Page 28 of Paint Our Song (Cloverlily #1)

M iles gets comfortable while Calvin’s in the shower, lying against his bed’s headboard and yawning. It’s so late, and he’s exhausted, and he’s sure it’s the same for Calvin. He dozes off again until the door to the bathroom opens, and Calvin steps out while he’s toweling his wet hair.

He isn’t wearing a shirt, only sweatpants, and Miles groans as if this were a punishment. Calvin gives him a skeptical look, then turns to the open windows. He seems to consider it, and Miles watches as he crosses the room, switches the lights off, and shuts the curtains… and, oh. Yeah. Miles is totally into this, especially when Calvin climbs on top of him and straddles him, leaning in to kiss him softly on the mouth. There’s still light coming in from the hallway, so the room isn’t dark enough that Miles can’t see the outlines of his face.

“I’m really glad you were impulsive today,” Miles says. He holds the towel around Calvin’s shoulder by the edges and uses it to yank him closer again, kissing across his jaw and then at his neck. Calvin lets out a breath and tilts his head up, giving him more access. “We could go right to sleep. I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

“Are you?”

“No,” he lies.

Calvin snorts and threads his hands in his hair. He kisses him again, and Miles groans when he shifts his hips, rutting against him once.

“The lube’s in the shower, actually,” Miles says sheepishly.

“It was.” He reaches into the pocket of his sweatpants and brings out the small bottle.

“Wow. How efficient.”

“Shut up.” Calvin smashes his mouth against his, probably to stop his teasing. Miles grins and pulls away to reach over to his nightstand, but Calvin seems to understand what he needs and gets it himself. He opens the shelf and grabs a condom, and Miles watches as he throws the towel aside and pulls off his sweatpants.

Miles swallows, his heart hammering in his chest, and Calvin helps him take his clothes off as well. Then Calvin straddles him again, his throat bobbing. Sighing, he noses Calvin’s neck and pats around the bed, searching for the lube.

Calvin says, “I actually. Um. I’m already ready.”

“Uh?”

“I prepped. In the shower.”

Miles sucks in a breath, his entire body heating, and he knocks his forehead against Calvin’s shoulder. “Baby. You’re going to be the end of me. ”

“Ugh. Told you not to call me that.” Despite the demand, an intense blush spreads across Calvin’s face. He leans in and murmurs against Miles’s lips, “I’m going to ride you.”

Fuck. Miles closes his eyes and leans back, his head slamming against the headboard. He’s so turned on it’s painful, and when he reaches between them and puts a hand around Calvin’s dick, Calvin jolts forward and knocks their foreheads together in surprise.

Calvin rides him, like he said. He has one hand on the headboard, right next to Miles’s head, his other hand flat on Miles’s chest. It’s so hot, and it feels so good, and Miles doesn’t think anything else will ever compare. He watches Calvin with a glazed look in his eyes, memorizing the way his jaw tightens and how his mouth drops open when he finds the perfect angle.

He puts his hands all over him, runs it along his tattooed arm, and groans against his still damp hair. Calvin smells like his shampoo. Miles inhales sharply, noses at his neck, and trails his shaking hands down his chest. His nail scrapes over a nipple and Calvin’s breath hitches, so he pinches it, and Calvin fucking whimpers .

Miles thinks, not for the first time, that he doesn’t deserve this. Calvin is so fucking perfect in so many ways, and Miles can’t breathe with how much he feels at that moment. He strokes Calvin and watches him throw his head back, and Calvin grunts and fucks his hand.

He bends his knees and plants his feet flat on the bed, causing Calvin to shift forward. Calvin buries his face in Miles’s shoulder, panting, and a shiver runs down Miles’s spine because this angle is, astonishingly, even better. Calvin’s so warm, and he likes him closer like this, pressed against him; he puts a hand in Calvin’s hair and tugs him, smashing their mouths together.

Thrusting his hips up, Miles groans and wants more. He can’t move as much as he wants to, trapped underneath Calvin like this.

“You okay?” Miles asks, running a hand across his thigh. He can see him straining now, probably getting tired, his thighs trembling.

“Yes,” Calvin grits out, and as if taking that as a personal challenge, goes faster and deeper.

Cursing, Miles throws his head back. Warmth pools in his gut and his balls tighten, and he grips Calvin’s hips hard. “Calvin, fuck, I’m going to come.”

