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 MxM Primum Non Nocere [Trifles & Nev]

Discussion in 'Roleplay Haven' started by Observing Trifles, Jul 2, 2019.

  1. Observing Trifles

    Observing Trifles Das Hündlekätzle Member

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    There was something of a primal appeal in the act of defiling such a stunning specimen. Quinn's inherent beauty was the sort destined for canvas or sculpted marble, yet there he laid, lips still flushed and lewdly slicked with the spend of a man whose name he had not known a mere two days prior. In that, he was something of a marvel. A rare, exquisite marvel the likes of which the older man was eager to possess. Somehow he doubted Quinn to be keen on offering himself to just any man; his attention was hard-won.

    Post-climax, the physical evidence of Mikkel's interest barely flagged. If anything at all, he reacted with considerable vigor. Perhaps the lascivious nature of that grin and those honeyed words had made an impact, for when next he laid hands on the younger man, it was with a touch of controlled force. A strong grip settled under Quinn's arms, the surgeon's upper body tensing with raw strength as he turned him onto his back. With equal strength and persistence, Mikkel drew Quinn's legs apart, settling between them and craning over his lissome frame - a hunter closing in on vulnerable prey.

    "I'm afraid you'll simply have to keep them waiting," he rasped, deft fingers unrolling a new latex sheath onto his erection. No sense abandoning caution, after all. Palms hooked under Quinn's thighs, he angled those long legs back, nudging the swollen head of his cock against his opening, still suitably relaxed from their earlier rutting. "Now that I've seen some of your more socially unacceptable skills, I have no desire to see you off so soon."


    So said, he pushed into Quinn's snug opening a second time, moving with measured but unyielding pressure. His patience, it seemed, was wearing thin, replaced by the persistent hunger to bury himself inside and fuck him raw. A pull back and a decisive thrust forward brought him in halfway. Again, and he was in to the hilt, whereupon the remnants of his gentlemanly veneer began sloughing off like dead skin. "No," he said, finding a steady rhythm at which to rock his hips, leisurely grinding into his receptive younger lover. "No, I'm not quite done with you yet."
     
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  2. Nevermind

    Nevermind paint me as a villain. Administrator

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    A whispy gasp left Quinn's swollen lips at Mikkel's firm handling. Not forceful, no, but stubborn and absolute. Since the moment they had laid eyes on one another, Quinn knew in the pit of his gut that Mikkel Ostergaard was a man who rarely--if ever--heard the word "no" unless he was uttering it from his own lips. Not that Quinn was adverse to the older man's willful movements, of course; it was merely unusual for a man to treat Quinn as if he were made of anything other than glass.

    "Mikkel," he groaned, eyes closing as his partner shoved his engorged shaft into him with minimal resistance. Long fingers curled and gripped at soft, silky bedsheets, knuckles turning white.

    "No. No, I'm not quite done with you yet." Despite himself, Quinn couldn't help but allow a bemused, euphoric grin to pass across his face. Their bodies fit together like two oiled gears, twisting and turning in perfect synchronicity. A single hand untangled itself from Mikkel's sheets to caress his own aching cock to a dizzying completion, releasing himself across his own clenched abdomen in a sticky, pearlescent mess as Mikkel continued to thrust.

    "Are all your dates like this?" he gasped, limber legs wrapping tightly around Mikkel's slim waist. He could feel the sweat and semen coating his fair skin, feeling the yearning for a good scrub down beginning to sprout.
     
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  3. Observing Trifles

    Observing Trifles Das Hündlekätzle Member

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    There was something to be said about the raw appeal of defilement. When he had first laid eyes on Quinn in the gallery, prim and polished, the image of fastidiousness, he had imagined for a split second how he might look when he unraveled. How he might look when those walls came down, when the veil of pretense fell away, revealing what laid underneath. The way a man looked when he came undone showed far more than any practiced front, and in this regard, Quinn did not disappoint.

    Indeed, when his younger lover unraveled, he was that much more beautiful to the voracious Mikkel, who devoured the sight of him with unrestrained ardor. That limber body tensed around him as Quinn brought himself to completion, forcing him to put that much more strength behind his thrusts until he relaxed again. But even then, it seemed Mikkel was unwilling to handle him like a fragile flower. If anything, the sight of him stroking himself off encouraged the older man to use him more brusquely. He had climaxed once, yes, but having not afforded himself time for his arousal to flag, reaching a second was not unheard of.


    Quinn posed a query that had him chuckling, a bit breathless as he hunched over his lithe figure, slipping his hands to the small of his back and lifting his hips off the sheets. "Not always," he purred. "Sometimes I show restraint." So said, he claimed the other man's mouth in a kiss, one that lasted all of a few moments before he righted himself, back in a position to grind into that receptive body with purpose. He was mindful of Quinn's comfort when his movements quickened, sharpened, but his patience had worn through and his intent was clear.

    When at last he came, it was with a trio of hard pulses and an accompanying groan of completion. At this, he finally slowed, easing his hips from their frenzy, guiding himself into slow, leisurely gyrations to ride out the pleasured waves. Craning over his companion, he clutched Quinn's body to his own, bending to press his mouth to the hollow of his slender throat, muffling a sigh in the same spot. "I may have to think of more socially unacceptable positions for you to be in."
     
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  4. Nevermind

    Nevermind paint me as a villain. Administrator

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    Bliss. That was the only word Quinn could find within the swirling fog inside his mind. He was hot, wet, sticky, flush against Mikkel's sculpted form. A shiver washed over the younger man's body as the surgeon's warm mouth pressed against the smooth skin of his throat. At Mikkel's confession, Quinn chuckled softly, allowing a subtle smile to cross his lips and he wrapped his long, lean arms around his partner's shoulders.

    "If you're lucky, I may just let you put me in those socially unacceptable positions," he teased, fingers weaving through Mikkel's damp hair. In his mind, Quinn knew he would have an extremely difficult time refusing the handsome doctor anything, but he certainly wasn't going to let Mikkel know that.

    Among the rough breaths shared between partners, the muffled sound of Beethoven's "Für Elise" filtered through the thick air, causing the Quinn to stiffen in Mikkel's arms. A heavy sigh escaped his lips as he began to detangle himself from his partner, slipping his lithe body through taut limbs and delicately reaching over the bed, plucking the offending device from a pile of discarded garments.

