictures, Malcolm discreetly holding Aillil’s hand. As a man of the 1700s, Aillil bore a fascination for technology, and they’d come dangerously close to a lawsuit when he’d snatched the camera from a reporter’s grasp to see how “the infernal contraption” worked.
“Mr. Byerly, why did you give up a promising solo career as a classical musician to form Lost Lairds?” a reporter asked, shoving a microphone beneath Malcolm’s nose.
Malcolm handed the question over to his more confident lover. “Alan?”
Aillil, still unaccustomed to microphones, maybe spoke a bit too loudly when he responded, “We met and he decided he couldn’t live without my bagpipes. It has absolutely nothing to do with me, honest.” He grinned, dropping a quick wink at a photographer, who saw the gleam in Aillil’s eyes and stepped back. It seemed his reputation preceded him.
Malcolm spoke up for his part of their very well-rehearsed explanation. “I’ll always love Beethoven and Dvorak, but they never lifted me out of my seat to dance the way traditional music does. In fact, a lot of the traditional tunes were based on court dances—they diverged during the Baroque era, and I’m just bringing them back together. With Alan’s help.”
At the beginning of their joint venture, their eclectic mix of traditional and classical elements had enraged traditional purists, shocked the classical snobs, but never failed to delight the audiences.
“However, he does take exception when I feel the overwhelming need to practice my bagpipes at 2:00 a.m.,” Aillil interjected, causing a few chuckles among the reporters. The photographer remained alert, observing Aillil with a wary eye. Smart man. The camera Malcolm purchased to appease Aillil’s curiosity now lay in pieces on the kitchen table back home.
“Mr. Callahan,” another reporter began, “has anyone ever mentioned that you bear a striking resemblance to Aillil Callaghan, the famed Scottish ‘Lost Laird’ from which your duo took its name?”
As practiced, Aillil gave the woman his best affronted look. “I’ll have you know I’m
much
better-looking.” He gave her a mock-evil glare before laughing. “Actually, we’re related, which makes this man,” he said, dropping an arm around Neil’s shoulders, “my sixteenth cousin or something like that.”
Neil gave him an evil glare, for Aillil’s ad-libbed reply guaranteed the next question: “So, Mr. Richards, is it true that you’re to become the next Laird Callaghan?” allowing Malcolm and Aillil to slip away.
They retreated to the backstage dressing room to pack away their instruments. Malcolm couldn’t stop grinning. In fact, he’d been grinning nearly constantly since waking up in a yew grove with a Highlander pressed against his back.
In the blink of an eye, they switched from reserved musicians to impassioned lovers, stripping off each other’s Prince Charlie jackets and vests and then dealing with hose, flashes, brogues, and the buckles on each other’s kilts. “So much easier in my day,” Aillil groused.
Their kilts fell to the floor and his brows rose. “And what, pray tell, is that?” He nodded toward Malcolm’s jock strap.
Malcolm flushed under the scrutiny. “I know, I know. A true Scotsman wears nothing under his kilt. But I’m from Cleveland. And you have to give me credit. At least I’m not wearing full boxers this time.”
Aillil’s mouth dropped open. “Wears nothing under his kilt? Perhaps in this modern time. However, any Scot what braved a Highland winter in my day would be grateful not to have frostbitten stones.”
Malcolm found himself pressed against the wall, staring up at a naked, grinning Highlander. Aillil lowered his mouth, whiskers tickling Malcolm’s ear. “That strap is too small to provide much protection. Perhaps it’s merely a wee bit a gift wrapping?” Aillil proceeded to unwrap his gift, falling to his knees on the carpeted floor and taking Malcolm into his mouth.
Leaning against the wall and clutching a vanity for support, Malcolm reveled in the moist warmth surrounding his flesh, Aillil’s enthusiastic tongue lapping up the underside, down to his balls and back again. Two saliva-slickened fingers massaged around his hole.
Pressure began low in his groin. He’d never last long at this rate. Aillil abruptly stood. “Turn around,” he commanded, though his voice barely rose above a whisper.
Turning and gripping the vanity top, Malcolm offered himself to his lover. Large hands ran up his flanks and across his shoulders, then back down to grip his hips. Aillil parted Malcolm’s cheeks, running a finger between the mounds. “Where is that… stuff?”
“In the pocket of my suit bag,” Malcolm panted. Normally, Aillil took time to thoroughly explore his body, but as they’d both discovered soon after forming their duo, good performances served as very effective foreplay. The warmth at his back disappeared.
A moment later, Aillil returned, and slippery fingers breached Malcolm’s opening.
“Ahh….” Malcolm moaned, pushing back against the welcome intrusion. Aillil slowly worked his fingers in and out, the way Malcolm liked. Malcolm panted, overcome by the feel of being opened for something larger.
