Better than Sex (San Francisco Sex Gods #1)

Chapter 26

TWENTY-SIX

Mickey

Mickey admired himself in the foyer mirror, smoothing his hand through his freshly trimmed hair and making sure there weren’t any errant strands. He was dressed in the new outfit he’d bought specifically for their evening at the art gallery: an amethyst shirt the clerk assured him would “make his amber eyes pop,” dark jeans, and a pair of black oxfords. He’d even bought some no-show socks so he could keep his ankles bare, the way Spencer sometimes did when he dressed up. He couldn’t wait to show Spencer that his lessons on style were paying off.

“My Uber’s a few minutes away so I’m going to head out,” he called out to Greg and Logan, who were dressed in their pajamas and playing Chutes and Ladders on the living room floor.

“Bye Mickey!” Logan waved and then pushed his piece up one of the chutes.

“Chutes mean you slide down, Logy,” Greg stated with amusement.

“I climbed up it instead. Like I do at the playground.”

Greg chuckled and shook his head. He stretched and got up off the floor, meeting Mickey in the foyer. “Where are you and Spencer going on your date?”

“Oh, it’s not a date. I’m taking Spencer to dinner for his birthday, and then we’re going to a gallery opening for his favorite photographer.”

Greg knitted his brow. “That sure sounds like a date to me.”

Was this a date? Mickey thought back over the two weeks since they’d woken up on the couch together the morning after the sex lesson, with a smirking Xander sitting across from them. That had been a little awkward, but it didn’t seem like it had changed anything between them. They still texted every day – sometimes late into the night – and after brunch on Sunday they’d gone for a walk through the park. They hadn’t kissed, or even talked about sex again.

But on their walk, Spencer had briefly wrapped his pinky finger around Mickey’s when their hands brushed together. And when they sat on a bench to talk, Spencer sat close enough so that their thighs touched. And when Spencer discovered Mickey’s ticklish spot, he mercilessly tickled him until they were practically on top of one another, laughing and panting to catch their breath.

Oh god. Maybe this is a date.

Logan ran over and hugged his father’s leg. “C’mon, Daddy.”

Greg tousled Logan’s hair. “Go take another turn. I’ll be right in.”

As Logan was running back to the game board he called out, “I spun a six!”

“Have fun tonight,” Greg said to Mickey, leaning in so Logan wouldn’t hear him. “I’ll make breakfast for Logy tomorrow. In case you stay out…late.”

Mickey’s heartbeat drummed in his ears. Will I be staying out late? Will I be going back to Spencer’s apartment? If this is a date, is sex a possibility?

Completely flustered by Greg’s knowing smile, Mickey blurted out, “Thanks. I better get going,” before stumbling down the front steps and hurrying to the car waiting for him.

Now that Greg had planted the idea in his mind, everything at dinner felt like a sign that he was, in fact, on a date. When he arrived at the restaurant, Spencer greeted him with a hug that lingered a beat too long. He was wearing the same cologne he’d worn the night of his birthday, which seemed too intentional to be a mere coincidence.

Spencer looked incredible in a slim-fitting grey and white floral shirt, black trousers with a cropped hem, and sleek black loafers. While they were led to their table, he pressed his hand against the small of Mickey’s back. He leaned in, his breath caressing Mickey’s cheek as he whispered, “You’re sexy as hell tonight. That shirt makes your eyes look like liquid gold.”

Mickey’s knees went weak from that comment, and he silently thanked the clerk who picked the shirt for him as he slid into their booth. Once they were seated Spencer hooked his feet behind Mickey’s shins and pulled his legs closer. The brush of their bare ankles was electrifying. Mickey had never considered his ankles to be an erogenous zone, but throughout the meal their legs stayed intertwined, and every glancing contact with Spencer’s exposed ankle sent shivers along Mickey’s skin.

In his romance novels, Mickey was used to reading about swoony fantasy dates where the stars aligned and everything was perfect, but tonight was the first time he’d experienced a night that could properly be described as magical . Candlelight and fancy red wine softened the edges of the world, allowing everything to fall away except for the handsome man sitting across from him.

