CHAPTER FIVE

The first thing I do when I get back to my room is check my phone. Theres a new message. I take a deep breath and press the voicemail button before I have the chance to lose my nerve. I know without even looking at my missed calls that the message is from Adam. "Hey, K. Got your message. Give me a call back when you can."

His voice is casual, as if my calling him was perfectly ordinary—as if I havent spent the last several months actively ignoring his attempts to contact me. Theres no anger in his voice, but theres no pleasure, either. His tone gives no indication of what he thinks of my request. Im instantly suspicious. For all I know, he wants me to call him so he can laugh in my face.

But Im not going to let myself take the cowards way out any longer. This isnt about me or my pride. Its about the Center. Before I can talk myself out of it, I click the button to call Adam.

This time he picks up on the first ring. "Hey," he says. My stomach twists at the sound of his voice, and its all I can do not to hang up on him. I take a deep breath.

"Hey. Did you get my message?" I immediately want to smack myself. Of course he got my message. "I know its a lot to ask," I say quickly. "And I know you have no reason to help me, but I just wanted to...ask. You know how much the Center means to Will. If you saw him, youd see what this has done to him. Were trying everything we can. Im desperate..." I cut myself off when I realize my rambling has twisted itself into begging.

"Youd have to be pretty desperate to call me," Adam says after a moment. I still cant tell if hes pissed.

"I just thought—well, you seemed to care a lot for the Center back when you worked with us," I say carefully. "I know things didnt end well between us, but I thought you might still have some affection toward the Center."

For a minute, he doesnt respond. "I do," he says finally. "You know I do, Kurt. I have a deep respect for the work you and Will do."

Im standing next to the fireplace, and I reach out and run my finger along one of the carved stone vines.

"Well?" I say softly. "Will you help us?"

Adam sighs. "I dont know, Kurt. What happens if I do? Will you start talking to me again? Or will you cut me out of your life again once you get what you want?"

"Thats not fair," I argue.

"Isnt it? Youve refused to talk to me for months. Youre only friendly now because you need something."

"What was I supposed to do all this time?" I say. "I needed the space to get over you. Our relationship was... honestly, it was fucked up. And then Patrick—"

"Ive told you a million times, Kurt. Patrick was a mistake." He lets out a heavy breath. "I know I cant expect you to just come running back to me, but I think I deserve some common courtesy here."

"You dont deserve anything," I whisper. Hearing his voice again, listening to him say his name, having to defend our breakup after all this time—its too much. It just brings up all those old memories again. I thought I could handle this, but now Im not so sure. "Forget it," I say. "I dont need your help after all."

"Kurt," he says, his exasperation clear in his voice. "Theres no reason to—"

"No. Forget I ever called." Before he can respond to me, I hang up and throw the phone down on the nightstand.

Ugh. I flop down on the bed and close my eyes. This is all a fucking mess. I should have let Will talk to Adam. Now Ive gone and blown it.

I knew talking to Adam would be difficult, but I told myself Id suck it up for the sake of the Center. Why couldnt I just tell him what he wanted to hear? Instead I let my anger get in the way, and the Center was still screwed.

I still remember those last, horrible months we were together. I was desperately afraid that Adam was slipping away from me, and I was torturing myself trying to keep him happy and interested. The day I caught him, I was planning on making his favorite dinner as a surprise. I ducked out of work early so I could get everything ready, and instead I walked in on him with Patrick, a fellow journalist who hed always insisted was just a "friend."

Even now my stomach twists at the memory. To be honest, its not even him that Im pissed at. Its the fact that I gave up so much of myself—and became such a pathetic, sniveling mess there at the end— that really makes me angry. I never told anyone the truth about our breakup. It was too humiliating.

Never again.

A knock at the door snaps me out of my thoughts. "Kurt?" Blaine says. "Is everything all right?" Damn it. I completely forgot about changing. I haul myself off the bed and avoid looking back at the wet patch I probably left on the comforter.

"Just a minute!" I say. I run into the closet and pull the damp shirt over my head. Fortunately, Blaine seems to have no shortage of clothes in here. I find a black pants and a green shirt, and I pull them both on quickly. Again, theres not much to do with my hair, so I comb it with my fingers and try not to look at myself in the mirror as I go back out. Why do I care what I look like, anyway?

