Promise the Moon

Author’s Note: I’ve been visualizing the opening scenes in this fic for weeks, wondering how to get it going. Dedicated to Gothabilly and Kitty-Nin, whose stories about these two are a recent addiction of mine.

Additional Note: “I’m Tired” was previously sung by Madeline Kahn in Mel Brooks’ “Blazing Saddles,” one of my favorite movies of all time.

Logan eyed the hole-in-the-wall nightclub, recessed farther into the block of businesses and poorly lit from the street. There was a decent line starting to wrap around the side of the building. Patrons stood furtively taking their last smoke until they could get inside and use the club’s patio out back. Camels didn’t appeal to him for the moment when he had perfectly good Cubans waiting for him at home.

The people in line were young, trendy and made him feel underdressed in his plain, crisply ironed chinos and short-sleeved Dickies shirt. Basic beige was his friend, and old habits died hard. Logan wanted to fade into the wallpaper tonight.

He’d heard about The Rage from friends and neighbors every now and again, namely about their dollar shot specials. Logan didn’t care as long as they had imported beer. So far, the music wasn’t horrible, thankfully hard rock instead of top forty; he chuckled at the lyrics to “Dude Looks Like a Lady” rattling the panes of the club’s front window. Someone spent good money on the speakers…

He eyed the crowd and took the time just to people-watch. Yeah, they were young, but the other thing that struck him was how androgynous so many of them seemed, evoking his memories of eighties chic. It was true that every fad came back around every other decade or so, with a vengeance. He saw blazers with overstuffed shoulder pads that made the women wearing them resemble linebackers. Hair in a bizarre, jewel-toned or cotton candy spectrum could be found one two heads out of five on their more flamboyant sisters – or brothers.

Logan wondered what the fascination was with black nail polish and long, false eyelashes and eyes ringed with raccoon-like black liner. The makeup made him itch looking at it, recalling times he’d had a stray lash fall into his own eye, how you couldn’t stop rubbing at it until you generated enough tears to wash it out. He made a mental note not to brush too close to several barely legals decked out in black leather, spiked or studded collars, wrist bands and belts that looked painful. He turned his head at a young Goth girl – or was it emo? – when she threw back her faux-hawked hair and laughed.

He didn’t know what prompted him to come alone. After listlessly watching some CNN and eating a flavorless TV dinner by rote, he felt restless. Moody. Something pushed him out of his favorite chair and into the shower. He sang old Iggy Pop tunes as he washed his hair and shaved. His good shoes were already polished; he kept them impeccable out of habit acquired from his father.

So he ended up here after blandly telling the cabbie he could keep the change. Logan spent his time in line reading parti-colored, fluorescent flyers plastered over the window advertising the month’s events and sponsors.

The faux-hawk girl laughed again, this time a bawdy, unbridled sound. Her partner looped a tattoo-sleeved arm around her waist and nuzzled her neck to tickle her, then pulled her in for a kiss that belonged in the bedroom, not the street. Neither woman cared that they made a spectacle. Logan quickly looked away as heat rose in his cheeks. Staring felt intrusive and made him feel like a peeping tom.

He just wasn’t built that way. Logan liked to keep certain things to himself. No one else had to spoil their own fun on his account.

The crowd outside thinned ahead of him, but he heard them massing behind him as his watch struck nine. The night’s stage act was billed as “Miss Lily,” which piqued his interest. The poster was and glossy and showed a woman’s shapely silhouette, hung on the door behind an enormous bouncer whose tag named him Guido. Logan fished out his ID and the cash for the cover, and his stomach filled with butterflies the closer he came to the front desk inside the tiny foyer.

“Lemme see some ID, handsome,” Guido told him curtly. Logan handed it over while the mountain of a man before him flicked his tiny penlight over it, then stared at Logan pointedly. “Didn’t lie about yer height, didja, Tiny?”

Logan shrugged. “Too much dishonesty in the world as it is, big guy. That ain’t how I roll.”

“That’ll put some numbers in yer pocket,” the bouncer huffed, chuckling. “Try the blue Cadillac margarita special. That’ll loosen ya up.”