He doesn’t want to, though, not when Calvin isn’t there yet. Miles grits his teeth and tries to hold it off, swearing under his breath. He reaches between them for Calvin’s dick, but Calvin knocks his hand away.

Calvin cups his face and presses his mouth against his. “It’s okay. Get there for me.”

He gasps and comes with a loud groan, his entire body going boneless. He holds Calvin so hard that he’s sure his nails will leave marks, and Calvin continues to ride him, only slowing down when Miles whines against his neck.

Dick still hard, Calvin climbs off him, and he makes a surprised sound when Miles flips them around and pins him against the bed. Miles kisses him deep, fingers reaching down to finally take a hold of his cock.

“You’re perfect,” Miles rambles. “God, Calvin, look at you.”

He’s sprawled underneath him, abs flexing as Miles strokes him. Miles spits in his own hand to make the slide easier, and Calvin’s eyes widen and he sucks in a breath. With his other hand, he presses two fingers into his still slick hole and searches for that spot that sends Calvin grasping blindly at the sheets.

Fuck, he looks so good—naked and blushing all over, his damp hair all over Miles’s pillows, and his lips bruised.

“You’re gorgeous,” Miles says. “I could draw you like this.”

“Please don’t,” Calvin chokes out, squeezing his eyes shut and gasping when Miles picks up the pace. There’s nothing gentle with how Miles strokes him and fucks him with his fingers at the same time, watching how his mouth falls open.

“I won’t,” he promises, forcing back a chuckle. “I wouldn’t want anyone else to see this, anyway.”

“Yes. This… this is only for you.”

Miles’s heart leaps, and he feels so much adoration at that moment that he doesn’t know what to do with it. “Yeah? Only me?”

“Obviously.” Calvin shivers. Miles, heart beating too fast, tightens his grip. He’d kiss down his chest, his stomach, and put his mouth on his dick if he didn’t so badly want to see the face Calvin makes when he comes.

And it’s so worth it. Calvin throws his head back, gasping, and his dick pulses in Miles’s grip as he comes. Watching with wide eyes, Miles works him through it and his come spurts all over Miles’s hand. Calvin sags underneath him and pulls him in for a kiss, his mouth soft and wet against Miles’s.

“Damn,” Calvin says when he pulls away, still panting.

Miles falls down on his back beside him. “Yeah. ”

Calvin’s quiet, his chest expanding as he catches his breath. Then he winces. “I don’t think I can move.”

Miles kisses his jaw and gets up, grabbing the towel from the floor. “Give me a sec.”

He cleans himself up in the bathroom, then runs the towel under water. When he goes back out, Calvin has an arm over his eyes and his mouth curled into a frown. The bed dips when Miles sits beside him, and Calvin peers at him, seeming embarrassed, as Miles wipes him with the towel.

Miles throws the towel in the hamper and then rolls on his stomach, smiling wide at Calvin. He looks comfortable like this, one knee bent and completely naked, though it’s going to get pretty chilly, so Miles pulls a blanket over the both of them.

He trails a finger down the vines on his arm. “Just so you know… there’s nobody else for me, either.”

Calvin cracks a smile, blushing.

“Obviously,” Miles adds.

He doesn’t say anything, only nods and closes his eyes, but Miles knows they understand each other perfectly.

***

When Miles wakes up the next morning, Calvin’s already gone. There’s a note on his nightstand that says, “Didn’t want to wake you. See you tonight.” Then there’s a funny-looking doodle of what he can only assume is a golden retriever. It looks like a blob with mismatched floppy ears .

Miles wheezes. Calvin is good at a lot of things, and drawing isn’t one of them.

He glances at the time.

It says ten a.m. Fuck. He had slept in and forgotten to set an alarm. He’s supposed to be well on his way to the gallery now to meet up with his manager. Blearily, he fishes around for his phone. It’s ringing, and he knows it’s Andy.

When he picks up, Andy asks, “Where are you?”

Miles scrambles and almost falls off the bed. “I’m on my way.”

He takes a quick shower, puts on clothes that are somewhat presentable, and then grabs the only painting he’s been able to make in the last week.

When he finally gets to the gallery, Andy stares at him with the most exasperated look ever. It kind of reminds him of Calvin—which isn’t surprising, because everything reminds him of Calvin.

He should unpack that, maybe.

At this time of day, the gallery’s not so crowded. The only other person around is a young intern who’s typing away on a laptop. On one wall of the gallery is Miles’s works. There are two framed watercolor paintings that haven’t been sold yet, and his wall looks sparse compared to the other artists.