Honestly, though, I have far more important things on my mind. My conversation with Adam left me feeling hopeless and sick to my stomach. I threw away a valuable opportunity because I couldnt get past my own twisted emotions. I didnt realize how much I was relying on his help until that course of action slipped completely out of the window.

And then theres Blaine. Its pretty clear he doesnt want to make good on his fathers pledge, but I dont have the luxury of giving up on him just yet. If Im going to convince him to give us the money his father promised, Im going to have to step up my game. I might just have to get creative, thats all.

Just get creative, I repeat to myself.

An image of his naked body pops into my mind, and my body responds almost immediately. I can think of a few ways I might try to convince him.

The prospect is both terrifying and strangely exciting. I dont even know where to begin seducing a man.

I mean, I suppose I know how to bat my eyelashes and make the slightest suggestion to my crotch through wearing ties pointing at my goods subliminally or things like that, but that just seems so amateur, especially when were talking about a man like Blaine Anderson.

Hes already made it clear that he wants me. But how do I play that to my advantage without seeming too obvious?

I study him once more from the corner of my eye as we continue our tour. He hasnt made any references to what happened at the pool, and Im perfectly fine with that. Still, I wish I knew what he was thinking. Is he angry with me? Confused? Indifferent? How am I supposed to know how to flirt with him if I cant figure out his current feelings toward me?

Hes perfectly pleasant as he leads me through the house. And I must admit, the house is freaking amazing. More than once I find my attention wandering from my self-imposed task to my incredible surroundings.

He shows me a lounge, a game room, a library that rivals the public one back home. Just when I think Ive seen everything, he leads me into the familys own personal movie theater.

"Is this real?" I ask.

The room is huge; with stadium-style seating and a screen so large I wonder how they managed to get it in here in the first place.

"My father loved movies," Blaine says. Hes standing close enough to me that I feel the tiny hairs stand up on my arms, but I pretend not to notice.

"He must, to build a room like this," I say. My fingers itch slightly. I should probably reach out and touch him—just a small, casual touch. One that might come across as an accident. Just an innocent little touch to get him worked up.

But before I can raise my hand, he moves past me. "My father was particularly fond of the James Bond films. He used to have a marathon every year on Ian Flemings birthday."

I smile in spite of myself. "Theyre good movies."

He chuckles and turns back to look at me. "He had some of his suits custom-made to look just like Bonds. And for his sixtieth birthday, he hired a bunch of stunt actors to help him recreate his favorite scenes out in the garden." I grin at the image. In my dealings with Richard Anderson, Id always found him a friendly, likable man, but I never got to witness the goofier side of him.

"My dad is a huge Indiana Jones fan," I say. "Now I know what to get him for his next birthday." Blaine laughs with me, but his eyes are still distant, and I know hes thinking of his father. "You must miss him," I offer. The words sound lame now that theyve left my mouth. Im not very good at comforting people.

He blinks and turns away from me. When he speaks, the vulnerability of a moment ago is gone and theres a hard edge to his voice. "My father was a selfish bastard."

My mouth falls open. "Your father did so much for the Brooklyn Center."

"One good act doesnt make a good man."

"But certainly he—"

"Dont talk about things you dont understand," he snaps, spinning on me. I stumble back a step, stunned. I want to tell him that thats no way to speak of the dead, especially a dead parent. But Im afraid of the emotion I see in his eyes. Blaine pulls his hand through his hair. His shoulders are rigid, defensive. Just a moment ago he was speaking with such longing, such admiration—and I know I didnt misinterpret the affection in his eyes when he spoke of his fathers love of James Bond. Whats changed? Why is he suddenly so tense? He did the same thing last night at dinner, when the subject of his father came up.

Dont be so hard on him, I try and tell myself. He lost his father only a few months ago. Youd be a mess, too, if your dad died. Just thinking of Dads past medical history churns my stomach. Imagining his death... that makes me physically ill.

"Well?" Blaine says, snapping me back out of my dark thoughts. From his annoyed tone, I suspect Ive missed something hes said.

"Well...?"

"Are you ready to move on? Or would you rather stare at the movie screen for another ten minutes?"

I almost think I preferred him when he was trying to get in my pants. "Lets go on," I say, hoping that a change of scenery will get him back to normal.