    A second sigh of irritation sounded from him as he quickly glanced at the cell phone's screen. "Excuse me, Mikkel," he muttered, answering the call with an eye roll.

    "Mmm, yes?" he said. The voice on the other end was nigh inaudible outside of speaker pressed against Quinn's ear, as if the he turned the volume down on his phone quite low to prevent eavesdroppers from snagging more than what Quinn was willing to give them.

    "Oh, just for a brief moment. There's little reason to be concerned. . . . Yes, of course."

    Call completed, Quinn returned the phone to its place among his clothes. "You'll have to forgive me, Mikkel," he began, "it seems I must cut our magical evening short. I'm required elsewhere." Mikkel didn't need to be privy to the information that the one who required Quinn was his mother.

    "You wouldn't mind terribly if I borrowed your shower for a minute, would you? I've somehow managed to get myself in a rather disheveled state." He offered the surgeon a smirk before pulling from his grasp completely, lengthy limbs gracefully arching over the bed. He stood, groaning gently as he felt the pleasant ache in his backside. Without waiting for Mikkel's express permission, Quinn began to make his way to the master bathroom, eager to rid himself of the night's decadent filth.
     
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  5. Observing Trifles

    Observing Trifles Das Hündlekätzle Member

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    After a few long moments spent savoring the intensity of their rutting, allowing Quinn to pull away was something of a challenge. Alas, the faceless voice on the other end of the line beckoned, and he didn't seem at liberty to deny them. For his part, Mikkel didn't complain. It wasn't in his nature to covet a lover, to fawn over them. If Quinn was a one and done kind of man, Mikkel had no intention of coaxing him into staying. Besides which, he was a proper mess. A shower was hardly unwarranted if he was to return to polite society.

    When the younger man vanished into the bathroom, Mikkel took the opportunity to clean up, refastening his trousers and belt upon righting himself. It was as he crossed the room, moving to draw open the curtains, that he spied Quinn's discarded clothing and paused, contemplative. He was not an overly impulsive man, but he was an opportunistic one, and when he felt through the pile and happened upon a wallet, he saw little reason not to indulge his curiosity.


    In the great scheme of things, one didn't need much data to find out more about a person. Only a surname and an address, both of which could be found on an identification card. It took all of ten seconds to jot these details onto a scratchpad, even less to slip the wallet back where he had found it. Quinn Lau—not a common name. Armed with this small bit of personal information, Mikkel had found his source of entertainment for the week.

    By the time Quinn emerged, newly showered, Mikkel had taken to leaning on the edge of a desk near the window, flipping through a leather-bound planner. He found plenty in his schedule that he could postpone, deeming it time better spent on more amusing pursuits. The sight of the young man reawakened a primal hunger to see him defiled all over again, but now was not the time. "Needed elsewhere, are you?" He didn't ask after any details. They didn't matter. "A pity, but I suppose it can't be helped. Off to the real world with you."
     
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  6. Nevermind

    Nevermind paint me as a villain. Administrator

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    A slow, forlorn piano sang sadly through his earbuds as he stared at the naked model on the pedestal. Though figure drawing typically held great allure for Quinn, today he could focus little on the elongated abdomen, the sharp angular jaw, the thick tuft of curly black hair between the model's legs. None of it seemed to call to him with the same intensity he was used to, leaving the pencil in his hand nothing more than a prop. As he stared blankly at his subject, the pencil simply hovered above the paper. Quinn felt much like a piece of static art himself; mimicking all the right poses, accomplishing nothing. "The daydreaming artist" the plaque beneath him might say. It was perhaps a nicer title than what he actually deserved.

    It had been only a few days since he had left Dr. Ostergaard's home, body still dewey and warm from the shower. The taste of Mikkel's skin had been replaced by food, drink, toothpaste and mouthwash, lingering only in the young man's memory. It had been only a few days, and yet Quinn found he could not exorcise the man's image from his mind. The musical lilt of his voice still caressed the gentle curve of Quinn's ears, and every time Quinn closed his eyes he could feel his body tense and rise in temperature, as if Mikkel were pressing close, demanding a taste...

    "You seem to be struggling today, Mr. Lau," she said, peering over his shoulder at the scant marks on the page. Her voice disrupted the music in his ear, crashing through like rogue cymbals. With one hand, Quinn popped out an earbud and tightened his grip on his pencil with the other.

    "I seem to be lacking inspiration today, Professor Marrow," said Quinn, turning his head as little as he possibly could to catch a glimpse of the woman's salt-and-pepper bob and bright cherry red cat-eye glasses.

    Professor Marrow clicked her tongue in that irritating way of hers. "Art isn't all about inspiration, Quinn. Inspiration doesn't simply come to you prepackaged with a silky bow. One must draw until one's hand aches, until one's eyes burn, until--"

    "Yes, yes, draw until your limbs voluntarily fall off and you yearn for the icy hands of death to grip you, then and only then will inspiration grace your lowly existence," he groaned, snapping his sketchbook shut. "I think, perhaps, today simply isn't my day, Professor."

    His chair screeched against the floor as he pushed himself up. Marrow stepped back, thin--almost nonexistent--eyebrow raised. "Very well, we'll see you next week, Mr. Lau."

    Maybe, he thought, though he didn't bother to offer Professor Marrow an audible response.

    Cloudy skies greeted him as he stepped out of the building. Digging through his satchel, Quinn retrieved the business card Mikkel had given him the evening they met. He stared at it blankly, watching silently as the letters and numbers on the card began to bleed together right before his eyes.

    Would it be so terrible for me to call him? he wondered, thumb grazing the thick, stiff paper. The characters on the card were dark and embossed, giving it all a simple, elegant, professional feel. Would it be so egregious for him to think I'm somewhat... interested?

    He considered it a few moments longer before slipping the card back into his leather satchel and bracing himself against the brisk wind.
     
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  7. Observing Trifles

    Observing Trifles Das Hündlekätzle Member

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    Following Quinn's departure and a thorough clean of the kitchen, Mikkel had settled in for a quiet evening, a bit of wine and a Wagner playlist keeping him occupied well into the night. Come morning, over coffee, he sat at the kitchen table with an open laptop, digging as deeply as the internet would allow with the scraps of information he had. It was almost unsettling how far one could go simply by plugging a home address into the right channel. Unsettling, perhaps, but useful for men like Mikkel. Men for whom a traditional romantic pursuit was an option, but far from ideal. Though Quinn had provided ample amusement for one evening, the doctor had yet to determine if he was worth the time and effort it took for a proper courtship. Best to skip right past the fluff. Best for both of them, really.