“Why are you always late?” Andy asks. “You artists are all the same; your minds are always over the place.”

He grins sheepishly, handing him the painting—a serene-looking lake in subdued tones. “Sorry.”

Andy shrugs. The painting’s backed with cardboard and wrapped with clear plastic, and he holds it away from him, studying it. His eyes scan over it, and a twinge of nervousness courses through him.

“It’s… interesting,” Andy says, finally.

“Just say it’s bad.”

It’s a cry for help, is what it is. This was all Miles was able to come up with throughout the week. After sketches and sketches that he didn’t particularly like, he sucked it up and did this—drew the lake because that’s what he could see from the roof garden, and then went home and painted it.

Strangely, his week that lacked all inspiration coincided with Calvin not being in Ridgeford. He should have painted while Calvin was still around. He did, actually—and they’re all of Calvin. There’s no way he could submit that to the gallery.

“It’s not bad.” He shakes his head. “It’s interesting. It’s definitely… different from your usual work. It doesn’t have the usual vibrant colors and the warmth and coziness. Are you trying something new?”

“No.”

“Do you like it?”

Miles hesitates. “… Not exactly, no, but it’s all I came up with.”

“Let’s see the response we get. Keep painting. You’re talented, you’ll figure it out.”

“Thanks,” Miles mutters. In other words, he hates it. “Interesting” and “let’s see the response we get” is not exactly the type of feedback Miles would want, but he gets it—this is definitely not his best work.

Eyeing him, Andy walks toward the back room, the painting in his hand. Miles sluggishly follows him. “You don’t look great. How’s your family inn?”

“Very good, actually. It’s back on its feet, so I don’t have to worry about it—at least not for now. We’re booked out for months, so we’re finally hiring staff again. You should come visit sometime.”

“Hm, sure,” Andy says, giving Miles a kind smile. He pulls out a small form and scribbles on it—Miles’s name and the date. The back room’s crowded with all kinds of art pieces, and Miles wonders if his painting will ever be stocked here, forgotten. “So, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he lies.

“I manage twenty artists, including you. I know when something’s wrong, and you’ve lost your muse, so don’t even try lying to me.”

“Yeah, I honestly have no idea what that would be.”

“Your source of inspiration. Something that makes you want to create—desire, passion, drive.”

“That’s real deep, Andy.”

“Honestly, how can you get this far without knowing what a muse is?” Andy asks, taping the form on the clear plastic of his painting. He seems slightly frustrated now—well, as frustrated as someone with his calm demeanor can be. “You went to art school, and you’ve been drawing way before that. You’ve been working in this gallery for years. What do you mean you have no idea what a muse is—”

“Okay, wait,” Miles says with a wheeze, and he instantly freezes when Andy glares at him. Oops. “I know what a muse is. I’m saying I don’t know what my muse is. ”

If he has to say the word muse one more time, he might lose his mind.

Andy sighs, closes his eyes, and massages his temple. He mumbles something incoherent about having to deal with this all the time with artists, and how he should’ve used his accounting degree instead. Miles almost jokes about offering him a job at the inn.

“I apologize,” Andy says, meeting Miles’s eyes. “I know it’s not easy to be creative. I get it—I’m in a real tough place because if you don’t give us something, I’ll have to put another artist up on your wall. And I don’t want to do that. You’re one of the best we have.”

Miles grins, his chest welling up. “I know. And I really do appreciate you giving me time off to deal with… things.”

“Part of that deal was that you still give us new works, though. We agreed to let you take a break from taking commissions, on the condition that you’ll keep sending in works to display in the gallery. You know we don’t make as much as profit when you’re not doing commissions, right?”

“I know. I’ll catch up, I swear. Trust me.”

He nods. “Now that your inn’s all sorted out, focus on your art now, will you? Heck, if your lake town is your muse, then drive right back now—just give us new paintings. Also, don’t forget to update your social media.”

Miles doesn’t say that focusing on his art is much more difficult now than ever. Andy seems unconvinced, too, with the way he stares squarely at Miles until he leaves the gallery.

Outside, Miles takes a picture of the gallery and posts it on Instagram. He types in the caption, “I’m back!!! Can’t wait to show you all what I’ve been working on!!!!”

Even if he doesn’t have much to show them… They don’t need to know that.