It does, but it takes two floors and numerous rooms before he begins to regain a bit of his charm. He shows me a lush conservatory, an indoor gym, a study with an enormous fireplace. He shows me the bedroom he and his brother were convinced was haunted when they were younger, and the large room of his fathers collectibles where he and his brother used to play hide-and-seek. Talking about Cooper seems to make him happier, and once more I see the nostalgia and boyishness return to his eyes. I dont say anything, though, except to admire this piece of furniture or that decorative wall hanging. No surprise, its all extremely beautiful—and undoubtedly extremely expensive. I try not to think of how the Center might use that money.

Dont forget why youre here, I tell myself. Dont forget what you need to do.

I need to step it up. I already screwed up with Adam. I cant let this opportunity with Blaine slip away from me, too.

"So," I say, resting my fingers gently on his arm. "Where to next?"

His eyes flick down to my hand, then back to my face. "I thought maybe you might enjoy the gallery."

"Gallery?" He hasnt mentioned anything like that to me yet.

"My father and my grandfather both collected art. As you can probably already tell." He gestures at the walls as we move along the hallway, indicating the paintings and sculptures Ive already been studying as we pass. "The gallery is where they kept their favorites."

I cant help the quiver of excitement that runs through me at the thought of viewing the Andersons collection. Richard had a reputation for his fine taste, and Ive no doubt that his father before him did as well, judging by the pieces Ive seen here so far.

Blaine notices my reaction. His fingers close around my own. "I knew youd be excited. Come on. Its not far." The skin of my hand tingles where he touches me. I want to pull away from him, to try and regain a bit of control, but the action would be too suspicious. Instead I let him lead me down the hallway and pretend the warmth of his fingers isnt making my stomach do somersaults.

Blaine turns me down another hallway and leads me to a pair of large double doors. He pushes one open, and I gasp. The room beyond might have been in a museum. Its long, with a high ceiling, and there are so many works along the walls that I know Ill never have the chance to properly examine them all.

"This is insane," I breathe. Beside me, Blaine chuckles. I slip out of his grip and walk over to a glass case against the nearest wall. Inside, theres a collection of small jade figures.

"My father picked those up on a trip to China when I was about ten," Blaine says beside me. "There were actually two more, but my brother and I stole them. We ended up losing both of our figures out in the garden. My father was furious. He grounded me for a month. Just me, because I was the one who actually broke into the case."

I cant help but smile at the image of a young Blaine forced into such punishment. Though honestly, being grounded in this place doesnt sound like a bad thing at all.

I glance up at him, and Im a little startled to catch him watching me. I look away, heat creeping up my neck, but I know I cant waste this opening.

"Tell me," I say sweetly, turning and looking down the length of the room. "Do you have a favorite piece in here?"

He rubs his chin, his thumb skimming along that perfect line of stubble.

"Thats a tough one," he says. His gaze flicks back to me, and theres humor in his eyes. "Maybe you should guess."

Its a challenge, and Im not about to let this opportunity slip through my fingers. If I play this right, I might be able to ramp up our flirtation a few notches without making him suspicious.

"What are the stakes?" I say lightly.

His eyes darken. "Youre leaving it up to me?" A flutter stirs in my gut, but I dont want him to know how much his suggestive gaze affects me. I need to hold the power here. I shrug.

"You suggested the game. You should name the prize."

His mouth curls. "Thats some dangerous power youve given me."

I match his wicked smile with one of my own. "You better not abuse it."

"Even if I think youd enjoy it as much as me?" I dont dignify him with a response. Instead, I turn and begin walking down the length of the gallery. "Ill go easy on you," he calls after me. And then, far too quickly, "If you guess incorrectly, then you have to give me a kiss." A kiss. All things considered, he could have suggested something far worse. I pause as if considering. Let him think hes thrown me off-kilter.

"How many guesses do I get?" I ask.

"As many as you want. As long as you pay up every time youre wrong." I can definitely see this game spiraling out of control very quickly. Better place a limit on things.

"Lets make it a one shot deal." I tell him. "Itll be more interesting that way." Even though I know my odds arent good, its still better than trusting myself to kiss him a dozen times. "What happens if Im right?"

"Then you dont have to kiss me," he says, grinning. "Unless you want to, of course." I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

"This bets a little one-sided, dont you think?"

He shrugs. "Youre the one who told me to name the stakes." Hes right, of course. And Ill play along. If indulging him gets me any closer to recovering the pledge money, Ill do whatever it takes.

"All right," I call back to him. "Its a deal."