    It came as no surprise to him when he found Quinn's name in the roster of a local college. Art classes. No surprise there, either. It seemed only appropriate, given the man's penchant for haunting galleries, and Mikkel congratulated himself on his good taste. More than a pretty face, Quinn was wickedly intelligent and, perhaps, even artistically talented. That last bit had yet to be seen.

    Mikkel's aptitude for the hunt failed him only when it came to determining which classes Quinn took, but that was easily remedied with a visit to the dean. They weren't terribly good friends, but the greying Dean Summers was on the local opera's board of directors, a position Mikkel sought to add to his repertoire—so he claimed as the motive for his visit, anyway, and it hadn't taken much to wriggle a bit of information from him. A friend of the Lau family, he had lied with the ease of a practiced politician, and Summers had folded almost immediately. "Beautiful pencil sketches," he had said of Quinn when at last Mikkel had worked his name into the conversation. "Works wonders with the live models." A cursory glimpse of the course calendar that evening had narrowed his search considerably, for live models only posed for classes one day each week.


    It was on one such day that he set up a meeting with Professor Priya Mehta, who presided over classes focusing on art history from the 18th to the 19th century. He liked her well enough, he supposed. As much as he could like anyone. If nothing at all, she had an ear for music and a palate acclimated to fine wine, both of which in combination with her beauty had been enough to keep Mikkel's interest for some eight or nine months after making her acquaintance at the symphony. It had been just long enough for Mikkel to determine that while Priya was an intelligent and stunning woman, she had still been little more than a novelty in the end. Nonetheless, they had parted on good terms and occasionally met at art fundraisers or, if the mood struck, at a coffee shop down the road from the college. That afternoon, he had arranged to meet her in her office, bearing offerings of coffee and pastries to share as they caught up, discussed the upcoming season at the opera, reviewed the current semester's workload. Of all things, she had recently taken up sculpting, a medium for which she had considerable enthusiasm. Mikkel doubted her talent, citing her unsteady hands. He kept this opinion to himself.

    When their visit concluded, he offered to walk her to her next class. A gentleman to the end. She hadn't minded. She had drifted a half-step closer to him as they walked, and it hadn't escaped his notice that between her trip to the restroom and their stroll through the hallway, she had applied a fresh coat of oxblood lipstick and a new layer of jasmine perfume. Shameless, he mused, but unimportant. He hadn't driven to the college for her, anyway.

    Mikkel had asked for the scenic route to her classroom. To better enjoy her company, he had said. That it would take them past Professor Marrow's sketching class was surely a happy coincidence. Outside they went, bound for the adjacent building, when fortune smiled. The young Mister Lau had emerged earlier than expected, a few minutes shy of the class's scheduled conclusion. It saved him killing time, he supposed. How considerate.

    "Quinn?" he ventured as their paths intersected, feigning surprise and feigning it well. "We really must stop meeting like this."

    Priya had paused mid-stride, pulling locks of back-length, wind-whipped russet hair from her face. She waited a few beats, but only a few, before daring to wade into the exchange. "Friend of yours?" She smiled warmly. The expression suited her.

    A nod, and Mikkel steadied her when the wind pressed into them from the side. "We met at the Hodder Museum over the weekend. Gloria's exhibition, you remember." He withheld any gory detail, for he saw little need to give Priya any insight to his personal life—and discretion was still a virtue, after all.
     
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  8. Nevermind

    Nevermind paint me as a villain. Administrator

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    If the devil appears at every breathy mention of his name, then the stunning Mikkel Ostergaard must have had a power beyond the confines of good and evil to materialize at Quinn’s mere thought. The young artist felt himself unfold before the doctor and his comely companion, lowering his crossed arms and allowing the breeze to lick at his flushed cheeks.

    “Dr. Ostergaard, what a pleasant surprise,” Quinn replied, offering the man a polite yet reserved smile. Dark eyes shifted over to Priya Mehta, to whom Quinn extended a familiar hand. “And of course, Professor Mehta. Lovely to see you as well. I’m sorry to say I’m gravely missing your classes. Alas, my schedule leans heavily on practical application these days.”

    Though his smile was polite, handsome, even coolly charming, there was a sharpness to Quinn’s gaze that seemed to split his visage into two distinct halves. Glinting like polished obsidian, his pupils roamed across the familiar, attractive lines of Professor Mehta’s impeccable lips; the soft brown of her cheeks, warmed with a touch of blush. From the deep, rich raven hair, to the sharp angles of her collarbone, to the natural curve of her hips, and her delicate ankles, Priya Mehta was what Quinn would classify as an Objective Beauty. They were rare in the age of fast food, fast cars, and streaming television, but oh, they existed.

    Of course Mikkel would find one to adorn his elbow on such a dreary afternoon.

    “The doctor speaks true,” Quinn chuckled, ceasing his visual inspection of Professor Mehta’s numerous assets. “The lauded Gloria Wilcox’s exhibition was being held concurrently with a display of Olivier de Sagazan’s inspiring work. I’ve been a fan of de Sagazan for a good while but had never received the opportunity to view his pieces in person until I heard of its current residence at the Hodder. I had to seize the opportunity to view it before the exhibition moved along to its next home.

    “Imagine my surprise when Dr. Ostergaard illuminated me as to the context behind an intriguing painting or two. Against all expectations, the interaction was remarkably enjoyable,” he teased, giving Mikkel little more than a long, slow blink heavy with secrets.

    “I certainly didn’t mean to interrupt you two,” he said, tip of his tongue peeking out briefly to draw a languid line across his top lip. “I’d abhor the knowledge that I was a pesky speed bump on the way to a scintillating coffee date.”
     
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  9. Observing Trifles

    Observing Trifles Das Hündlekätzle Member

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    Mikkel had tactfully refrained from gifting more information than was absolutely necessary. It seemd unwise. For one thing, the nature of his dealings with Quinn was no one's business. For another, he wanted to retain the younger man's favor. And finally, he never knew when Priya's connections would come in handy, as they had that afternoon, to which end it was better for her to think of him as unattached. Quinn would never have believed that crossing paths at the college was mere coincidence; he had needed an excuse. Perhaps he still didn't believe it, but Mikkel wasn't about to ask. Instead, he allowed the man to recount the details of their meeting, to which Priya made a noise in the back of her throat, a sound of understanding.

