Bending the Iron - 7. Chapter 7

They walked a short distance to a park office where Michael learned that not only would they be staying overnight in the Duncan House, but they’d have the home to themselves. “One guest at a time,” Eric said. “That’s the way it works.” He handed Michael a thick book on Polymath and the other Wright houses in the area.

The whole house to themselves? Michael didn’t want to think about what that had cost. But Eric signed the register and produced a credit card without blinking an eye, so Michael tried not to worry. It wasn’t until they walked back to the parking lot and Eric gestured to a silver sedan that Michael put his foot down. “A rental car too?”

“Well, yeah.” Eric cocked his head. “It’s actually a couple of miles to the house. Not too far to walk, I guess, but we need the car anyway for tomorrow. Fallingwater is a good fifteen miles away, the next town over.”

Michael planted his feet. “And how much did that set you back?”

“Oh.” Eric had the nerve to look relieved. “I thought you had something against Toyota. Nah, man, don’t worry about that. Enterprise rocks—they pick up and drop off for free. It’s not as bad as you’re thinking, and besides—” he hooked Michael’s arm and steered him toward the car, “—I asked you on this adventure. So it’s on my dime, okay? Don’t sweat it. Please.”

It was a sincere enough plea. Grudgingly, Michael nodded, but the childish righteousness stayed with him until they swung around the final turn, gravel crunching under their tires, and the house came into view.

“Huh,” Eric said, breaking to a stop. “There it is.”

Huh was probably what a lot of people thought at first sight. Michael smiled, not upset by Eric’s lack of enthusiasm. They had time. Being a good student came naturally to Eric. Michael would teach him. He’d show him the difference between Craftsman and Colonial, how stone and metal and wood could blend seamlessly, and how straight lines accomplished one thing and curves another. And how the genius of one man could inspire generations.

He stepped out of the car to stare, taking in how the clean horizontal lines of the house complemented the towering trees surrounding the structure. Rust red and gray stone dominated the palette. But this was just the front, the beginning. How would the inside compare?

Michael took off toward the door, pausing every few steps. He changed his mind at the last minute, veering off from the front entrance to follow the path along the rear of the house. Along the back, he found an artful arrangement of boulders and the same stunning lines of wood and stone.

Peripherally, he knew as he explored that Eric was following, hanging back a step or two, but always close. His presence added rather than detracted, reminding Michael of why this experience was so much more than it would have been had he come alone.

The interior was everything he had hoped for and was such an obvious reflection of its creator that Michael had to laugh. Wright had been set in his ways, but then wasn’t every creative genius? He paced the house top to bottom, then did it again. At one point, on his third pass through the living room, he turned abruptly, wanting another glance at the sloped ceiling, and ran right into Eric.

Eric jumped back. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get in your way.”

What? Michael threw off his childlike amazement long enough to sling an arm around Eric’s waist and spin him over the back of a couch. Eric laughed, tilting his head back when Michael playfully attacked his neck. The sound echoed through the house, bouncing off glass and stone.

Michael had never heard anything more beautiful.

* * *

Rushing through dinner wasn’t an option. Michael was a simple guy—he thought the cheese and cracker dinner had been the first clue—but Eric had spared no expense, and Michael wasn’t going to waste a moment of the unique experience.

A discreet knock on the door turned into a parade of chefs and assistants, some wheeling small carts, another carrying wine. The brochure said that use of the original Wright kitchen was prohibited, and Michael had been prepared to make do with the refrigerator and microwave supplied for guests. He knew from the takeout menus in the park office that there were restaurants aplenty, even if most were a fifteen-minute drive away. But honestly, anything would have sufficed. Whatever fed the body and got them back sooner, so he could explore more of the grounds before dark.

Eric’s arrangements changed all that, and not just logistically. Watching the staff prepare the dining room with a feast for two touched him as deeply as the rest of Eric’s gestures. He’d gone all out. Above and beyond.

