“No point right now,” Ari said.
I spread my arms wide. “Lay it on me, bro. I’m a horrible daughter.”
Ari nudged my foot. “No, you’re not. It’s been a long time coming. Take her home?” he asked.
Rohan nodded.
“Happy birthday, Nee,” Ari said, over his shoulder, already heading back into the fray. “There’s no one I’d rather share it with. Even if your sense of timing sucks.”
Rohan hung Leo’s gift up for me. It looked perfect against the raspberry walls that he’d helped me paint. Now I had the Gregory Hines tap dancing photo on one side of my bed and this print on the other. I’d also tacked up photos of the important people in my life: Leo and me glammed up for a night out, Ari and I at our favorite gelato place, Ms. Clara with a plate of cookies in one hand and her dominatrix whip in the other, Baruch and Rabbi Abrams drinking tea at a café in Jerusalem together, and Kane and Ari mugging with a basketball. Then there were the selfies of Ro and me: us in Prague, here in Vancouver beat up and triumphant throwing devil horns after a nasty demon kill in Stanley Park, and laying on his car at dusk with our best rock star faces on. Ro wore an unbelievably arrogant smirk that made me laugh every time I looked at it, while I’d affected my best sultry pout. I’d get a photo of Drio now that he was back from Rome and stick that up, too.
Rohan tucked me into bed. He wore my “Tap Dancers Need Wood” shirt that was too tight and short on him, fussing over me as he plumped up pillows to go behind my back.
He was amazing.
“I have one more gift for you,” he said.
I traced the line of his abs down to his waistband. “Is it R-rated?”
He picked up the acoustic guitar he’d brought in, his hand curved possessively around it, rummaging through the pocket of his shorts for a pick. He had dozens of them scattered about his room, but he pulled out this matte purple one that, according to his fan boards, was his favorite type.
“Did you write a new song?” I’d recently heard the finished version of the theme song for “Hard Knock Strife” and he was writing music again but, even though he was always willing to play for me while I danced, it was either Fugue State Five songs or covers. He hadn’t let me hear any other new songs.
Ro put his finger to his lips to shush me and I folded my hands in my lap like a good little listener.
“It’s called ‘Slay.’” Head bent, a lock of hair falling forward, Rohan’s first notes were as rich as aged whiskey. The opening melody wove around me, low and clear.
Sucker-punched by a cherub wrapped tight in barb wire
You skirted the shadows
taught me how to soar higher
It started a game
stand one night on its head
My fallen angel’s my home
stack our days end to end
Words poured out of him, his eyes on mine weaving a spell, a story of us, that I wrapped myself in snugger than any blanket. He kept one foot planted on the floor, keeping time, the other bent to support the weight of the guitar.
I listed toward him, drawn in by the warm pull of his smile. My blood heated to a slow drift and my heart kept time with the bass.
His strumming kicked up, his heel driving the rhythm and his voice ringing out for the chorus.
Slay all your demons
I’ll slay all of mine
Light up the darkness
you’re my bottom line
Let’s slay all our demons
I’ll lay down my knives
For you, I’ll lay down my knives
Why don’t you slay?
Come on, just slay,
You know I’ve been slain.
Rohan danced his pick over his knuckles, swallowed, and pursed his lips. “It’s pretty rough. I mean, I haven’t been writing for a while and I might need to edit some parts, but that’s pretty usual and–what?”
My boyfriend had written a song for me. The best song in the history of all mankind.
Pressing my palms against the mattress, I rose up and kissed him. “I love it.”
He set the guitar down. “You needed your own song. For the new album.” He tossed the pick on the nightstand. “I wouldn’t even be writing again if it wasn’t for you.”
I kissed him again, more insistent, pouring every feeling I was too overwhelmed to voice into it. He pulled away, breathless and laughing, and from the tender look he shone on me, he’d understood.
“Sing it again?”
His pleased growl shot electric sparks through my blood. But the smile he bestowed on me? It wasn’t some sexy wattage or the deadly-deserved arrogance of his hunter smirk that got me hot and wet. No, this one, warm and intimate and a bit shy to fully emerge, swelled me up with light and air and a bittersweet ache like there was this amazing thing if I could only stretch my fingertips one more millimeter to grab it tight.
I couldn’t contain it, so I molded it into something I could handle. I got onto my knees, fingering the hem of Ro’s T-shirt. “Keep singing.” I tugged it over his head, pitching it carelessly at the foot of the bed.
His eyes darkened but he started the song again, a capella.
I snapped the button on his shorts and Ro’s voice wavered. I raised an eyebrow and he grinned his apology, singing the chorus in a steadier voice, even as I pulled out his cock, stroking it, luxuriating in the feel of it swelling.
I reached over to the night-table, got the bottle of water-based lube and pressed it into Ro’s hands. He was about to stop singing when I shook my head and took out Snake Clitspin, my S-shaped vibe. He smiled and oiled the toy up just at the chorus.
The song ended right as I hit the “on” button and Snake hummed.
Ro reached for me but I wagged a finger at him. “Uh-uh. Keep singing. Mood music. But no touching.”
“Come on–”
I sucked his erection into my mouth.
Ro bucked off the bed and burst into song. “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” Not in my top ten bow-chica-wow-wow songs, but rolling off his tongue, his voice a low growl and the corner of his mouth quirked in a knowing smile, it was positively pornographic.
I squirmed, his answering smirk ruined by the flush on his cheeks and the white-knuckled grip he had on the sheets.
A better musical choice was his rendition of Maroon 5’s “Harder to Breathe” accompanied by me on dick and vibe. Ro’s breathing was growing harsh, but champ that he was he kept singing, albeit a bit more growly than usual, his eyes darting between his blowjob of the century–I wasn’t even using my magic on him, I was just that good–and my writhing, getting myself off on Snake almost as much as on what I was doing to Ro.