Golden Dancer (3 page)

“Hey, have you ever used that great Chinese analgesic? It’s this blue liquid. I keep it with me all the time because I run, and I’m always straining something.”

“No, I’ve never seen it. I have some medication they gave me in my room.”

Mac grabbed his backpack from the back of the chair. After some digging around, he produced the little blue bottle. Small triumph, with all the stuff he kept in there. “Here, try this.”

Trelain looked around the largely full dining room. While the two of them had been seated in a quiet booth in the back, clearly many of the diners were there to say they had been in the same room with the rock-star-popular dancer. Mac saw that anything the man did was going to be noticed. Some headline would show up tomorrow: DANCER NURSES INJURY IN RESTAURANT. Mac shrugged. “Probably not such a good idea, huh?”

Medveyev nodded. “I think not. Perhaps I could ask the concierge to find me some. What is it called?”

Mac stared at the bottle covered in Chinese characters. It was his last one, and he didn’t get to Chinatown all that often. “Look, why don’t you just take it?”

Trelain seemed to sense his hesitation. “I couldn’t take your secret remedy, Mac-Kenzie. But why don’t you bring it up to my room? I can use the magic potion, and you can ask me any other questions you may have.”

The dancer’s expression was as neutral as a mannequin. No flirtation or double-entendre. Mac wanted to snort. Yeah, right. He felt oddly torn between a desire to go upstairs with Medveyev and an equally strong urge to just run. What did he always do when something both intrigued him and scared him? Live grenades in Afghanistan, gorgeous blond men in skintight blue jeans? “Sure, lead the way.”

Chapter Three

“Please, make yourself comfortable. There’s a refrigerator in the kitchen.” Trelain waved idly toward the back of the living room where a bar separated a kitchen area from the sitting space. It was a rock-star-appropriate suite, for sure. Cushy couches in a soft blue-gray, huge window, now covered by closely drawn curtains for the night. Trelain walked into an adjoining room that Mac assumed was a bedroom, but he wasn’t going to check on that.

Hmm. Get comfortable. Not in these pants. Yeah, and most likely the dancer would be perfectly happy to have him take the pants off, so he’d better keep his mouth shut. He stopped examining the furniture. How did he feel about that?
Asked the shrink
! He chuckled. It surprised him, but he didn’t seem to mind. Not like he didn’t know the guy was gay before he came up here. Besides, he liked Trelain. He liked him a lot.

* * *

Trelain peeled the tight denim off his legs, leaving him bare-assed, as the Yanks liked to say. He folded the jeans and draped them over the chair back. No throwing them. It had taken too long to find jeans to fit his legs and butt with only minimal tailoring. He glanced in the mirror, appraising the muscles that barely looked like flesh, they were so taut. Would the reporter think he was ugly? Deformed? Did he care? Yes. Simple. There was something about the man that he found hopelessly attractive. The tall lankiness, the face that managed to look innocent and weathered at the same time. For all his hard-boiled reporter’s airs, Mac seemed more optimistic and naive than he pretended.

He opened the closet door and perused his robes. Plain black cotton? No, not for this moment. He pulled the turquoise silk from its hanger and stared at it a minute. So what did he want from the man? Mac presented himself as entirely straight, though he seemed comfortable with a little harmless flirting. Of course, that was because he wanted a story. Trelain sighed. Mac might be naive, but
he
wasn’t. Every kind of person had tried to use Trelain at one time or another. This man could be just one more.

He slipped on the robe. But bloody hell, he liked the guy.

* * *

Mac wandered back into the kitchenette and opened the nearly full-size refrigerator. Wow. Whatever a man could want. He picked a bottle of water and went to peek out the curtains at the view of LA. Bright lights, big city from the penthouse suite.

“Now I can take advantage of your potion.”

Mac turned to find Trelain decked out in what he guessed would be called a dressing gown. It was a long robe, but more substantial than a bathrobe, and clearly made of silk. Far from an English country-house paisley, this was in some watercolor print of aqua and gold. He must be allergic to silk because, man, it was tough to breathe. In that get-up, the person in front of him could be a woman and a very beautiful one at that. The face was a really handsome guy, but the golden hair softened everything. Jeez, it played with his mind.

“Mac?”

Shit. He’d been staring. “Yeah. Here’s the stuff.” He pulled the little bottle from his jacket pocket where he’d stashed it in the restaurant.