“Meh.” Logan shrugged again and took back his ID, tucking two fives he flattened as he pulled them from his wallet into the palm of a bored looking emo girl sitting at the desk behind Guido. She took out her stamper to mark the back of his palm and mashed it into his flesh before he could protest that he didn’t plan to come and go. Guido smirked at him knowingly, in a way that pronounced Bet ya feel outta place here, huh, Shorty? Logan ignored the voice in the back of his head telling him to beat a hasty retreat and wandered inside, heading immediately to the bar.

He stood nursing his second Molson by the time the night’s act was ready. He’d given polite refusals to two younger men and one woman who asked him if he wanted to give the dance floor a once-over. Logan didn’t dance. It was one of his few failings, and one that he didn’t regret. His best moves were reserved for between the sheets, and that was all anyone needed to know.

Discreetly. All they needed to know discreetly.

It just felt good to be out of his lonely apartment, even if he still didn’t have anyone to talk to, ironic in a packed club like this one. Clubbers buffeted him on their way to the dance floor or the johns, not sparing him an apology or excuse-me. Logan found himself downwind of sickly sweet Axe spray and Yagermeister-flavored burps and was glad he hadn’t eaten much.

The deejay was setting up his equipment, pulling his speakers off-stage to make room for what looked like a set with a few props, a wooden stool and mic stand. The lighting changed, too, as the disco ball stopped spinning and no longer painted the crowd in bubbles of light. The stage was suddenly moodlit, for Logan a welcome change.

The patrons slowly migrated away from the floor to grab one last drink or cigarette outside, and Logan wondered if the night’s act had been there before, and how good he was. He downed his beer and prepared to order another, until a young man in an amusing version of a soldier costume took the mic, holding a helmet tucked under his arm.

“Hey,” he murmured, tapping the mic. “Can I have everyone’s attention? Yo,” he beckoned impatiently when only a few heads turned his way. “HEY!” he yelled with more emphasis, causing an ugly screech of feedback to ricochet from the speakers. Logan winced, feeling like someone dragged a cold steel poker down his back and stuck needles in his eardrums. He was noise-sensitive and had little tolerance for high-pitched or shrill sounds. He still couldn’t take his eyes off the costume. The young man wore a long red coat with tails, like a ringleader’s at a circus, tight white jodhpurs, and long, black shining boots. Logan noticed the tattoos on his neck that peeked above his crisp, white shirt collar and sighed.

The deejay began playing rollicking music in the background that sounded like it came from an old movie. He could deal with it easily enough with a few beers in him, but he was restless to see the act, this much-touted “Miss Lily.” He tapped his fingers impatiently and then sucked a wedge of lemon purloined from the small tray next to the red plastic water cups.

Suddenly a bright yellow spotlight shot onstage, and the music changed again, to what sounded like a tinny piano showtune. Logan grinned; this was more his speed. Next, roughly six dancers marched out with prop bayonets over their shoulders, garbed in the same red coats, Hessians and helmets. They danced and hammed it up, evoking laughter from the crowd.

They all rushed into two neat lines, forming a corridor and arch with their bayonets. A bright light backlit the stage’s wine red curtain, and Logan saw the silhouette he recognized from the poster. Tall, slender and all curves.

“Wow,” he murmured. The curtain parted, and Miss Lily took center stage.

All six feet of her. Wolf whistles and loud cries of “YEAH, BABY!” and “WHO’S YOUR DADDY?” greeted her entry as she sashayed up to the mic. Her long, sparkling white, marabou feathered boa fluttered as she walked, and she smoothed it with scarlet gloved fingers. Her painted pout formed a small moue as she leaned in toward the microphone. Dramatically, she raised the back of her hand to her forehead.

“I’m…TIRED,” she pronounced in a contralto so husky it was almost a…baritone? The voice licked over Logan’s nerve endings and his pulse sped up. The soldiers launched into choreography that had them running across the stage, lining up again to salute Miss Lily. She eyed them mockingly, batting heavily lacquered lashes that sparkled with silver glitter.


“Here I stand, the goddess of Desire
Set men on fire
I have this power
Morning noon and night it's drink and dancing
Some quick romancing
…And then, a shower!”