When the candles were lit, the wine decanted, and the food simmering in covered dishes, the staff filed out, and Eric closed the door behind them. In a very atypical manner, he kept his distance, shuffling his feet. “I wanted to do something special, but I honestly didn’t think it would be so fancy. I hope you’re not uncomfortable.”

In a public setting he might have been. Now that was a distant worry. “No.” He stepped forward to take Eric’s hand and draw him close. “This is perfect. I had no idea you could do something like this.” He gestured at the table, at a loss to put his feelings into words. “It really is absolutely perfect.”

Pleasure glowed bright in Eric’s eyes before they clouded over. He dropped his gaze, casually untangling himself, and Michael let him go. Cursing silently, he watched with pursed lips as Eric busied himself pouring the wine.

He’d got too close again, reached too deep into whatever anxiety Eric still nursed close to his heart. Apologizing would be useless. Instead, he chose to take the wine when it was offered and match Eric’s toast with a deep kiss. At the end Eric pulled back, looking less stressed, and Michael congratulated himself for dodging another bullet. He peeked under the first silver dome, basking in the delicious aroma. “Ready to eat?”

He thought the house might be distracting. Each of the hundreds of intricate details touched off a different emotion in him. But in the end, he barely noticed the room they were sitting in or the food they ate. All he remembered was the way Eric laughed and talked and moved and looked at him when he spoke, as though Michael’s words were the only things that mattered in the world.

He had no idea if they were responsible for clearing the table and stacking everything back on the carts, but by seven o’clock he was beyond caring. Eric lifted the top on the last platter, said, “Mmm. Dessert,” and Michael’s patience snapped. Standing, he circled the table and clanged the lid closed.

Eric arched an eyebrow. “Not a dessert person?”

“I’d love dessert.” Catching Eric’s wrist, he pulled him out of the dining room and down the hall to their bedroom. “Later.” He stopped in the doorway and caught Eric’s chin in his hand. “Thank you. I’ve never had anyone do this for me before. Hell, I’ve never had anyone do anything remotely like any of this before.” He stroked his thumb over Eric’s lips. “But I’m thinking that even if someone had, it wouldn’t compare.” He shut his mouth on the rest before he embarrassed them both.

Eric swallowed and didn’t speak. His cheeks paled, and Michael recognized the signs—panicking again. Michael drew him inside, shutting the door behind them. He took Eric’s face in his palms. “What’s spooking you?” he whispered.

“You’re being a little too...perfect,” Eric admitted.

At Michael’s disbelieving expression, he smiled sadly. “What?”

“Why is that a problem?”

Eric opened his mouth, then promptly closed it. At a loss for words? That was new and different. Michael waited through Eric’s first two aborted answers, then placed a finger over his lips. He could guess what the problem was, and maybe a guess was all either of them needed. “Never mind. It’s okay.”

“No. I want to explain.” He tried to step back, but Michael wouldn’t let him retreat.

“Right here. You don’t need to run from me.”

Eric seemed to weigh that before turning back into Michael’s arms. “I just didn’t expect to meet anyone like you here. I took the job at the museum partly to escape.”

“From what?”

“From everything. For a while.” He stroked a hand down Michael’s chest. “I was going to take the time to get my head back on straight. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want this. I promise. It’s just unexpected.”

And you’re not sure you’re ready for it. Fair enough. Michael had his own reservations. They’d just have to muddle through. He wasn’t letting go now unless Eric asked explicitly.

They spoke very little after that. Maybe, Michael thought as he slowly peeled off Eric’s clothing, it was the house and the reverence it demanded that kept them silent. Or, more likely, it was a reverence of a different sort. He’d never had the time to truly appreciate a lover’s body.

They worked in tandem to undress and get the bed turned down, all in a remarkably calm fashion compared to the desperation they usually battled when alone together. For Michael it was a new experience to be able to pause and kiss Eric when the mood took him, which it did often. By the time Eric sank onto the end of the bed, naked, they were both trembling.