Trelain took it and walked toward the kitchen, putting the analgesic in his robe pocket. “Can’t I tempt you with something more interesting than water? Some champagne, perhaps?” He didn’t wait for an answer—just removed the foil on the bottle and opened the cage with the precise six turns. Mac felt pretty expert since the story he’d done on champagne last year. Trelain applied a thumb to the cork, and
pop
, it opened with the soft sound that indicated he knew what he was doing and hadn’t damaged the wine. He poured into the sides of two flutes and held one out to Mac. “Come sit.”

Trelain installed himself on the couch, set down his glass, pulled the little bottle from his pocket, and opened it. He sniffed tentatively.

Mac laughed. “It won’t bite, I promise. Just drip some into your palm and then apply it to the area that hurts. I better get a washcloth so you can wipe clean afterward.” He walked over to the kitchenette, found a clean towel, wet it, and went over to the chair opposite Trelain. The dancer dropped a little of the blue liquid with the strong cinnamon smell into his long, slender hand. He sniffed again, raised a leg onto the couch, and uncovered himself up to his thigh. Shee-it. He’d seen his parents’ feet and legs thousands of times, but this felt…intimate. Trelain’s feet were heavily callused, the toes pushed together as only a true dancer’s could be. And the leg? It looked more like something carved from marble than from flesh. Sculpted, hard as stone.

Trelain began to run the scented liquid over the back of his calf and up onto his thigh. Jesus, he was playing patty-cake. “No, dig in. Really work it into the muscles.”

Trelain dug in for a couple strokes but then pulled back his hands and shook them. Yeah, massaging marble couldn’t be easy. But crap, his leg hurt, and the magic blue stuff could help if he just did it right. Mac shook his head. “That’s not going to get the job done.”

“Sorry. I’m spoiled. I have a masseuse that travels with the company.”

In frustration, Mac rose and sat beside the man on the couch, handing him the damp towel. He grabbed the bottle from the table and dotted some of the warming liquid into his palm. “Here, let me.” He grabbed the dancer’s foot, pulled it into his lap, and began rubbing the carved muscle of Trelain’s leg with deep, penetrating strokes. “Like this.” One stroke, and he knew this was not his father. In fact, it was a hell of a mistake.

The beautiful head hit the back of the couch. “
Chyort
! That feels incredible.” Trelain moaned. Mac tried to pretend he didn’t feel the satin texture of that skin, like silk over steel.

Mac cleared his throat. “You, uh, really have to dig in, this way.” Mac’s fingers pushed into hard muscle; the liquid warmed his fingers. Yeah, it wasn’t his fingers he was worried about. Crap. Why was he doing this?

Trelain moaned luxuriously, his head moving back and forth against the back of the couch. And that wasn’t all that was moving. Holy shit. This wasn’t happening. The front of the silk robe rose like an expensive tent. Wasn’t the guy wearing any underwear under that thing? Why did he even think of that?

He felt like a damned snake charmer. He couldn’t look away or stop doing the thing making that serpent rise. He just kept rubbing. Trelain’s eyes stayed closed. Most guys would make a joke. The dancer said nothing.

Mac had to stop. His cheeks burned, but his eyes wouldn’t look away from the tented silk. Pictures of mutual jerk-off sessions with his college roommate flashed in his head. He needed to make the joke.
Hey, buddy, you got a flashlight in there? Shall I go grab the bellboy?

He couldn’t do it. His mouth didn’t open. The silk of that rock-hard thigh was smoother than the robe, and it sucked him in. He just kept rubbing and staring. It looked like slow motion when the silk fell away from the tentpole. Holy shit—long, straight, and uncut. He’d hardly ever seen one of those. But when did he ever see cocks?

Trelain lay motionless. Not even the sound of breath. Mac looked up from the mesmerizing cock, and the turquoise eyes were wide open. Trelain wasn’t looking at Mac’s face. He was staring down at Mac’s crotch. Yeah, that would be the crotch where his boner the size of the Queen Mary was about to burst out of his tight pants. He wanted to crawl under the couch and hide. Images flashed in his mind. He remembered how good it felt to have his college roommate’s hard hand on his cock. A hand that knew just what it was doing. Not too soft and fumbly, like a lot of women. Hard and sure.