Mickey floated in a dream-like haze, getting lost in Spencer. The blond highlights in his hair, glinting like golden threads. His chocolate-brown eyes, reflecting the dancing flame of the candle and holding a soft fondness. The long line of his throat with its dusting of stubble. The easy smile that crinkled the edges of his eyes. The soothing cadence of his voice. The deep, resonant notes of his laughter. It was all too perfect to be real.

If this was a dream, Mickey would happily stay asleep forever.

They lingered over dessert, both of them seemingly unwilling to end the meal and break the spell that held them captivated. When the chocolate cake they shared was finally reduced to nothing but crumbs and a smear of frosting, Spencer held up his wine glass. “To Mister Stripes.”

Mickey mirrored Spencer, raising his glass but cocking his head in confusion. “Logan’s stuffed tiger?”

Spencer smiled and clinked their glasses. “For bringing us together.”

Mickey’s heart swelled and then melted, flooding him with warmth. He wondered if this was what falling in love felt like.

By the time they arrived at the Newkirk Gallery, Mickey was buzzing with excitement about the evening’s possibilities. He’d never stepped foot in an art gallery before, but this was exactly what he’d envisioned – an intimate space with clean white walls and blond hardwood floors. Large photographs were spaced along the walls with exacting precision, each perfectly level.

Patrons were clustered in small groups throughout the gallery, some dressed to the nines in impeccably tailored suits and slinky cocktail dresses, others wearing smart casual outfits. Regardless of how they were dressed, everyone looked sophisticated and effortlessly chic, sipping champagne and nibbling hors d’oeuvres.

Mickey picked up one of the glossy cards displayed on a table near the entrance. On the front of the card was a photograph of a hedge that had grown around a rusty tricycle. The photographer’s name was spelled out in a clean, black sans serif font: KINLEY HUGHES .

He flipped the card over and skimmed the artist’s statement, a flowery, pretentious paragraph describing how Hughes was seeking to capture the elusive evidence of nature reclaiming the city, how new life was breaking through the stagnation of the modern world.

Mickey read the name of the show out loud. “Urban Renewal.”

“Hughes has an incredible eye for detail,” Spencer said. “I’ve been looking forward to this since my birthday.”

“I have been, too. If I’m being honest, though, I don’t know anything about art. I’m a little intimidated, actually.” Mickey placed the card back on the stack. “Will you help me see what you see?”

Spencer took Mickey’s hand and led him to a photograph in an empty part of the gallery, away from the crowd. From behind, Spencer wrapped both arms around Mickey’s waist and rested his chin on his shoulder.

Mickey relaxed into Spencer’s embrace with a satisfied hum. The warmth of his body and the familiar scent of his cologne were soothing.

“Tell me what you see,” Spencer murmured into his ear.

Framed on the wall before them was a photograph of an entryway to a run-down, abandoned townhouse. A dirty grey door dominated the foreground. “A door. A beat-up old door.”

“Okay. Now, look again, but let go of judgment. Let go of your first impressions. Take in the details. Think in terms of light, and color, and shape.”

Mickey scanned the picture, nervous he would fail, that he wouldn’t be able to understand why this depressing picture was considered art. He focused on the door, realizing it was in worse condition than he initially thought. Its grey paint was chipping away, leaving ugly scars, some so deep they exposed dry, rotting wood. A flash of color caught his eye.

“There.” Mickey pointed at one of the jagged patches of peeling paint. “You can see the previous coats of paint. Light green. Yellow. White. They’re bright. Happy.”

“Good. What else?”

Mickey’s gaze drifted to the doorframe. “The lock plate is different. It’s shiny brass, not burnished brass like the doorknob. It’s been replaced.” He pointed to the small gouges peeking out from behind the new lock plate, the only remaining damage from an intruder’s crowbar. “After the break-in. It was violated.” A lump rose in Mickey’s throat. “But then rebuilt.”

On the door’s stoop, a tender green shoot grew out of a crack in the cement. It mirrored the green paint that refused to stay hidden by the dingy grey paint slapped over it. “Hope,” Mickey said huskily. “It’s about spring and rebirth.” The name of the show took on a new resonance. Renewal.

Tears blurred his vision. “It’s beautiful.”