The corner of his mouth curls up in that charming little half smile of his. He spreads his arms wide. "Make your guess," he says, his eyes gleaming wickedly. "Ill be waiting."

"How do I know you wont change your answer if I guess correctly?"

"You can trust me," he insists. Im not sure I can, but this is going too well for me to want to pick a fight. He seems to be enjoying our little game, and I mean to play him for all hes worth. I continue my stroll down the gallery, scanning the art on either side of me as I pass, looking for anything that jumps out from the others. Im at a major disadvantage here, that much is certain, but Im willing to lose this battle if it means ultimately winning the war.

Still, the competitive side of me wants to give it my best shot. Id really love to see his face when I get it right. My eyes roam over the collection. There are paintings of every style and medium I can imagine, as well as sculptures of clay, wood, metal, even marble.

I stop in front of an oil painting depicting a nude woman lying on a bed of wildflowers. Her arm is curled around her head, her leg slightly raised. Its a very sensual image, and I raise my eyebrow and look back at Blaine.

"Interesting choice," he says, moving closer. "Ill admit, this piece certainly has its charms, even for a gay man like myself." His eyes roam over the canvas before flicking back to me. "Youre wrong, though."

"I never said this was my guess."

"No? I believe you were about to."

"Then perhaps you should exercise a little patience next time," I say lightly, brushing my finger across the end of his nose. "Let me have a real guess, or you forfeit the prize."

The amusement deepens on his face. "Very well, then," he says, gesturing toward the rest of the room. "Make your pick." But my eyes fall to the painting beside the lounging nude.

"Is that..." I step forward, peer down at the tiny plaque beside the work. "This is a Ludlam. A fucking Ludlam!"

"Ludlam?"

"Benjamin Ludlam," I explain. "Hes probably my favorite contemporary artist. Hes freaking brilliant—his work combines modern techniques with a style reminiscent of the Pre-Raphaelites." I shake my head.

"I cant believe you have this," I continue. Ive heard of Ludlams work going for upwards of half a million dollars at auction—though, now that I think about it, thats probably pocket change for the thought brings me crashing down from my high. Half a million dollars could do so much for the Center. As much as I love seeing this painting in person, I cant forget why Im here.

"But Im supposed to be finding your favorite piece," I tell Blaine sweetly. "Not picking my own." I brush my fingers against his cheek as I turn and move back toward the Center of the gallery.

I feel his eyes boring into my back as I move away from him and continue my inspections. This collection really is amazing—but I never expected any less from Richard Anderson, the man who gave us so much support throughout the years. He was truly a man who loved and respected the arts.

I stop the next time in front of a stretch of wall devoted entirely to colorful Pop art. Its an eclectic collection, thats for certain, but its clear that someone with practiced taste and a refined eye selected these pieces. I stare at a multi-media work depicting a brightly painted bus with a series of even brighter advertisements pasted to its side.

All the time Im contemplating my decision, Blaines eyes are on me. I dont even have to look—I can feel it. Its like a tickle on my skin, a sensation creeping up my spine. I dont think these particular works would count among his favorites. Theyre too modern, too strange.

On the opposite wall I spot another glass case, and I wander over to have a look. I know without glancing up that Blaines eyes follow me. I sense them sliding over my body as I move. A rush of pleasure surges through me. Its intoxicating, even this small taste of power, but its also terrifying. I cant fuck this up.

I lean over the glass case, making sure Blaine has a nice, clear view of my backside. Ive always been proud of my ass. If it wins me a few points for the Center, all the better. Meanwhile, Im perusing the items inside the case. These pieces appear to be crafted entirely of ivory. My eyes lock on one of the larger works, a long curved tusk depicting a scene at sea. On one side of the carving, theres a large ship with a number of men—some scrambling about the deck, others brandishing harpoons. On the other half, a sperm whale rises from the water, its teeth bared at the sailors. Its the sort of scene that a young, adventurous boy would love.

I glance up at Blaine, whos come to stand beside me at the case. Instead of focusing on me, his gaze moves about the ivory carvings below us. His face is carefully calm. Im not sure what to make of it. He seems to be studying the pieces in the case as carefully as I, but I dont miss the way his gaze lingers on the same work I noticed, the long tusk with the ship scene.

"Thats it," I say softly.

He blinks, look up at me, as if Ive interrupted some deep thought. "What did you say?"

"Thats it." I nod at the tusk. "Thats your favorite thing in here."