Eric resisted Michael’s push to scoot higher up the mattress and slung his arms around Michael’s hips, guiding him closer. “In a minute. First things first.” He pressed his lips to Michael’s navel, deftly avoiding his straining cock as he nipped at the taut skin of his stomach.

Michael steadied himself on Eric’s shoulders and tried to breathe. “Been wanting this since day one,” Eric whispered, turning his cheek to where Michael needed. His mouth followed, tongue darting out to wet a path from root to tip.

Michael’s breath exploded out of him. “God.” As usual with Eric, he soared too high, too fast, but tonight he wasn’t willing to accept a quick finish. Ruthlessly, he wrestled his passion back under control. “Please...”

For once, they misread each other. That, or Eric heard Michael’s plea to slow things down and purposefully misunderstood—a small deception that wasn’t beneath him. At Michael’s whispered word, he stopped teasing and took him deep into his mouth. That was all it took to start Michael’s orgasm building. Teeth gritted, Michael tangled a hand in the hair at the nape of Eric’s neck and pulled him off. “Enough.”

“Not even close.” Eric’s eyes pleaded for more, and he strained against Michael’s hold.

“No.” Michael pushed him back. “Get up there.” He pointed to the stack of pillows at the head of the bed, glowering at the defiant set of Eric’s chin. “Get up on the bed, Eric.” He leaned over, bracing his hands on either side of Eric’s head. “I want you.”

Eric’s eyes went wide and dark. “Yeah. Okay.” He slid up the bed, and Michael prowled after him, stalking him across the sheets. As soon as Eric’s head met the pillow, Michael pried his legs open and settled between them. Eric’s skin was as hot as his own, slick with a thin coat of perspiration. Moaning, Michael bent to lick at the damp skin of his collarbone, and Eric shuddered beneath him.

Michael flexed his hips. “Can I fuck you?” His only answer was a soft explosion of breath and a scramble for what they needed, which Eric had apparently hidden beneath one of the extra pillows. He smacked the items into Michael’s open hand. “No need to ask twice?” Michael teased.

“There wasn’t a need to ask once.”

In the strictest terms, Michael probably had more experience with the mechanics, but Eric trumped him in everything else. And their joining was anything but mechanical. It was brief, but with the night stretching out ahead of them, that seemed a small loss. Eric laughed, Michael discovered, when pushed to the edge of his control, and was as carefree with sex as he was with everything else. A fact that flared another brief, but intense, burst of anger at whoever had hurt him. Michael found an untapped reservoir of control at the end, and slowed, drawing out each thrust until Eric was cursing and writhing and begging beneath him. It couldn’t last forever, no matter how much he wished it.

Gasping, Michael reached for Eric, stroking him tight and fast, reveling in his shout of completion just as his own orgasm crested and broke. Afterward, Eric pulled him down when he would’ve tried to spare the other man his weight and held him with a mix of spent passion and tenderness that made breathing difficult—and not for any physical reason.

Michael lay with his head on Eric’s chest, listening to the thumping of his heart, and wondered when he’d fallen in love.

* * *

Michael knew when he woke that it was late. Or early. However he defined it, the moon was still setting, and the first light of dawn had yet to brighten the sky. Eric was lying next to him, back pressed to Michael’s side, his head on the arm curled around him.

Michael lay still, eyes sweeping the room. Even in the dark, the details called to him. The sharp angles, the dimensions, the very definition of each space...he could study it for hours, appreciating it in a thousand new ways. In the moonlight, the lightly shaded woods stood out more starkly against the stone, and the few colors, muted with the night, accentuated the flow of asymmetrical lines.

Even more amazing was the person pressed against him, deeply relaxed and fitted to his side as though he’d been tailored to do so. Michael ran his tongue over his lips, searching for any lingering taste of Eric’s skin, hyper-aware of where they touched. He felt the knobs of Eric’s spine on his ribs, the curve of his buttocks resting on his thigh. The small hairs on Michael’s arm stirred to Eric’s deep breaths, and his skin tingled where Eric’s lips, slightly parted in sleep, touched it.