    "Had a bit to discuss, did you? Mr. Lau has quite the eye for art, you know," the professor lauded her often absent student. "Beautiful sketches. Quite the talented pair of hands."

    At this, the surgeon's gaze drifted in Quinn's direction, a controlled smile disguising the predatory glint in his eyes that never seemed to fade, regardless of effort. "Yes," he said, "I'm familiar." He was familiar with those hands, after all. With that wicked mouth, that limber body. He could still recall in vivid detail the heat of that taut frame in his hands, the throb of his racing heart, the taste of him on his tongue. For the briefest moment, he envisioned that frame laid bare for his perusal all over again, a blank canvas upon which he longed to scrawl his signature. Quinn was a beauty, even more so than the woman at his side, of whose presence he was reminded when he heard her breathy laugh.

    "You're never a bother, Mr. Lau. Don't be silly," she assured with a bright smile, reaching to fold a hand in the crook of Mikkel's arm.

    For his part, Mikkel was not oblivious to her intentions. She had gripped his arm for the same reason she had reapplied her makeup, grazed her leg against his under her desk, bared a shoulder when she played with her hair. But he had no eyes for her, not that day. In the great scheme of things, Priya was no competition for Quinn. She wasn't in the same ballpark. "I was just leaving, actually," he mentioned. He had made no attempt to return the the woman's touch, though he hadn't discouraged her either. "I thought I would walk Professor Mehta to her next class before I saw myself out."

    "Darling, I really must run," said Priya, adjusting the strap of her shoulder bag. "I'm running a bit behind. Do send me the address for dinner on Sunday, yes?" Had Quinn not stood mere feet away, she might have embraced her old frame, but his presence necessitated a measure of professionalism. As such, she merely squeezed his arm, smiled, and stepped away after they exchanged their goodbyes, leaving the two men to each other's company.

    The surgeon returned his eyes to the younger man, that same wolfish gleam darkening his gaze. "It hardly surprises me that you would take classes here," he said. "She was right, you know. You do have talented hands."
     
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  10. Nevermind

    Nevermind paint me as a villain. Administrator

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    The click of Professor Mehta's heels seemed louder than what Quinn deemed socially appropriate, echoing back to linger in his ears long after the swish of her skirts had disappeared around the corner of the Fine Arts building. The young artist shifted his bag to his opposite shoulder, a demure smile teasing the edges of his mouth. “You think I have talented hands, Doctor?” he asked, eyes cast down at said delicate hands as they mindlessly fidgeted with his bag’s strap. “I can’t imagine how you would know such a thing, seeing as how you’ve never had the privilege of viewing my work. A supposition, perhaps?”

    A soft huff escaped Quinn’s lips, though it was more in amusement than any sort of indignation. “When one is unemployed and failing to maintain one’s status as a productive member of society such as I, a need to occupy one’s time becomes paramount. There is little anyone here can teach me that I don’t already know; though,” he paused, plump lips left subtly parted as Quinn lifted his eyes to Mikkel, “ one could certainly consider Professor Mehta a superior repository of information. I’d imagine a learned man such as yourself never ignores an opportunity to increase his knowledge, carnal or otherwise.”

    Gusts of wind tugged at the hem of Quinn’s coat, encouraging him to once again wrap his arms around himself. Dark eyes took in the fullness of Mikkel Ostergaard, recalling how painfully handsome the doctor had looked that night at the museum, how primal he had felt after.

    “I have little intentions of dallying,” Quinn said, reaching out to brush a set of long, precise fingers against the arm Professor Priya Mehta had been wrapped around just moments before. “If you’re interested in a third chance encounter, I’m afraid I’m preoccupied for the next few nights.” An age-appropriate peer with a not-so-secret interest had invited Quinn to a stage play scheduled for that evening, another acquaintance even older than Mikkel to a symphony the next. Arrangements that had been solidified prior to his preoccupation with the surgeon taking root; it would have been uncouth to alter them now.

    “I’m not incredibly concerned,” he offered, squeezing Mikkel’s bicep through his attire. “You seem to have a knack for bumping into me, don’t you?”
     
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  11. Observing Trifles

    Observing Trifles Das Hündlekätzle Member

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    A supposition. That was one way of putting it, but they both knew that Mikkel's observation was one gleaned from a more intimate understanding ot those hands. In the days that had passed since their initial encounter, he had more than once looked back fondly on the hours they had spent at his home. At his dinner table, in his bedroom, all the while entertaining a painfully palpable attraction that had spilled over with considerable enthusiasm.

    That he had begun to crave a second interlude surprised no one more than Mikkel, who was unaccustomed to such pervasive thoughts. Generally speaking, while he could appreciate the physical attractiveness of a lover, or the pleasures they could offer, his interest was often fleeting. Rarely did he think back on a tryst with such frequently, or so intensely as to thirst for another taste. He blamed that razor-sharp wit, which was equally if not more attractive than the man's features.

    "What gave me away?" The surgeon chuckled. His appetite for knowledge was no secret, though Quinn's suggestive tone and full, parted lips suggested a less wholesome interpretation of his statement.

    Shortly thereafter, Quinn both conceded to their chemistry and paused it, fueling the fire with a touch and cooling it with the mention of his full calendar. Mikkel was a possessive man, but a patient one. But a possessive one, first and foremost. This didn't register on his face, however. They were both adults, after all, and they weren't dating. Quinn was free to see whatever man or woman he chose. All the same, the knowledge that he was predisposed over the next few days ignited a surge of envy, one on which he was likely to act, given the opportunity.

    He said none of this to Quinn.

    "It's a knack for which I'm most grateful," Mikkel told him. "All due respect to the lovely professor, but my eyes were not for her today." Lifting a hand, he took the younger man's chin in his fingers, tilting his head up to get a better look at those dark eyes. He wasn't in the business of fawning over the object of his desires in public, had far too much tact for that, but this didn't stop him from gently thumbing the swell of Quinn's plush lower lip. The urge to kiss him was easily quelled, for in addition to being a possessive man, he was also a patient one.

    No, his eyes were definitely not for Priya. She had been amusing once, a delight to have on his arm at a fundraising gala or a symphony, but she had no long-term appeal for Mikkel. Particularly not now that he had set his sights on the young art student. She would attempt to slide into his bed on Sunday evening, of that he had no doubt, but the thought didn't thrill him quite as much as dragging Quinn into the parking garage and having his way. He wouldn't, of course. He had too much tact for that, too.

