Kyle isn’t good at fancy parties. In fact, he’s hiding in the kitchen and helping with the catering, avoiding his ex and his ex’s wealthy and arrogant friends, and feeling like he doesn’t belong. And that’s when he sees his prince -- or at least a gorgeous mysterious stranger, all alone.
Brendan only came to this party out of obligation; he hates letting anyone down. These days his band plays sold-out shows, and he loves performing, but he’s shy and awkward when not on a stage. But the enchanting man he’s just met is so easy to talk to -- and the chemistry’s electric.
And for Brendan and Kyle, this fairytale night just might lead to a happily ever after.
“You’re wonderful.” Brendan kissed him again. “That was ... the way you look, the way you feel ... magnificent.” His voice carried a hint of surprise, astonishment, amazement. Kyle wasn’t sure why, but asking might’ve shattered the moment, so he didn’t.
Maybe it was surprise about him. Maybe Brendan hadn’t expected the sex to be that good, or maybe he’d been hoping for someone more impressive. Or maybe it was just incredulity at the whole impossible fairytale night, an encounter at a party and a tumble into bed, complete with vine-carved bedposts and the watching mirror with its distressing open-mouthed gold lions.
Kyle certainly sympathized with the incredulity. Nothing he’d ever imagined. Not for himself. Not this story.
Brendan still had the necklaces on, a skin-warmed tangle of silver and leather. Kyle’s own dress shoes were visible on the floor near the door, where he’d kicked them off. If this was a fairytale, a Cinderella story, they’d’ve been glass or fur or silver, fit for a ball; of course he hadn’t really lost one, either, though he had, he supposed, in the sense of losing all his clothing.
Because he was naked. In a guest bedroom, at a terrible weekend party which was no longer terrible, because he’d met a prince.
He couldn’t not smile, against Brendan’s chest.
It wouldn’t last. It couldn’t. He did not do things like this, and he’d go back to his life and production meetings next week, after this week’s vacation ended, and he’d get on with the show. Brendan would go wherever mysterious fantasy one-night-stands went, and would never think about Kyle again. Because fairytales weren’t real, no matter how many happy endings he read aloud out of children’s books, no matter how much emotion he poured into the reading. He knew better.
But he felt so good, just now.
One of Brendan’s artistic hands rubbed his back, a caress. Brendan’s heartbeat was solid, an even rhythm. Kyle yawned, nestled into all long limbs and coziness. “You feel nice.”
“You’re nice to hold.”
Kyle freed a hand from between them, reached over, touched tattoo-ink in its ribbon across fair skin. “Can I ask? Is it a favorite piece of music?”
“First song I ever wrote. Well, not the absolute first -- I’d notes, unfinished bits, all that, mostly embarrassing teenage emotions -- but the first I properly finished.” Brendan’s voice made a low snug rumble between them. “First I was proud of.”
“I was right,” Kyle told him, drowsy. “You are a musician. Thought you were.”
“Did you, then?”
“You seemed like it. Like art. And you like music.”
“So I do. You should get some rest.” Brendan ran a hand over Kyle’s head, guiding, cradling him close. “You’ve had a day. This party. Rescuing people.”
Kyle wanted to ask him to stay, to be here, to keep the shining storybook bubble suspended a while longer. But that would be asking too much, when they had only just met. And when he woke up he’d have to get back to reality, ordinariness, practical budget concerns and ratings and also loneliness and tiredness and cookie-baking as stress-relief, because at least if he brought cinnamon sugar into production meetings he could feel as if he’d done something good for other people, something right, belonging.
Brendan’s skin or hair or cologne still carried the scent of vanilla, under sex and maleness and hints of leather and exertion. It fit him, Kyle decided sleepily. Sweet, domestic, comforting: unexpected, with the rock-star hair and jewelry and leather jacket, but exactly right for the way his hands soothed Kyle’s tension, the way his eyes warmed when giving Kyle pleasure.
He mumbled, “You smell nice, too.”
Brendan laughed, hushed. “Thank you?”
“Like ... sexy cookies.”
“I’ll take it. My cousin’s a perfumer. She comes up with all sorts of scents, and sometimes I try out her new ones, being a test subject, y’know, but I liked this one, the very first time, so I’ve stuck with it.”
“Suits you.”
“Thanks again. And you, too. Like cinnamon, sort of. Cooking spices.”
“I like cooking. And you.”
Brendan said, very softly, “I like you, too. Kyle.” And that hand settled at the nape of Kyle’s neck, holding on. “Go to sleep, love.” He might’ve said something else -- sounded like I’ll be here, or please stay right here -- but Kyle was already falling asleep, lulled by warmth and safety and vanilla sugar, and did not hear the rest.