Lily’s delivery of the lyrics was intentionally flat and nasal, an affectation that had Logan snorting into his beer, almost choking on it. Miss Lily walked down the line of soldiers, smacking them with a decorative little fan before she flicked it open. Her hips bumped to the music, ass invitingly pert and round and sheathed in red sequins. Her dress was inspired by a French can-can dancer’s costume with a long, narrow skirt that dripped with tiers of ruffles, a long, nearly hidden slit parting to reveal one long, tapering, mouth-watering leg slicked in black fishnetting. The neckline of the dress had a high, halter collar and left broad, sculpted shoulders bare, peeking up from the boa.

She flirted with one soldier, chucking him under the chin, smacking him again with her fan when he got too familiar, hand stopping just shy of groping her breasts. “Stage door johnnies always surround me,” she complained, “They always hound me! With one request… Who can satisfy their lustful habits?” She planted her hands on her hips and informed the crowd at large, “I'm not a RABBIT!” She mock fainted, and three of her troop rushed to catch her. “I need some rest!” They carried her over to the piano onstage, where she sat elegantly, legs crossed. “I'm tired…”

She continued to lament, voice deep and soulful, hands graceful and gesturing the emotions of the song. Logan watched her, rapt. He appreciated real talent when he saw it, and Miss Lily dripped with it. Even beneath the makeup, her profile was classic, and he could tell that her face was striking to look at, even bare. Her cheekbones were high and sharp, giving her a European look. Well-shaped ears peaked out from her high, champagne bouffant, and long chandelier earrings dangled from her lobes.

Logan’s eyes roved over her, taking in the minute details of her body. Above the hems of her long satin gloves, he noted lithe, toned muscle, possibly those of someone who swam. She had deep clavicles and a long, graceful neck, and he saw cords of muscle there, too, tightening as she belted out the song.

And when she tipped back her head to hit the high notes, if they could be called that with her delivery, Logan could see the barest hint of an Adam’s apple.

She moved through the crowd, flirting with all of them. She spoke rather than sang the lyrics at this point, almost conversationally:

“Sick and tired of love… I've had my fill of love.. From below and above,” she informed the audience. She leaned over one table and took a quick gulp of one woman’s drink, earning a galled yelp. She carried on, then sat on a man’s lap in the back, to his shock and delight. “Tired, tired of being admired…damn it, honey, tired of love uninspired!” She grabbed his jaw, squishing it and giving him an air kiss with her red pout. “Let's face it… I'm TIRED.” The piano music in the background began its reprise, and she slapped at the man’s hands playfully as she strode off in a huff. “You’re welcome for the thrill, honey bunch,” she cooed in that rich, sexy voice.

Logan watched her cavort with the crowd while her troop stood at attention onstage, still saluting her. He took a moment to fortify himself and slake his thirst with his beer, surprised at how hoarse he was from laughing.

Then suddenly, the music seemed to surround him. Miss Lily’s voice was coming from behind his elbow. Something that felt like feathers was brushing the bare skin of his upper arm.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, whipping around and facing a quizzical, amused pair of dark eyes.

They were intense, glowing an eerie, liquid ruby beneath the spotlight, so hooded by those long lashes and the bangs of her wig that Logan could have sworn the whites of her eyes were black. He would dismiss it later; maybe the beer was getting to him. But he smelled her perfume, a powdery, sweet blend of lilac and jasmine that seemed to wrap around him as she draped her boa around his neck. Logan shivered at her closeness and the caress of her fingers brushing his lips. He felt his jaw go slack, and she was brushing against him so closely he wondered if she could feel his heart pound.

Miss Lily chuckled. “Hey, handsome,” she purred into the mic, “good things come in small packages, no?”

“Geez,” he whispered, floored and thoroughly embarrassed. She shimmied the boa around his neck, tugging on the ends, then she back up and leaned her head back over his shoulder.

“Waiter? Waiter, I’ll be taking this one to go!” she crowed as she pretended to nip his ear. “Woof,” she added for effect before taking back her boa and smacking Logan lightly with her fan. She stalked off and resumed her siren song.

“I've been with 1000's of men
Again and again
They promise the moon
They always coming and going,
Going and coming…And always too soon!

Right girls?

I'm tired,
Tired of playing the game
Ain't it a crying shame
I'm so tired
God dammit, I'm exhausted
Tired, tired of playing the game
Ain't it a crying shame
I'm so tired!”