    "I was planning a visit to the opera next weekend," he mentioned as his hand fell. "Dido and Aeneas. It's terribly romantic, Dido's death scene. Most productions avoid showing how she committed suicide, but if I recall, the original poem tells us that she made a pyre of her marriage bed and laid in it. Difficult to translate on stage, I suppose. The limitations of practical effects." A wickedly charming grin touched his lips then, as he fell just short of formally inviting his young paramour.

    Instead, he gathered Quinn's hand in his, exercising the utmost discretion as he ran the pad of his thumb over the young man's slender knuckles. "Well," he all but hummed, far too pleased with himself, "at least now I know where to find you." So said, Mikkel stepped back, opting to let Quinn be and return to his car. He had gathered enough information for the time being. In the days they had been apart, he had learned where Quinn lived. Now he knew the man had planned an outing or two, and in the absence of anything better to do, Mikkel intended to find out where.
     
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  12. Nevermind

    Nevermind paint me as a villain. Administrator

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    Quinn did not enjoy having to exercise restraint. Patience was far from his strongest quality, and the warmth of Mikkel’s thumb against his pink lips was almost too much for the young man to stand. A lick, perhaps, or a simple wrapping of full lips around the tantalizing digit was astoundingly appealing. And yet, somehow, despite the wicked voices at the back of his mind telling him to remind the doctor of just how good it felt to be inside him, he maintained his chilly composure.

    Now, as he sat in his date’s car after a satisfactory, if not entirely riveting theatrical performance, her lips desperately trying to make something, anything happen, he hoped his elusive demeanor would prove fruitful.

    “Am I… doing something wrong?” she asked gently, lifting her pale blue eyes to his. Even in the shadows cast across her face by the setting sun, her eyes glittered like pale topazes.

    “No,” Quinn whispered, running his fingers through Inga Nielsen's soft blonde hair. He didn’t have the heart to tell her he wasn’t much interested in the heat and wetness of her mouth, or any other woman’s, really. But the chance of receiving a free ticket had been too attractive to pass up, a bit of pleasure even more so. Perhaps closing his eyes would be enough, he could imagine those lips belonged to someone else, but it seemed that was only good enough for a half-hard cock and a date with graduating levels of frustration.

    “A little more, darling,” he purred, stroking her chin not unlike Mikkel had done to him only hours before. “I’ll get there.” A mouth was a mouth, after all.

    The following evening proved to be more satisfying to Quinn’s cultured tastes. Signore Andrea Bianchi, vice president of some illustrious Italian automobile manufacturer--Quinn was bored to death by the details of the man’s vocation--had invited Quinn to performance of the Portland Symphony Orchestra. Tchaikovsky, perhaps, but Quinn hadn’t been paying much attention to that, either.

    They stood outside the auditorium, Quinn wrapped up in a navy blue peacoat, while Andrea’s hands rubbed greedily at his hip. “Are you eager for tonight?” he asked in impeccable, heavily accented English.

    “Eager is a strong word,” Quinn teased. He could feel the older man’s fingers clutching at him through his trousers, hungry for something other than the sharpness of Quinn’s hipbone. “But one I think will do nicely here.” The sixty-something year old wasn’t unpleasant to look at, not by any means, yet Quinn couldn’t seem to keep his gaze trained on the man long before wishing it was Mikkel’s piercing eyes staring back.

    “We won’t be lingering long after the performance,” Andrea said, mouth firm. “I have other activities planned for us.”

    “Of course,” Quinn replied, smiling wanly. “I would expect nothing less.”
     
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  13. Observing Trifles

    Observing Trifles Das Hündlekätzle Member

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    Mikkel did intend to meet with Priya come Sunday. He planned to take her to L'Auberge, a lavish restaurant in the heart of Portland, where a second-story dining room overlooked the cityscape aglow with street lamps and illuminated windows and the greenery beyond. It was indeed a beautiful location, perfect for a moonlit engagement with a lovely woman. Priya had been his type once. Briefly. Nowadays, Mikkel appreciated her like a fine piece of art: meant for admiring, but not for human hands. Certainly not his.

    Naturally, he relayed none of this to her. Not that he would have had the time, for he had devoted his attention to Quinn. Only from afar, but all the same. Mikkel's reach extended much farther than most understood, owing both to a charming demeanor and a knack for exploiting back doors of the internet. Knowing Quinn's phone number and home address had given him far more power than he had any right to wield, but nothing beat good, old-fashioned stalking.

    The following night, the surgeon had followed Quinn to the playhouse. He hadn't bothered to purchase a ticket, of course, only watched the pair go in and emerge some two hours later. A pretty enough blonde, he had mused, rapping his fingers against the steering wheel of his car. Long legs, a nice dress, the sort of woman most men would have pawed at like wild animals. Mikkel saw little in her, though he surmised he would find some use for her license plate number. One never knew, after all.

    When next Quinn left the house, accompanied by an unseen driver in a posh Italian car, his destination was a familiar one to Mikkel, who found himself within its hallowed halls once every month or two when the Portland Symphony Orchestra took the stage. He had smiled during the drive, struck by the convenience of the location. Among other things, the surgeon owned a subscription to the symphony, one that afforded him an assigned seat in orchestra center for every performance. Convenient, indeed.

    That Mikkel was consistently dressed to the nines was to his benefit that evening, for he had no need to drive home and change. The sleek, dark charcoal suit he had donned that morning would do just fine. Ticket in hand, he wandered into the foyer, pausing only to purchase a glass of white wine before he deigned to mill about. He knew his fair share of people who held season subscriptions, which helped him to blend in well enough. A member of the audience, nothing more. Certainly not a man who had intended to skip the symphony in favor of following the newest object of his obsession, only for fate to smile and bring the two together.

    He had just exchanged pleasantries with Jessica Braeburn, a member of the opera board, when he spotted a familiar figure standing near the doorway to the auditorium. The person accompanying him, an older man who made little secret of his intentions with his much younger date, was unfamiliar to him. Upon inquiring, Jessica was happy to fill in the gap. "Him? Oh, that would be Mr. Bianchi," said the older woman, adjusting her red, horn-rimmed glasses. "Italian, I believe. A very important man in automobile circles, if I recall correctly. I'm surprised you haven't met him, Doctor. He's quite the charmer."