His body lifted with arousal, but Michael stamped it down for the moment.

A shaft of moonlight fell across his pillow a few inches away, illuminating the guidebook he’d left on the bedside table. In a few hours, he’d be touring the other houses in the park. Anticipation cut sharply into him, and he satisfied it the only way he could at that hour, by reading. He managed to get the book open to where he’d left off without jostling Eric, and the moonbeam provided plenty of light to read by. Two chapters later, deep into a passage about the marriage of architecture and environment, he felt the light touch of Eric’s fingertips on his cheek. “You need the light?”

“No.” Michael shut the book. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Eric shifted over, looking adorably rumpled. “Don’t stop reading on my account.” He reached to where Michael had set the book and placed it back in his hands.

Michael left it closed, rolling when Eric did, until they were lying chest to chest. “It’s okay. I’m done.”

“Liar. I want you to keep reading.” Nimble fingers found the page he’d stopped on. “Stop keeping yourself from what you love. Nothing trumps self-fulfillment.”

“Nothing?” Michael asked.

“No.”

“What about fear?” He left the book open on his hip as he traced the line of Eric’s jaw. This was the sort of self-reflection they both needed. Eric was no dummy. Even in the dim moonlight, Michael saw his cheeks color.

“Touché. But in my own defense, it wasn’t all that long ago.”

“What wasn’t?”

Eric shrugged his free shoulder. “That he hurt me.”

Rage rose up in Michael’s chest, clawing for freedom. “Physically?”

“No, no.” Eric soothed him with a kiss, but there were deep shadows on his face, independent of what the moonlight had put there. “Sometimes I think that would have been easier.”

Words could hurt. The ones he’d just heard had come close to ripping him apart. Michael supposed Eric’s statement wasn’t that crazy after all. At least most physical wounds healed. The other kind, if left to fester, lasted forever.

With a sigh, Eric pushed Michael onto his back, tangled their legs together and settled his head on Michael’s broad chest. Michael read the message loud and clear: conversation over. He swallowed his instinctive need for more details and instead cradled Eric close with one arm while propping the book open with the other. Neither spoke, and some minutes later when Michael checked, he found Eric asleep with a smile on his face.

* * *

“Did you ever want to be famous?” Eric asked.

Michael looked to where Eric was lounging on a large boulder, hands folded beneath his head. He could kick back anywhere and still look perfectly at home, another aspect of his personality that Michael loved. His scuffed hiking boots were crossed at the ankle and close enough to the bubbling water that the ends of the laces were soaking wet.

“Famous?” He skipped a stone across the pool and glanced upstream to the majestic house straddling the falls. Fallingwater. Wright’s magnum opus. Each stark horizontal and vertical line a beautiful complement to the chaotic rush of the stream than ran beneath it. Every time Michael’s eyes fell on the structure, he lost his train of thought. This was their second visit. Yesterday’s two-hour tour hadn’t been enough to satisfy him. “What do you mean?”

“Wright was famous.”

Michael shook his head to clear it. “Wright is famous. The greatest American architect of all time. At least most people think so.”

“It’d be cool to be the best at something.”

Pursing his lips, Michael sent another stone skipping across the surface of the stream. When Eric pushed onto his elbows to look at him, Michael shrugged. “I guess. If you’re into that sort of thing. I hate being the center of attention. And ‘best’ is a relative term most of the time anyway.”

“You never wanted to be the center of attention?”

“Depends on whose attention we’re talking about.”

Eric raised an eyebrow and waited, and a little lost, Michael sighed. “I don’t know. Every kid wants to be famous, right? A rockstar or an astronaut. I probably did at some point. Not anymore. It’s no guarantee of happiness.” He shaded his eyes from the sun to smile at Eric. “What about you?”

“No thanks. I’m with you. Never wanted to be a superstar. The way people measure success these days is a recipe for disaster. What’s wrong with finding something you love and just filling your life with it? As long as you’re living some part of your dreams, you’re doing it right.”