The soldiers took their places, rollicking across the stage and marching alongside her.


“She's tired!” She's tired, insisted their captain from one end of the stage
Sick and tired of love - Give her a break
She's had her fill of love - She's not a snake
From bellow and above - Can't you see she's sick
Tired! She's bushed
Tired of being admired! Let her alone
Tired of love uninspired! Get off the phone
She's tired! Don't you know she's pooped”

Miss Lily crooked her arms around the shoulders of two of her admirers onstage, looking knackered with her efforts. “I've been with 1000's of men,” she confessed, “Again and again, and they sing the same tune…” She warmed up and belted out the rest, shoving the soldiers back and stomping her way across the stage in broad gestures and jazz hands. “They start with Byron and Shelly, and jump on your belly! And…they bust your balloon!” The crowd roared. Logan couldn’t hold in his laughter at the expense of his sides splitting.

She rounded up the number center-stage, purring “Let’s face it, everything below the waist is KAPUT!” The piano notes rolled to a finish and the stage went dark. Roaring applause flooded the packed club, and Logan clapped until his palms were raw.

*


He didn’t plan to stay until closing time.

Logan suffered occasional, good-natured ribbing from other patrons who got a kick out of his time with Miss Lily at the bar. Surprisingly, it didn’t bother him; a few of them congratulated him as though he’d scored. The rest of the night went by in a blur, with more music that didn’t suit his fancy anywhere near as much. The disco ball spun idly once again around the floor and he watched the patrons get increasingly intoxicated on dollar shots and iced teas.

He was comfortably buzzed by his fourth beer and the noise around him faded in his ears to a low drone. He felt overheated, though, and Logan craved some fresh air. He nudged and shouldered his way through the crowd to the back patio, beer mug in hand, and was thankful when he finally saw the dark, starry sky above him. The air was losing a bit of its humidity, cooling thanks to a low breeze.

He saw some of the “soldiers” leaning over the railings, cuddled with boyfriends and huddled around pitchers of beer. Most of them were out of their hats and tails, shirt collars open to enjoy the night air. They looked strange in their makeup and had been sweating through it, foundation leaking into their hairlines from the press of their helmets. Logan still craved one of his cigars but settled for finishing his Molson and setting it on a nearby table. He leaned over the rail and stared into the parking lot of the adjacent bar out back, back to his people-watching.

He didn’t realize how long he’d lingered until he heard a voice boom from the speakers that it was last call. Logan stretched and heard a vertebra pop in his lower back from being hunched over the bar on his stool for so long. Still, he felt tired and well-used from his laughter. He was grateful he came out, after all.

Logan went back inside and stopped in the corridor to use the men’s, but was dismayed to find a short line. He made a sound of disgust, wondering if it was more worth it to just call a cab and wait until he got home. He lingered in the hall, secretly glad that at least he didn’t have to wait for the women’s rest room, which was fairly packed inside when the door swung open to let out two who’d had a few too many.

He heard low music coming from the other end of the corridor, not the same as what assailed his ears in the club. He watched curiously as a door at that end swung open briefly, then shut again, letting out a flash of bright yellow light that seemed out of place in the club’s dark interior. What whoever it was played back there sounded better than the deejay’s selections, and Logan decided he might as well wait his turn from that end of the hall while the line dwindled.

There was no window on the door, so he knew it wasn’t the kitchen in the back. Logan smelled something sweet and familiar and realized it was perfume…lilac and jasmine. It tickled his nostrils and he sneezed. He heard a pair of feet getting up and heading for the door.

“Who’s dere?” a deep voice demanded imperiously.

“Uh…nobody,” Logan insisted. He heard a scuffling sound and what sounded like a garment being pulled on before the steps reached the back of the door, right before it was yanked open. Logan’s mouth went dry as familiar red eyes stared him down. A mouth with a deeply notched upper lip and the faint, remaining stain of red lipstick that had been hastily wiped off smirked at him.

“Well, well…c’mon in, sugah,” Miss Lily trilled, moving back and pulling the door open as she did. Her other hand was bare of the gloves, and Logan hardly noticed her long, slender fingers with their blunt, unpainted nails clutching shut the plain, banana yellow robe. “Did Short, Dark an’ ‘An’some come fo’ an encore? Hmmm?”