Trelain must have read his thoughts. The dancer sat up, gave the towel to Mac, and reached out a hand. The turquoise eyes stared straight up into Mac’s now as if daring him to stop. Stop? Yeah, he should make him stop. But he just didn’t. What was he? Hypnotized? He watched as the slender fingers unzipped those too-tight pants and reached inside to extract his big, thick, bulky dick. Did it look fat and ugly to him? He glanced up in time to see the dancer lick his lips. And then Trelain began to stroke.

Holy shit, yes, he remembered. The sure, hard pull of a guy who knew what balls were for. His eyes wanted to close, but he forced them open. He was sitting here letting a gay ballet dancer give him a handjob. He was losing it. But maybe it was just like those times in college. Two guys doing something enjoyable, getting their rocks off. Oh, crap, it felt so good. So much better than his own hands. Jesus, Trelain’s hands were so soft, but so strong. He didn’t want him to stop. He didn’t. His hips told that story, pushing up, begging for more with each thrust.

Couldn’t think. Didn’t want to explain. Mac leaned forward and wrapped both of his hands around that long, uncut cock and stroked upward, pulling the hood over the head. He hadn’t touched another man’s cock since college, and then it hadn’t meant much. This?
No explaining. Just do it
. He pulled one hand up and the other after it, just the way he liked it. Maybe like Paavo might have liked it.
No. Don’t think that.

Trelain’s hands weren’t moving as fast, and Mac glanced to be sure the guy wasn’t objecting. No way. The dancer looked like he was in heaven, his hips pushing up into Mac’s hands, but he didn’t say a word, as if noise would break the spell.

Mac heard his own harsh breathing. Almost gasping, he fell into the rhythm, one hand up, followed by the other, rotating the head, then starting again at the base. Shit. Uncut was wild. Soft and loose over that hard, hard rod. Trelain mirrored his motions. Up hard, rotate over the head, down, other hand, oh shit, it felt so good. Hard up, rotate, shit, shit, he never wanted to stop.

He gazed into those blue eyes as he stroked harder and harder. Mac could feel hot cum boiling. One of Trelain’s hands reached down and caressed his balls as if the dancer could feel the spunk ready to explode. Crap. He was going to come.
Not going alone
. Faster, harder. Four hands flew while the two stared at each other. Mac could barely see, but he didn’t lose eye contact until—“Oh, shit, I’m going to come. I’m going to come so hard…”

“Yes, pretty Yank. Come for me. Come all over me. Bloody, fucking… Oh!”

Explosion. The spurts of cum burst from Mac’s dick and splashed on the dancer’s cock and cobbled abdomen, just as hot, sticky liquid filled his own hands and dripped on his thighs. No control. Bucking hips. Body shudders. Wave after wave of orgasm rippled up his spine. Oh crap, how could this feel so good?

Trelain shuddered too, his head flopping against the couch back. Mac released the man’s cock, and the beautiful body slid sideways onto the seat. Mac fell in the opposite direction, against the arm of the couch, his now limp cock sticking out of his open pants.

What had just happened? Sure, he’d orgasmed with his college roommate, but this? Crap, he didn’t want to think about it. Couldn’t stop trembling. Every cell hummed. His world rocked.

The word flashed into his head, driving out the blur of pleasure. Hell, no. No world rocking. Not this way. He squeezed his head trying to get his father’s voice out.
“Stay away from the gay dancers. Stay away from Paavo.”
Shit.

Mac sat up. Trelain had one arm thrown over his eyes, his body, mostly nude, lying on top of the silk robe, a perfect sculpture. Now that damned dick retreated into its cave.

Mac tried to talk. Nothing. He cleared his throat.

The man never moved, but the clipped British tones cut off Mac’s voice. Cut off his balls. “Yes, I know, pretty Yank, it’s time for you to go. Run back to your lovely heterosexual world and pretend this never happened.”

The bastard. Heat slammed into his head. “Fuck you. You don’t have to make a big fucking deal out of it.” Crap, he was overreacting. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m the one making the big deal… I should just go.”

Trelain uncovered his eyes and gave a small smile. “Oh, it was a big deal, Mac-Kenzie.” He glanced toward Mac’s now zipped-up fly. “Very big, indeed.”

Chapter Four

Trelain soared through the air in a grand jeté, landed on one foot, and stopped dead. “Hell!”

His dance master walked toward him, hips swinging. The bloke was sixty, so the effect was a little incongruous, but he loved the old queen. “Now, darling, you’ve done better, but that wasn’t so bad.”

Trelain rested his hands on his knees. He spit out the pieces of hair that had escaped his tight queue. “Bloody hippopotamus.”