“It is,” Spencer said. He tightened his hug around Mickey’s waist and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “It’s art.”

They strolled through the rest of the exhibit discussing their feelings about each of the photographs. Every image was pregnant with meaning and emotion. Ivy creeping over a stone statue. A tree stump cracking through a sidewalk. Rain trickling through the crumbling roof of an abandoned warehouse. A new world was opening before Mickey’s eyes, one he was eager to share with Spencer.

His excitement over the art was almost, but not quite, enough of a distraction from how flirty Spencer was being. During dinner, Spencer had touched him a lot. Their legs stayed intertwined throughout the meal, and they held hands briefly while they waited for dessert. Mickey was careful not to get carried away and read too much into it though, since physical touch had always been a part of their friendship – even after the unfortunate incident at Spencer’s birthday party.

But there was no denying that Spencer had kissed him while they admired the photograph of the door. A real kiss . On the cheek, but that still counted. Maybe it was the wine at dinner and the free champagne at the gallery going to their heads and making them bold, but after that tender moment they were touching constantly, rarely apart for more than a few seconds.

Spencer would press into Mickey’s side so he could whisper into his ear, sharing insights and private jokes that were just for him. He’d drape his arms over Mickey’s shoulders or hug him from behind.

It was as if the photographs’ poignant stories of renewal were bringing them closer together, rekindling and deepening the affection they felt for one another.

While they discussed the final piece in the show, Mickey rested his head against Spencer’s shoulder. Spencer’s natural scent was starting to assert itself and blend with his cologne, creating a powerfully erotic fragrance that transported Mickey back to their night of passion in Spencer’s bedroom. Memories flooded his mind, of soft lips, and warm, bare skin…and aching, hard cocks pressing together.

Oh no.

A telltale tingle in Mickey’s dick heralded the first stirrings of an erection. Although they were having a lovely evening of burgeoning intimacy, he was certain it wasn’t the right time to introduce a boner into the equation.

“I’ll be right back,” Mickey said. “I have to use the restroom.” He hurried to the back of the gallery, where the restrooms were tucked out of sight behind a partition, his dick getting harder and more uncomfortable with every step.

The men’s room featured the same minimalist aesthetic as the gallery itself. Almost everything was white – the tile floor, the marble backsplash, even the enamel faucets. The only visual contrast was the toilet stall, built with the same blond hardwood as the floor in the main exhibition space.

He stood at the sink, taking slow, deep breaths and reciting all his go-tos for killing an erection. “Nature documentaries. Baseball. Tests I haven’t studied for. Public speaking.” Once he’d gotten his penis under control and was able to empty his bladder, he washed his hands and left the bathroom.

As soon as he stepped through the door, he nearly ran into a man who was pacing in a tight circle and mumbling to himself. The man was stunning, with a shock of dark red hair, tousled as if he’d just rolled out of bed, and lovely pale skin with a smattering of freckles on his cheeks. His startled eyes were the same shade of blue as an Otter Pop.

“The bathroom’s free now,” Mickey said.

“I wasn’t waiting for the toilet.” The man’s voice had a pleasing lilt which Mickey guessed was Irish. He leaned closer and whispered, “I’m hiding.”

Mickey wasn’t sure why they were whispering, but he lowered his voice too. “From who?”

“My adoring public. Can you believe one of those spanners said my photos looked like they’d been taken by a toddler let loose with a Hello Kitty camera?” He snorted. “Wee bit harsh, if you ask me.”

“Wait, you’re…”

“Kinley Hughes? Yes,” he said, extending his hand, which Mickey shook.

“My name’s Mickey. It’s a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Hughes.”

“Please, call me Kinley. Nice meeting you as well, Mickey. Are you enjoying the show?”

“Yes, very much. Your work is brilliant.”

Kinley smiled and rolled his shoulders back. “You’re good for my bruised ego. You wouldn’t happen to be an art critic, would you?”

Mickey laughed. “No, but my friend is a photographer who loves your work. We’re here for his birthday. Would you come out and say hi to him? It would mean so much to him.”

“Of course. Lead the way.” Kinley took a few steps and paused. “Do me a favor first and peek around that partition to see if that wanker in the tan suit is still out there.”