    "So I see." That the man had taken to openly groping Quinn had not escaped his notice, prompting a swell of possessiveness in Mikkel's very core. No, this would not do.

    "Oh. That." Jessica tittered. The sound was not unlike nails on a chalkboard. "Yes, he has rather... interesting tastes. Gravitates toward the most unsavory sorts."

    Though she smiled, her disdain for the youthful Quinn was only thinly veiled. Mikkel did not react, but he entertained a calm, quiet pang of discontent. "Unsavory?"

    The woman tapped a fire engine-red nail to the stem of her champagne glass. "Riffraff, you know. At his age, I'd have thought it was past his bedtime." She laughed again, the sound equally grating, and soon waved the surgeon along. "Come, come. I'll introduce you. Perhaps it'll be enough to get his hands off that poor boy."

    One could only hope.

    She led him nearer, slowing a few paces from the unlikely pair. By then, Jessica had taken Mikkel's arm, and he had been too polite to shake her off despite loathing her undeservedly familiar touch. "Signore," she called, attempting an Italian accent. A wide, friendly grin crossed her lips as she approached, pointedly avoiding casting her eyes on Quinn. Riffraff. "What a pleasure to see you here tonight. You're well, I hope?"

    During their exchange, Mikkel's eyes lingered on the Italian for but a moment before his gaze -- wolfish, predatory -- fell instead on Quinn, a nearly imperceptible smile on his lips. He had Quinn cornered. Just where Mikkel wanted him.
     
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  14. Nevermind

    Nevermind paint me as a villain. Administrator

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    The warm, golden lights illuminating the auditorium lobby washed over Quinn as Signore Bianchi opened the door with a dramatic flourish. The young artist nodded politely as he stepped inside, finding the gesture more patronizing than polite. The Italian gentleman's movements were almost garish; a performance of chivalry rather than a moment of sincerity, leaving a chalky, unpleasant taste on Quinn’s tongue. All the euros in the world won’t afford one a modicum of subtlety, he thought, the corners of his mouth tight in a forced coy smile.

    “It seems they have revamped since the last time I was fortunate enough to view a performance,” Quinn noticed, eyes sweeping along the rich, elegant decor. Quinn had always harbored a fondness for carpets deep with color, Grecian columns, vaulted ceilings. Extravagant auditoriums with architecture covered in intricate detail could keep his interest piqued for hours, but Andrea simply waved a hand in response.

    “I was here last year, some time,” he replied airily. “Left a sizable donation and recommended they take a little inspiration from Italia. Americans love to imitate elegance, though they never seem to get it perfect. Always very noticeable flaws.”

    “It certainly isn’t attractive when one tries too hard,” Quinn snipped, but the tart reply was hardly noticed as Andrea’s attention was easily pulled across the lobby towards the call of a refined-looking older woman attached to--Oh my…

    “Signora Braeburn, amore mio, ciao!” Andrea Bianchi exclaimed, taking the woman’s free gloved hand and pressing a familiar kiss against each of Jessica’s cheeks. Had he been watching closely, Quinn might have perceived a coral flush take hold of Jessica Braeburn’s smooth visage, or noted the way she smiled so pleasantly beneath the Italian’s sparklingly hazel eyes, but Quinn’s usual level of quiet discernment was rendered askew by Signora Braeburn’s company.

    Quinn didn’t recall mentioning any specifics of his plans to Mikkel; he was hardly the type to go spilling details of his dalliances to anyone. And yet, despite this long-held habit of reticence, Quinn found himself face-to-face with his intriguing paramour for the second time in as many days. Impossible? No. Highly improbable… most certainly.

    “Ah, how rude of me, may I introduce my company for the evening, Signore Quinn Lau,” Andrea Bianchi said, pressing the palm of his hand firmly against the small of Quinn’s back. The urgency of his date’s touch snapped Quinn from his momentary daze. The artist donned a trademark smirk in response, recalling his courtesies.

    “My pleasure,” he purred, gracing Jessica Braeburn’s hand with the faintest of introductory pecks.

    “Jessica, who is this handsome gentleman you’ve collected tonight?” Andrea asked, eyebrows arched in vague curiosity. He conspicuously scanned Mikkel’s attire, searching for a kink in the fellow European’s chilly armor before reluctantly accepting there was none to be found. The purse of his lips and slight curl of the corner of his mouth suggested that were Mikkel twenty years younger, he just might have been Andrea’s type.

    “You’ll have to forgive my abruptness, but Ms. Braeburn’s twinkling glass has reminded me a bit of champagne is in order.”

    “Ah, excellent idea, Quinn. Bring me a glass, will you? I’d love to do some catching up with Signora Braeburn.” Quinn chuckled politely as Andrea eased him forward, but his sharp glance was hot with suppressed disdain. Quinn hardly considered himself an errand boy.

    “Of course, Signore,” he replied, smiling.

    Quinn offered Mikkel the slightest of glances as he slowly made his way across the lobby floor. He’s stunning, always stunning, he thought, an unfamiliar ache growing in his stomach. Nerves, perhaps? That was ridiculous; Quinn was never nervous.

    Meeting one of Mikkel’s paramours was informative. Mikkel meeting one of his was causing various levels of uncertainty to grow in the young man’s stomach like a cluster of weeds. Compartmentalization was everything, yet the concept crumbled in Quinn’s fingers at the thought of Mikkel and Andrea engaging in the briefest of exchanges.

    Why was Mikkel here of all places? It didn’t surprise Quinn whatsoever that a man of such refined tastes would be interested in the symphony, but tonight of all nights?

    He took a deep breath, remembering he was much more sexually appealing when he smiled.
     
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  15. Observing Trifles

    Observing Trifles Das Hündlekätzle Member

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    Mikkel did not know Andrea Bianchi. This did not, however, mean that he was surprised at how he greeted Jessica Braeburn. The familiarity with which he held her hands, kissed her cheeks, was so dramatic as to be infuriating --- and Mikkel was difficult to anger. He suspected with what he surmised to be pinpoint accuracy that the simmering rage, the heat welling up in his chest, had less to do with the Italian's interaction with Jessica and more to do with his proximity to Quinn.

    True enough, Quinn had made arrangements with Andrea before their tryst. What was more, they were not attached. Sex and attachment were two different things, not to mention that the latter was exceptionally difficult for a man like Mikkel to fathom. He didn't feel fondness in the traditional sense. What he felt instead was the overwhelming desire to have and to possess. What he wanted was not what the common man would understand. What he wanted, what he would have, was a stranglehold on the younger man tight enough to prevent him ever walking away. Or ever wanting to. And he would have it. Have him.


