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"One too many," Seto observed from the place he'd claimed, astride Tristan's hips. "Even the music." "Just like us," Tristan added with a very bad attempt at sobriety. The ludicrous grin kept creeping in at the edges no matter what he did or what was said. "Just," Seto echoed, and they looked at one another through the warm haze of alcohol and started to giggle. At Tristan's suggestion, they'd brought out the small disc player-radio that he packed for the trip, and plugged it into the wall. No radio station right for them; too unpredictable by half, and they could easily be in the middle of…settling in…when someone as inappropriate as melancholy Johnny Cash surfaced in the playlist. This was Wyoming. Of the three total stations that worked, all three were country. Tristan knew three of the four discs the player contained. He'd forgotten about the fourth. …It was country. Seto found this amusing, though he claimed to loathe the entire genre. It only made a strange kind of sense, considering how far he'd let Tristan nudge him. The hotel was very nice but not to his taste, the locale was definitely not a place he'd ever considered visiting. Two afternoons ago Tristan coaxed him onto the back of a horse. Not the English style he'd cultivated out of need…but Western. A horse that required no bit. A saddle that weighed at least twenty-five pounds. And now? The warm tingle dancing along his skin wasn't from Courvoisier and Coke but…Michelob. Beer, for God's sake. Something he could drink if he had to, but in general his clients weren't the 'beer' type, thus saving him from the bitter, hard taste and the way it lay in one's stomach like a lead weight… Funny how it grew on you. He was seized by an unfettered surge of wildness that encouraged him to be shocking for the sheer hell of it. Because it was Tristan and he knew that the only person who would ever tease him about it would be Tristan. He and Tristan were both naked to the waist, both with skins even browner than usual from these three weeks of running loose, both wearing blue jeans. Talk about pushing. Seto was so far outside of his safety zone that he couldn't even see it from here. The disc in the player changed tracks, and while they calmed down from giggles to heated twinned smiles, the tone of the music shifted from gentle and easy to…something else entirely. It was hard to find a steel guitar sexy, per se, but like the beer it was swiftly making its own warm spot. "Guy in the corner thinks we should strip," Tristan thumbed at the radio, smirking, not so far gone that he'd lost track of his inner opportunist. Seto caught his wavering hand by the wrist, stroking the tendons beneath the soft skin with the ball of his thumb, earning himself a soft, rapid indrawn breath. He was finding country music sexier by the minute. "What do you say?" Seto asked, voice low and dark as the tan on his shoulders. He laced one fingertip into the chain of the titanium pendant where it had slipped and bunched at his companion's throat, trailed his knuckle against the pulsepoint of Tristan's neck. "I try not to argue when cowboys ask me to get naked," Tristan retorted, still smirking. "All cowboys?" "Cowboys with guitars." "That's an excellent qualification." "I never said I was getting naked for them." Seto bent at the waist, releasing Tristan's wrist to brace himself as he delivered a sizzling kiss and settled the matter effectually of who, exactly, Tristan was getting naked for. It was several minutes later before he sat up again and noted with no small satisfaction that the pressure of Tristan's crotch against his own had increased. "I still don't think we should be arguing with the guy," Tristan pointed out, in a huskier voice. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, and bumped his hips up, jarring Seto, who glared down at him. In seconds he was flat on his back again, as a playful palm flattened against the top of Tristan's chest and knocked out his props; pinned his shoulders down. Seto sat back, drummed his fingertips against the younger man's pectorals, then leaned sideways for one of the amber bottles glowing in the pool of light thrown by the bedside lamp. Tristan watched, transfixed, as Seto mirrored him in his bravado, head thrown back and throat moving in hard swallows, even arched his back a little while his wristwatch jingled and clicked its way down to his forearm. The lamplight lit up the amber glass, and - oh, fuck… - as though Seto planned it that way a tiny trickle of liquid slipped loose and gleamed in a trail from the corner of his lips to his jaw to his neck to his- Not fair. Not fair. Faced with a total unknown - Seto being…what? Rough? No. Not rough. Crass in a way that became a total turn-on just because Seto was doing it intentionally. Tristan wasn't such a strong man to ignore the feathers on display, especially not in his condition. But while he couldn't ignore them, he was so unable to process what was happening that the most he could do was stare and hope to God that Seto had plans. The bottle hit the nightstand a little harder than it should have. Seto's aim was a little off, and he was in a hurry. "Not arguing," Seto muttered against Tristan's neck, licking at the chain, purring languidly at him until Tristan gave a long shiver and flipped him over, licked the place where the wet trail had been down his jaw. With his fist, Tristan reached forward to the headboard and punched a button and the room fell into darkness. His hand hit the nightstand on the way back and the bottles rattled there. He cursed, and snickered, and Seto joined him until snickers died away to the silky hiss of skin and the heavy slap of denim hitting the floor. And of course, the radio, just now dying away into silence. Pause. "That was the last disc, right?" Chuckle. "I think so." Another pause. "It had damn well better not be on repeat." Back to Scylla's Work E-mail the Author Home |
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