He doesnt have his fathers appreciation for form or technique or history; no, his favorite will be the one that speaks to him on an emotional level, one that inspired and excited him as a child.

His gaze shifts back to the tusk. He stares at it for a long moment, his eyes flicking between the sailors and the whale. I watch him with interest, no less because, for the briefest of seconds, he looks almost boyish. But quick as a flash, the wistfulness disappears, and his usual expression returns.

"Youre wrong," he says. "Its a remarkable piece, to be sure, but Im afraid youre incorrect."

I dont believe it. I stare at him, trying to catch the lie in his eye, but the openness of even a few seconds ago is gone. In its place is the guarded, smug Blaine he prefers to show me.

"No. Youre wrong. You can deny it if you want, but that piece means something to you."

"I never said it didnt," he replies. "Its a charming scene. Nineteenth century. I believe my father acquired it from a museum."

Hes cheated, and I know it. He might act indifferent, but its obvious that he has some sort of emotional reaction to this tusk. Still, if he refuses to acknowledge it, theres nothing I can do. I wont press the issue. This whole game was about flirting, not delving into his emotions. Disappointed as I might be, I have a job to do.

"Well," I say. "If this isnt your favorite, which is?"

The question seems to knock the last of the shadows from his eyes, and he flashes me a smile before guiding me back toward the center of the room.

When he stops, were standing in front of a round, abstract painting that is, by all accounts, exactly the opposite of any choice I would have made. Its small, probably only a foot and a half in diameter, and composed almost entirely of jagged, angular shapes in shades of taupe and tan and bronze. The shapes curve around the center of the piece, where a slash of bright red cuts across the canvas.

If Im being honest—and I have a strong appreciation for art, even the weird stuff, so this is saying something—its one of the ugliest things Ive ever seen. I dont know what to make of it.

"Its... interesting," I say finally. This has to be a joke. He picked the most hideous piece in here because he knew Id never even consider it. Its cheating, pure and simple, and hes not even being subtle about it.

"You dont seem impressed." His voice is thick with amusement. "Or is it just that Ive surprised you?"

"Its very different than what I expected you to pick," I admit, tilting my head to see if it looks any better from another angle. "Why this one?"

He steps up behind me, so near that I can feel the heat of him against my back, even though we dont touch. "What do you see?" he asks. His breath stirs me.

Im not sure if the questions a trick. Maybe he just wants to see me flustered, to see me scramble to compliment a piece that I clearly dont like. After all the fuss Ive made over the Center and the importance of arts, confessing that I dont appreciate this particular painting might undermine my points and give Blaine the perfect opening to press his own case against me. All hed have to do is claim the same opinion of the art our students and sponsored artists create.

But it was probably Blaines father that purchased this piece, not Blaine himself, and I generally trusted the late Richards taste. Maybe he saw something in this painting that I dont.

"It looks like a sun," I say finally. "A muted sun—like its covered in dust. A hopeless mans sun." I tilt my head. "Or a hopeless womans, I suppose."

"My, but thats a depressing interpretation," he says. "Is that all you see?"

"Its your favorite. Maybe you should tell me what you think."

"Mmm." His hand brushes against my hip. "Im afraid I see it a little differently. You see, I have a theory about abstract art. If an artist wants to paint a sun, why doesnt he just paint a sun? If he wants to paint a tree or the ocean or some pastoral scene with shepherds and goats, he can just paint it outright. Abstract art, on the other hand, is an attempt to depict something deeper—those subconscious, primal emotions and urges that cant be expressed in concrete images or terms."

"Abstract art is for abstract concepts, you mean," I say.

"Yes, smartass," he growls in my ear. Im not sure I agree, but Im willing to play along.

"And which primal emotion do you think this painting depicts?" I ask.

"Well." He reaches around me, indicating the left side of the painting. "This bit here—the strokes are short and angry. And as you follow them around," —he gestures with his hand, pressing closer to me with the motion—"they get shorter, more agitated. Round and round they go, building frustration."

His chest is flush against my back. I can feel his hard muscles even through the fabric of our clothes, and once again Im assaulted by images of him in his room last night. My initial urge is to jerk away from him, but already my body is stirring in response to his nearness. Besides, I dont want to disrupt this flirtation weve started. I just have to concentrate and stay in control.

"So you believe this piece represents frustration," I say, a little more breathlessly than I intend.