    But for the time being, he smiled, allowing Jessica to introduce him as "the ever-so-charming Dr. Mikkel Ostergaard, from Denmark, you know." To which he responded that she must stop flattering him, else he would let it go to his head. That, he supposed, was the proper response. Modesty was appealing. Modesty was human.

    No, Mikkel had not been surprised at Andrea's over-indulgent show of familiarity with the widow Braeburn, but what did surprise him was the ease with which he dismissed Quinn to fetch him a drink. This, to Mikkel, was utter blasphemy. To reduce such a specimen to the level of a serf was absolutely beyond the good doctor who, by all accounts, would have sooner beckoned a server to do the job for him. For despite wanting to possess the younger Quinn, he had no desire to use him in that manner. To implement him where he was convenient when he wasn't a piece of arm candy.

    Things did not look good for Andrea Bianchi.

    Consciously avoiding watching Quinn as he departed to the bar, Mikkel instead trained his eyes on the older man. The half-smile on his lips was almost too polite, almost too serene. "Jessica tells me that you're in the Italian automotive industry," he remarked, unwilling to be a passive partner in the conversation. "I've always preferred German models, myself."

    "I know almost nothing about cars," Jessica offered with a soft, airy laugh. "I left all that to the late Mr. Braeburn."

    "Good man," Mikkel returned with a reverent tip of a champagne flute. With the briefest sidelong glance to Andrea, he asked, "Didn't he drive a Porsche?"

    It had taken everything he had not to follow his youthful paramour, whose penetrating good looks continued to beckon the Dane like the call of a siren. Tormenting Andrea kept him occupied enough to resist.
     
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  16. Nevermind

    Nevermind paint me as a villain. Administrator

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    Quinn returned with a champagne flute in each hand and a cool, measured smile on his lips. "For you," the young man purred, handing the glass over to Andrea with a delicate purse of his lips. The brief moment away from the trio of established adults allowed Quinn the smallest respite, but it was enough to settle his tumbling gut. For now. A tightness lingered at his abdomen, but perhaps anything which made him look skinnier than he already was could be perceived as a gift, however inconvenient.

    "Did I miss anything while I was playing fetch?" he joked, gifting Andrea a sidelong glance. The Italian seemed to melt at the other's gaze, greedily snaking his hand around Quinn's waist.

    "Signora Braeburn's doctor friend was just commenting about his preferences for German automobiles," Andrea replied, failing to hide his mild irritation. There was a sharpness to his voice Quinn had heard before, usually directed at those he considered incompetent. Colleagues, employees, a server who failed to refill his red wine glass expediently enough. Quinn's deep brown eyes shifted to Mikkel--his Mikkel, he quickly thought--and smiled.

    "Sounds like you enjoy traveling along dangerous roads, Doctor." How was it each time Quinn rested his eyes upon Mikkel's exquisite visage his resolve to remain chilly and aloof began to crack at its foundation? He yearned to reach across the empty air between them and clutch at Mikkel's expensive lapel, pull him into him and feel the heat of his hard, controlled thrusting. Quinn had realized himself bored with Andra's presence within ten minutes of first meeting the Italian businessman. He had little interest in cars aside from where they could take him, even less interest in the dull realities of the automotive industry, but there was little else Andrea was ever interested in discussing. Though, "discuss" was a heavy word laced with the implication that Quinn also participated in these conversations. In truth, he was little more than a simple receiver of information.

    The lights in the lobby lowered to a pleasant golden glow, a subtle sign the performance was about to begin. "I have an idea," Quinn said, smiling brightly at Jessica and Mikkel. "Why don't we all sit and enjoy the evening together? I'm sure one of you must have some sway as far as seating arrangements go." He leaned forward, tweaking his hip away from Andrea's curled fingers, and placed a hand on Mikkel's arm. "I didn't receive the opportunity to learn more about your friends, Andrea."

    The Italian shrugged his shoulders and waved an inviting hand to Jessica. "Amore mio, what do you think of my companion's suggestion? Shall we?"
     
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  17. Observing Trifles

    Observing Trifles Das Hündlekätzle Member

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    Mikkel had ruffled his feathers. Good. He had few qualms with a bit of competition, but he greatly preferred when that competition came from someone with tact and dignity. Perhaps Andrea had a fair bit of the latter, but he was sorely lacking in the former. That he had pawed Quinn so brazenly out in the open was certainly no crime, for surely Mikkel wouldn't have completely resisted the occasional touch, were Quinn on his arm instead. That the man had all but groped him, sent him to fetch drinks, and paid more attention to his ego than his company, however, was unforgivable.

    As their exchange persisted, Mikkel surmised that Quinn was not oblivious to the Italian's artlessness. He wielded chivalry in much the same way a child wielded a kitchen knife; clumsily and with an increasingly high risk of harm the longer he toddled about with it. Each little jab in Mikkel's direction, each judgmental glance, was met with the same easy smile and another nail in the proverbial coffin. An especially sharp one came in the form of Quinn's hand on his arm, squeezing gently through his jacket. A dismissal of Andrea and his manufactured charms. Nothing could have pleased Mikkel more.

    "Say no more, Signore," Jessica tittered, fluttering to Andrea's side and taking his right arm, effectively annexing the space reserved for his date. "Mr. Braeburn was on the board, you know, and I have a box with vacant seats. Come, Dr. Ostergaard!"

    But Mikkel wasn't listening. He was mindful of Andrea's eyes on him, for no doubt he would have cast a backward glance toward his date as Jessica steered him away. As such, he exercised a bit of tact in his choice of timing when he leaned in, a hand brushing the younger man's side, head tilted down just enough to murmur without notice, "You look stunning tonight, min kære." Now that he had a moment of Quinn's undivided attention, he could have torn Andrea to pieces. Could have told Quinn what a shame it was that Andrea didn't treat him properly, that he had a thought or two on how to do better, but he had little need for it. Grand gestures fell within Mikkel's scope of favorite pastimes, but why spend the energy now when Quinn made it clear that he still desired him? Gestures, he decided, would come later. He already had one in mind. "Shall we?"


