Page 33 of Breakfast Included

That Tate could do. Easily. He would show Reno for as long as Reno would have him.

He started slow, kissing and caressing. He slid his tongue over Reno’s warm skin, mouthed his Adam’s apple, his collarbone, his nipples, while Reno moaned and undulated under him. He used his hands to trace the gentle slope of every muscle and every line of bone and tease Reno’s gloriously long and slender cock until Reno was mumbling nonsense and begging for more. He catalogued every inch of Reno and reveled in the way he responded so deliciously to his touch.

He could never tire of loving Reno, of loving his body. And he never would. Whatever Reno wished would be his command.

“More,” Reno begged, his voice rough and ragged. “More.”

Tate worked his body until it was putty in his hands, and he couldn’t hold himself back any longer. He settled between Reno’s legs, settled into Reno’s body as he trembled with need. His breath came in fast, short bursts, his fingers twined in Tate’s hair. His kisses grew frantic and sloppy as Tate drove him to the edge, but they were still the best kisses of Tate’s life.

They moved as one, rocking and bucking, climbing waves of desire higher and higher until reaching the inevitable pinnacle together. With a growl that clawed up his throat and shot out of his mouth in a graveled shout, Tate flew over the other side. An echoing shout told him Reno was right there with him. His body felt weightless. He floated on ecstasy for a moment before he fell in a tumbling free fall back to earth. Back to Reno.

He collapsed on top of Reno, unable to move, but Reno didn’t complain. They stayed that way for what felt like hours but was probably only a few minutes until Reno nudged his shoulder.

“Can’t breathe,” he gasped, but his smile was languid, and his eyes were blissfully glazed.

Tate eased out with a groan and rolled over to Reno’s side. He lay next to him for a long moment while his breathing settled back to normal. He needed to clean up sticky things before they became cement things on their skin.

“Thank you,” he said when he returned from the bathroom. He lay back down and dragged the damp cloth in circles over Reno’s stomach.

“For what?”

“For taking me back and giving me another chance.”

Reno curled into his side. “I think it’s me who needs to thank you since I was the one who actually left you at The Retreat.”

Tate kissed his temple and pulled him closer. “Only because I gave you reason to believe I already had.”

“Aren’t we a pair,” Reno mused.

Tate had just started to drift when Reno began humming a tune. It was familiar, but Tate couldn’t place where he’d heard it before.

Reno hummed a few more bars before he stopped and took a breath.

“I can finish it now,” he said with a dreamy quality to his voice.

“Finish what?”

“Your song.” Reno rolled onto his elbows and kissed Tate’s nose. “Come.”

Tate didn’t want to get out of bed, but Reno was already moving. He followed him out of the bedroom and to a door at the end of the hallway. He would follow Reno anywhere. Reno opened the door and flicked on a light, and Tate’s breath caught in his throat.

This was the room where Reno made magic happen. His studio.

The walls of the deceivingly large room were painted black. Recessed lighting hidden above a drop ceiling cast the room in a light blue glow. An ergonomic chair sat in front of a long soundboard that was lit up like the Starship Enterprise with flickering red, orange, yellow, and green lights. Massive speakers bookended the board. Two computer monitors and a laptop sat on a desk off to the side of the soundboard. Electric and acoustic guitars hung on one wall, and boldly colored artwork hung on another. In front of the command station, because that’s what came to mind the second Tate saw it, was a drum set, a cello, a stand-up bass, and a saxophone, and in the corner, a blindingly white piano.

“Wow,” Tate breathed.

Reno grinned over his shoulder as he led Tate to the piano. He motioned for him to sit on the bench. Reno sat beside him, and a blush crept into his cheeks. He cleared his throat.

“I started composing this when we were at the cabin,” he said.

Tate knew when. It was the morning after the first time they’d made love. That was where he’d heard what Reno was humming earlier—he’d hummed it that day and had played the notes on Tate’s stomach.

“I remember,” Tate whispered.

Reno smiled, leaned in for a lingering kiss, and then faced the piano. He closed his eyes, and his hands hovered over the keys for a moment.

Then he took a breath and began to play.

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