He gives a low chuckle. "To an extent, yes. But look." He shifts; indicating the red slash at the center of the painting while his other hand comes to rest on my waist. "If the outer edges represent frustration, what do you make of this part?"

Im not sure how he wants me to answer—and Im having trouble concentrating anyway. The heat of his fingers seems to burn through my clothes. His hand moves ever-so-slightly, just enough to brush the top of my hip once more.

"I—I guess the centers the opposite of frustration," I say, noting the softer, curved lines.

"You could say that. The cause of the frustration, maybe, but also its cure." Im not sure what he means by that. Im too distracted by the way his hand has shifted again on my hip, sliding slowly downward. Easy, I tell myself. Stay in control.

"But why is this one your favorite?" I press.

"Mmm." His warm breath rushes across my ear. "Because I think the artist has captured it perfectly. Havent you ever felt that—that restless agitation? Like you were going to burst? Like everything in the world was going to crumble down around you unless you calmed the disturbance pulsing through you?"

"I... dont know."

He leans forward, and his lips brush against my ear. My heart pounds against my ribs, and what little breath I have left catches in my throat.

"What are you doing?" I ask him.

He responds by tilting his head and kissing the side of my neck, first just below the ear, then lower. His mouth begins a slow trail down toward my shoulder, and the sensations that dance across my skin at the contact make my head buzz.

"Mr. Anderson, I—"

"Blaine," he murmurs against my neck. His voice is deeper, but theres still a hint of amusement there. "Im just trying to show you what I mean about the painting." His mouth brushes against the place where my neck meets my shoulder. His tongue slips out, flicking softly against my skin, and I suck in a breath.

Warning bells go off in my head. I need to take control of this situation. I need to lead this seduction, not the other way around. But his tongue brushes against my neck again, and all of my protests slip out of my head.

Certainly theres nothing wrong with teasing him a little, letting him think Ive succumbed to his charms. Ill give him a taste, fuel his desire, and then Ill have him right where I want him.

He tightens his hold on my hip, pulling me closer to him. His other hand moves to the shoulder of my shirt, yanking it aside so he can continue his soft march of kisses. I shiver involuntarily.

"Blaine," I whisper. "Perhaps we should—" I gasp as he nips at me with his teeth.

"Is that what you really want?" he says against my skin. His hand moves forward along the neckline of my shirt, his fingers skimming just beneath the edge of the fabric. He slides the garment off my shoulder, exposing my neck and collarbones.

"You have such a stunning figure," he says, his mouth against my ear once more. His hand moves lower, gliding over my chest, his touch featherlight.

My breathing is shallow, uneven. I know I should stop him, take back control of the situation, but I dont. In this moment Im not even sure I want to.

"Feel the frustration building?" he breathes against my ear.

His hand moves lower and lower, with such agonizing slowness that I have to struggle to keep from pressing back against him. His fingers graze my nipple. I stiffen as he takes the nub and rolls it gently between his forefinger and thumb.

"Its subtle at first," he whispers, giving a soft pull. "Your blood pumping faster, your skin becoming more sensitive. The beginning of an ache between your legs."

His fingers become more insistent, pinching and tugging at my nipple. "Thats where we want to focus. On that ache." I close my eyes and let my head roll back against his shoulder. My nipple is rock hard beneath his touch, and still he massages it, pulling and twisting to the point of pain. I didnt know that my nipples worked as an erogenous zone, but now I had firm proof, pardon the pun. As he continued to assault my chest, I knew I should tell him to stop, but I dont.

And then, suddenly, his fingers release me. A sound of protest escapes me before I can stop it, and Blaine chuckles into my hair.

"Were not done yet," he says. He moves and unbuttons more of the shirt, exposing enough that it exposes my entire chest and grabs my other nipple in his hand. He repeats his rolling and pulling until that one, too, is hard and sensitive against his rougher skin.

"It builds slowly," he murmurs into my hair. "But little by the little the ache grows stronger, more insistent."

He moves his hand from my hip and across my upper thigh, stopping at the place where my legs meet. He pushes down softly, just enough to press the fabric of the pants against the bulge blooming in my borrowed trousers.

"What, then, is the cause of this frustration?" he breathes. "Whats the cure?" His hand slides further against my crotch. I push back against him involuntarily, and he tightens his grip on me, keeping me hard against him. I can feel his arousal through his clothes. His hand continues to move against me, back and forth across the fabric barely concealing my arousal now.