    The foursome strode through the gilded archway leading into the theater, hanging a right to bypass the main floor and ascending a broad staircase to reach the second level, footsteps muffled by dense red carpet. Jessica had all but fastened herself to Andrea the whole way up, citing a stiff knee. She had bothered Mikkel with it enough for one evening, she had lied, and joked that Andrea should share the burden. And if not him, she went on, then his young friend.

    The viewing box was a lavish one, complete with four ornate, hand-carved chairs and an unobstructed view from stage left. The orchestra opened with Dvořák's Cello Concerto in B Minor, and after a twenty-minute intermission completed the evening with Tchaikovsky's Symphony No. 4 to considerable applause. The house lights came up and the audience stood, shuffling en masse toward the various exits. The group in Jessica Braeburn's box was in no particular hurry, or at the very least Mikkel wasn't. There was the obligatory post-performance chat, of course, exchanging praise and criticism alike, which tapered as they reached the lobby and headed for the coat check.

    Whether out of genuine interest or simply the desire to keep Andrea from claiming a prize that wasn't his, Mikkel had suggested a roung of post-symphony drinks at a lounge down the street, and off they went to the Atlas. It was a dim, upscale little watering hole, and the barest glance around the gilded room indicated they were not the only symphony audience members seeking refreshments there. They waited all of five minutes for a table, a low-set slab of mahogany flanked on all sides by four oversized chairs that looked more like loveseats than individual perches. Jessica and Mikkel took one each; the surgeon didn't have to wonder if Andrea would force Quinn to share. A smartly dressed server took their orders, leaving a menu behind.

    "I haven't yet thanked you for the box seats," Mikkel mentioned to Jessica, who waved a hand as though to assure it was nothing at all. "You will not pay for a single drink all night. I insist."

    "Such a charmer, Doctor," she laughed airily, in a dignified manner suited to a woman of her breeding. "Truly, it was nothing. If anything, I should thank the three of you for keeping an old woman company." As though she was ever at a loss. "As it is, I'm just pleased I could introduce the two of you." She gestured vaguely between Mikkel and Andrea. She seemed not to notice Quinn all that much. "Frankly, I'm surprised you haven't crossed paths until tonight."

    The surgeon cast a look across the table at the Italian, maintaining an amiable facade. "No, until now, I seem to have dodged that bullet." Jessica laughed and so did Mikkel, who soon batted away the remark as though he had just realized his mistake. "That wasn't quite what I had intended," he lied. "English turns of phrase sometimes elude me. Such things tend to be much more blunt in Danish." The second bit was true. The first, not so much. Mikkel's English was impeccable, despite the moderate burden of an accent; impeccable enough to have meant exactly what he said.
     
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  18. Nevermind

    Nevermind paint me as a villain. Administrator

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    Their brief encounter was enough to leave Quinn feeling ravenous. “And you, as always,” he replied in a gentle whisper, aching to press his plush lips against the Danish man’s neck.

    The symphony was nothing short of a triumph. Quinn could feel the melodic, passionate voices of the string instruments course through his veins, a drug minimizing the nauseating effects of Andrea’s hungry hand sliding up the length of his thigh. He recalled their previous outings, how Andrea’s unabashed craving for his skin had been flattering, though far too conspicuous for Quinn’s tastes. Andrea, after all, was obscenely wealthy and used to showing off, and Quinn was often bored and in need of the prosaic entertainment the Italian was capable of providing. It was easy to humor the older man, to play the part of the male ingénue when hanging off of Andrea’s arm at a gallery opening and the sweet, submissive minx Andrea preferred in the bedroom, but oh how it bored Quinn to no end.

    But Mikkel… Mikkel was anything but boring.

    The young man cast cool glances at the doctor throughout the evening, ignoring the aging porcelain elegance of Mrs. Braeburn, the salt-and-pepper allure of Signore Bianchi. Each moment his gaze met Mikkel’s, he could feel a heat consume his body, licking seductively at his flesh like a dancing flame. How could one man inspire such unfiltered yearning?

    A sigh of relief escaped Quinn’s lips when Mikkel suggested continuing the evening. A post-symphony cocktail? Of course. An upscale lounge? Naturally. The young artist’s mouth curled into a smile as the quartet slipped into the dimly lit establishment, claiming an empty table after a few moments of waiting. For Quinn, a glass of brandy. For Andrea, a dry martini. Extra olives.

    Mikkel’s gratitude did not go unnoticed; the Italian waved an airy hand and nodded as he sucked two plump olives into his mouth. “The doctor and I can agree on one thing: your generosity is appreciated, Signora. Allow me to please treat you. We will set a date for dinner, ah? La Rosa d’Oro? I will accept only yes.”

    Quinn raised a sharp eyebrow as he sipped from his glass but offered nothing more. La Rosa was a not-so-subtle Italian fine dining establishment not even he had ever managed to patron, though he had heard plates typically cost $150 per person on average. Spare change for Andrea. It was clear Mikkel had ruffled some feathers.

    At the doctor’s slight, a touch of color bloomed across Andrea’s cheeks. Quinn wondered if Jessica or Mikkel could see it in the dim lighting. “Ah, you are forgiven,” Andrea shrugged, “it is hardly your fault if your native language is crude. I have found Germanic tongues simply cannot match the elegance and subtlety of their Romantic relatives.”

    “I can’t say I agree with that, Andrea,” Quinn interjected, smiling over the rim of his glass. “English isn’t so dreadful, is it?”

    “English, maybe not so much, but it borrows from many other superior languages. Italian, French, Spanish. How many Danish words have managed to find their way into your vocabulary, pet?”

    Quinn’s stare turned icy. Pet. “I’ll have to pencil in some time to learn a few. I’m sure Dr. Ostergaard is an excellent teacher.” He shifted his gaze. “Willing to give me some tutoring sessions, Doctor?”

    Andrea exhaled in a quick, forceful puff through flared nostrils. An arm curled around Quinn’s shoulders, tugging him back against the seat they shared. He enjoyed Quinn. The boy was pretty, usually quiet enough, discreet. But this flirtatious fire needed quenching. Something to discuss later. Privately.

    “Doctor, yes, what kind of doctor are you, signore? The kind to sit behind a desk all day lecturing to rooms filled with bored, teary-eyed college students, maybe? Signora Braeburn is so fond of those intellectual types,” he said, offering Jessica a playful grin, but Quinn could see the faint glint of light off the edge of his teeth, the tension in his jaw. A wounded housecat ready to swipe at a viper.
     
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