He skated nearer and nearer to completion, Aillil giving enough to arouse him, but stopping short of sending him over the edge. Finally, the fingers withdrew and Aillil pushed in. Slowly, slowly, he stretched Malcolm’s outer ring of muscles, sinking into Malcolm’s welcoming body. “I’ll never get enough of you,” Aillil murmured.
The only word Malcolm’s fuzzed-out brain could produce was, “Good.” He shoved back, seating Aillil more fully. Aillil stilled, hissing through his teeth. Malcolm opened his eyes, watching Aillil in the vanity mirror, head thrown back, eyes closed, face a mask of pleasure.
Aillil ground his crotch against Malcolm’s arse, then withdrew, one fraction at a time. He pushed back in slowly. Malcolm writhed beneath him, urging Aillil to pick up the pace.
Instead, Aillil withdrew completely, then turned Malcolm and silenced his protests with a kiss. One broad hand beneath each thigh, he repositioned Malcolm on the vanity and slid back inside, their cries muffled by their joined mouths.
In and out, Aillil pressed and released, stretching and filling Malcolm until Malcolm thought he’d shatter into a million pieces. The head of Aillil’s cock skimmed against his gland over and over, shooting hot sparks through his belly and groin. Hands firmly gripping Malcolm’s hips, Aillil established a steady pace, Malcolm’s pants and Aillil’s quiet moans keeping perfect tempo.
“I’m gonna come!” Malcolm croaked, gripping the vanity with one hand to keep from falling. With his other, he reached between their bodies to stroke his cock in time with Aillil’s thrusts. “Ah, ah, ah….”
Aillil let out a lustful groan, increasing the pace and urging Malcolm on. Malcolm’s whimpers grew frantic, animalistic, then he gasped, eyes scrunching tight as he came undone. Aillil pumped a few more strokes and then stilled, a muted roar announcing his climax. He draped over Malcolm and lay still, their gasping breaths deafeningly loud in the cramped dressing room.
Once their racing hearts calmed, Aillil eased out, sighing as he did. “Come,” he said, gently cleaning Malcolm with a handful of tissues, “we need to find a bed.”
They dressed in street clothes, packing away their Prince Charlies for another day, Malcolm helping Aillil with the clasps on his garment. Damn but the Highlander looked fine in a utilikilt, a form-fitting T-shirt, and sturdy biker boots.
In a nod to his lover’s tastes, Malcolm donned similar garb, securing the jockstrap beneath. He didn’t know if he’d ever be bold enough to “let them dangle” as Aillil did.
They grabbed their instruments and headed out into the now-quiet auditorium. “Wait,” Aillil said, staring out over the empty seats in the dimly lit room.
“For what?” Malcolm asked, eager to get to the hotel he’d booked and introduce his lover to the joys of an in-room hot tub. How Malcolm loved showing Aillil the modern world, loved the delight in the Highlander’s eyes as he discovered for the first time things Malcolm had learned to take for granted—Aillil had developed a particular fondness for microwaveable popcorn, of all things.
Aillil grinned, returning to the stage. There, in the quiet of the deserted theater, he put bow to strings again, beginning the song that would never be played for an audience—the melody used to cast the Druid’s spell, and the one that had broken it—their song.
After a few measures Malcolm joined in, adding his magic to Aillil’s. The music quivered the air, reaching two centuries into their past—and into their future.
About the Author
E
DEN
W
INTERS
, ever curious about new places and people, lives a somewhat nomadic existence. Her earliest memories include making up stories for the family’s pets, and through her academic years she spent many happy hours writing short stories and poems. Dreams of writing professionally were realized, only not as planned, with a good dozen years spent as a technical documenter. From a young age she eagerly devoured every book that caught her eye, from biographies to sci-fi. Genre? What genre?
When she discovered m/m, she met characters she could identify with and scintillating plotlines that kept her riveted to the page. Somewhere around the 300th book her own imagination began making demands. From her fascination with, well, everything sprang stories as diverse as a 1700s Highlander to a modern doctor in earthquake-devastated El Salvador.
Her first novel was published in 2010, and she’s never looked back. To date, five of her novels have been recognized by the annual Rainbow Awards, with one also gaining finalist status in the 2012 Lambda Literary Awards.
Currently, Eden calls the southern US home, and many of her stories take place in the rural South. She lives alone, having successfully raised two children, and divides her time between a day job, friends, grandkids, writing, trying different varieties of vegetarian cuisine, and exploring her world. Her musical tastes run from Ambient to Zydeco, she owns a TV she never watches, and she’s a firm believer that life is better with pets. She also loves cruising down the road on the back of a Harley Davidson.
Visit Eden’s website at http://www.edenwinters.com.
Contact her at [email protected].
Follow her on Twitter: @edenwinters1.
Friend her on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/EdenWinters.
Also from
E
DEN
W
INTERS
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com
Also from
E
DEN
W
INTERS
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com
