"I live just over there," Jack said, gesturing past the Chinese place. "Do you want to see where a writing machine like me writes?"

"Machine?"

Jack dismissed the remark. "Just something from a review. What do you say?"

"Of course. And I'd like to hear more about the story that blocked you, too."

Jack had only shared small details about what had brought him into the store, but now he couldn't wait to tell John everything. Maybe even read it to him, get his opinion on what should happen next. In spite of claiming to not be creative, John was well-read. He was educated. And he was drop-dead gorgeous. Jack could use someone like him -- a muse, a patron, but also more.

When John placed a hand on the small of his back, Jack forgot about his story. He only wanted skin on skin. He only wanted a new kind of inspiration.

"Lead the way," John prompted.

And Jack did, without saying a word.

It was only as the two men stepped off the rickety elevator and walked down the worn carpet towards Jack's door when the mood shifted and changed. Jack fumbled with his keys. He muttered apologies under his breath as he grasped the right one and slid it into the lock. John put his hand on Jack's back, and then curved it around to his front, caressing his side. He was an inch or two shorter than Jack, so when he nuzzled him with his long nose, it was just under his ear and along the nape of his neck. Jack almost dropped his keys. He almost fell to his knees right there.

Luckily, the door was already open. When Jack didn't have the strength to push inside, John did. Both of them parted long enough to take off shoes, jackets, and other items. Winter made seduction that much longer, with so many more steps than necessary. Jack asked if he wanted something to drink, warm or cold. John declined.

"Is that where you write?" John asked, gesturing to the desk in the middle of the living room.

Jack nodded. He stayed in the middle of his apartment, halfway between the bedroom and the desk. John seemed far too thrilled with his writing station. He touched the back of the chair and pulled it out before casting a glance over his shoulder. "You mind if I open the laptop?"

"You sure you want to read it?"

"I want to do a lot of things," John said. "But I think it would be interesting if you show me what it's like to be inspired."

The heavy tone in John's voice meant something so much more than mere inspiration. Jack dragged himself from his position close to the bedroom back to his desk. John was standing behind the chair and gestured for Jack to sit. Once Jack did, and opened the laptop, John placed his hands on his shoulders. He rubbed them over his skin, gripping tightly, and then combed his fingers through his hair. Jack could barely focus on the words. When he leaned up to meet John's mouth for a kiss, John pulled away.

"Read me some," he said.

"I don't want to. I want --" John broke his protests with the kiss Jack longed for. Because he'd been mid-speech, his mouth was open. John's tongue entered right away. He pressed their mouths together fiercely, breathing him in. John's hand slipped from Jack's shoulder to caress his neck and under his chin. He kept their embrace locked that way, their mouths fused, until he decided it was over.

"I still want to hear some," John whispered. "Just a little. Then I want you to inspire me."

Jack shuddered. He remembered the passage he'd read in a book, ages ago now, that talked about the root word for inspire being breath. He could still feel John's breath inside of him from their kiss. It was exactly what he needed.