"You cant ignore it now," he says. "You cant think of anything else. Its more than an ache, now. Its a hunger. A need."

He stops touching me, but only to loosen the belt and unzip my pants and slip his hand beneath its fabric. His fingers dance over the skin of my hip, tracing the same path my own fingers followed last night. He touches the fabric of my boxer-briefs, and then he shifts them down, slipping his fingers beneath and firmly grasps my erection. I shiver when his touch meets my bare flesh.

I need to stop him. I need to pull away. I need to control this situation. But I cant make myself move. I can no longer pretend I dont feel an intense attraction for him, and I cant ignore the sensations coursing through my body, across my skin. Im reckless, wild, free—just as I was in the passageway last night.

"So hot already," he whispers in my ear. His hand moves slowly—too slowly. I squirm against him, trying to shift against his touch, looking for the pressure and grip I so desperately crave.

"Not so fast," he says, pulling his hand away. "Were doing this at my pace."

I still, and he resumes his agonizing touches, his fingers grasping firmly the softest skin on my cock. This is exciting him, too, I can tell. His breath is short and shallow and hot against my ear, and I can feel his heartbeat galloping away. He gives me another yank back, drawing me harder against his arousal.

"The ache is growing more desperate now. You dont know how much longer you can stand it. All you can think about is relieving that tension, finding release."

He slips the end of one finger to torture my balls and lightly nips the space just between my balls and my now quivering hole, causing me to whimper.

"Youre so close," he says, his voice ragged, his finger moving slowly in and out of me. "But that just makes it worse. Youre hot with need, aching for release, and the more the frustration builds and builds, the farther away it seems."

Its all I can do not to grind against his hand which has gone slightly limp against my rigid cock, but I wont beg for it. Not from him, no matter how much I want it. My legs tremble beneath me, and if it werent for his arms around me, I wouldnt be able to stand. My entire body is on fire, alive with need and frustration just as he claims.

"Tell me what you want, Kurt," he whispers. "Tell me." He slips his hand back up my length and starts pumping lightly, and I moan.

I want to touch him. I want him to feel this desperation, too. I start to reach around behind me, but he tightens his hold and closes any last sliver of space between us.

"No," he says gently. "This is about you. What you want."

I want to touch him, to make him melt beneath my hands. I want to see the wickedness I know Ill find in his eyes. But I cant find the words to say that out loud. Instead, I close my hand over his hand as it rapidly goes over my cock and press against it. I want him to stop the slow, cruel movements of his fingers and instead make them work me over until Im moaning like a whore.

This is a bad idea, a tiny voice in my head reminds me. Stop him. Push him away. Youre supposed to be the one in control. Youre supposed to get him to...

But for the life of me I cant seem to think of anything but the feel of his flesh on mine, the hardness of him at my back, the ache of pleasure building between my legs. I want him to touch me. To tug and push and pinch at my flesh. To take me to the brink and back.

Fuck all the rest.

I press harder against his hand. He obeys my silent order, moving his hands to have a firm grasp and moving it up and down more quickly to bring me closer. He tugs just hard enough to cause my insides to spin as I near release, and I shudder.

"Youre close," he observes. "The tension has swelled and swelled and theres only one way out. Youll do anything for release. Anything to ease this frustration. Your body is ready for it, tense for that one touch that will take you over the edge."

Yes! my mind screams. Yes! Take me over the edge! "Tell me what you want, Kurt," he asks again, his voice deep and throaty.

"Do it," I rasp. "Please..." Im shaking. Just one more touch, one more ounce of pressure. Im so close, so close... But instead he releases me, so suddenly that I nearly fall over. I reach out and catch myself against the wall before my trembling legs collapse beneath me. I still ache, terribly, and my cock is practically screaming with the pent up frustration it feels. I was there, right on the cusp of letting go. Why did he stop?

I turn, still leaning against the wall for support. Blaine stands behind me, his shirt rumpled and his hair disheveled. He looks so fucking sexy I want to throw myself at him. His eyes are half closed, darker than usual, but I dont miss the devilish gleam in their depths.

"What—what was that?" I ask, my voice hardly more than a squeak.

He steps closer. For a brief, fluttering moment I think he means to finish the job, but instead he only brings his lips to my ear once more.

"That," he says huskily, "is the frustration I see in the painting."

What the fuck just happened?