Michael considered the idea. He loved it in theory. Who wouldn’t? “Is that what you’ve done?”

“It’s what I’ve tried to do. I’ve veered off course once or twice.”

At least once. And he was still dealing with the fallout. Michael rose from his crouch, brushed his damp hands against his jeans, and pulled Eric to his feet. A half-dozen steps into the woods placed them around a bend in the stream, among a copse of maple trees. “Why all the questions?”

“Just curious. Making conversation.”

“You sure?” Because it had felt like a test.

Eric’s expression softened. “Sometimes, figuring out what you want is about reasoning through what you don’t.” Fondly, he brushed Michael’s bangs off his forehead. “Did you drag me back here for a reason?” he asked, sliding close. And just like that, Michael’s disquiet vanished. He hooked Eric around the waist and lifted him against his chest, but instead of attacking his mouth, he simply held him close, rocking slightly.

Eric’s heart thumped against his, but he remained still and pliant, following the slight sway of Michael’s body. “Nice,” he murmured.

A child’s nearby shout pulled them apart. More tourists had found their way onto the paths that crisscrossed the property below the house. With a quiet, rueful laugh, Eric pulled away and started back toward the creek. He didn’t complain, though his expression turned wistful.

Frustrated, Michael followed. He’d kept their public contact to a minimum all weekend, out of habit more than anything. Eric hadn’t seemed to mind. Even now he kept their hands loosely linked, waiting for Michael to pull away as they cleared the tree line.

Instead, Michael clasped Eric’s fingers tighter.

At a point less than twenty yards below the falls, on a flat, moss-covered rock in the middle of the creek, Eric stopped and stared up at Fallingwater. The teasing tone had left his voice. “Tell me what you see.”

Of course as soon as Eric put him on the spot, Michael’s mind went blank. He reached for the tour brochure in his pocket. Eric batted his hand away, shaking his head. “No. I don’t care what’s on that paper. Tell me what you see.” He clasped Michael’s clammy hand. “It’s not an exam, babe. Just open your mouth and talk. Tell me what to look at. What to appreciate.”

Okay. Two could play that game. Michael turned deliberately away from the house and gripped Eric’s shoulders. “I see strength. Solidity. A measure of beauty.” A breeze blew Eric’s hair into his face. Smiling, Michael brushed it back behind his ear. “I see confidence and kindness.” He let his thumb trail over Eric’s parted lips. “Passion. Intelligence.”

A sound rumbled through Eric’s chest, a contented purr. “I think you might be biased.”

“No way.”

Leaning into his touch, Eric said, “I was talking about the house.”

“I know.”

Eric gave him a playful shove, rolling his eyes when Michael didn’t budge. “I wanted you to tell me why you love it so much.”

Michael lifted both hands to cup Eric’s face. “I just did.” It wasn’t often he rendered Eric speechless, but watching him struggle to speak, then sigh and set his forehead on Michael’s shoulder had Michael laughing under his breath. Nearby, tourists chattered. Above them, another group of people looked down from one of the terraces. They couldn’t have possibly been more exposed, yet none of that made Michael hesitate when he slipped a finger under Eric’s chin and tipped it up for a kiss.

He hadn’t realized until that moment how the stress he’d been carrying had drained away, leaving him feeling alight with things he was unaccustomed to. Happiness. Hope. The desire to see what might be waiting for him down the road. He brushed his lips over Eric’s brow. “I think I’ve seen enough for today.”

“Really? You sure?” Eric mumbled. His fingers danced over Michael’s hips. “We don’t have to check out and catch the train for another two hours.”

Delving into Eric’s pocket, Michael found the rental car keys and handed them over. “Then let’s take advantage of that bed.”

“I approve of this plan.” Eric laughed as Michael swatted his ass, then broke into a jog, calling over his shoulder. “Come on, slowpoke. I’ve got a schedule to keep.”