“Uh…I was…just…passin’ time. Waiting, for the, uh, john.” Logan motioned over his shoulder awkwardly, feeling heat rise into his cheeks. He knew he sounded like a dumb ass, but there was no help for it. He stepped into what turned out to be a dressing room to join Lily, though, not wanting to refuse her hospitality or leave her hanging. Clearly she agreed with him.

“Siddown. Ain’t no point in lettin’ folks see me in de altoget’er. Wit’out my makeup, I’m a sight fo’ sore eyes, chere. Go ahead, get comfy.” Logan uneasily took up a small metal folding chair beside the wide vanity illuminated with light globes whose stark glare made him wince. Remy chuckled. “Shy?”

“Eh,” Logan shrugged, but he ducked his head, not knowing what to say.

Up close, even in her bland garment and partially “unmade,” Lily was stunning. Logan watched her continue her grooming, removing the long, twinkling stones from her ears and tucking them lovingly into a small black box that said “Swarovski” in silver letters. Lily kneaded her lobes in relief and sighed. “Mmmmm, that feels so good! A lady’s gotta suffer fo’ beauty, non?”

“If that’s what floats yer boat,” Logan offered politely. Lily grinned at him. “You, uh, you were great out there. Pretty hot little act.”

“Awww, dat’s sweet. Aintcha jus’ sweet as pie,” Lily chuckled, coming over to pat his cheek fondly. “Ya seem like de strong, silent type.” She turned her hand slightly and stroked the backs of her knuckles down the slope of Logan’s firm jaw, whisper-soft. He shivered. “Whaddya do fo’ a livin’, chere?”

“This an’ that. I’ve got a day job, but I like to write.”

“Mmmm. M’own favorites are de likes of F. Scott Fitzgerald or Hemingway. If ya ain’ read ‘Hills Like White Elephants,’ den ya should.”

“Got stuck readin’ ‘Old Man and the Sea’ in high school. I hated it.”

“Then yer missin’ out, shoog.” She was fascinated with him. “Yer pulse jus’ sped up,” she cooed, her voice like rich, dark maple syrup, luscious and deep, dripping with sin. She couldn’t know that if her fingertips weren’t grazing the side of his throat, if her palm hadn’t eased its way down his hard pec, thumb fanning out to tickle him and tease at the second button of his shirt. Her eyes sized him up. “Do ya hafta hurry off?” Logan swallowed, and his mouth was drier than ever.

“Nah,” he replied hoarsely, licking his lips. Her eyes tracked the gesture, riveted.

He has such nice ones, don’t he? Remy thought, fascinated. Damn, he’s bashful. That pulse jumped again, and his skin felt wonderfully hot through the scratchy cotton of his Dickies shirt. All right, so he wasn’t the snappiest dresser, but what was inside the package was more important than the wrappings, right?

“Lily” was back to toying with that stubborn little button. “Aren’t ya hot? It’s a warm night, shoog.”

“Yeah. Got a little fresh air earlier. It was nice.” Logan felt frustrated at being reduced to talking about the weather. She was hot, fer chrissakes…

“Bet ya ain’ all dat fond of dis bright light in here, neh?”

“I don’t usually turn mine up that bright,” Logan admitted.

“Gotta be bright like dis so I can see what’m doin’ when I put my face on, sugah,” he explained on a low coo. “Takes time t’get pretty.”

“Yeah?” Logan inquired. He leaned into her touch, opening his lips infinitesimally to allow the tip of her thumb to graze the corner of his mouth, just slipping inside the seam. “Hard ta believe that.”

“Why shoog, yer gonna make dis lil’ Cajun gal blush.”

“Yer from down south?”

“From de fine state o’ Louisiana,” he told him proudly, with a flourish. “Came up here. Had ta relocate, but I ain’t ever looked back, chere. Feel like I b’long here in the city.”

“Ya like it here?”

“M’startin’ too, a lil’ more now,” Lily told him. She leaned over him, slowly circling him until she stood behind him. Her slender hands were strong and skilled as they began to knead Logan’s shoulders. “Mmmmmm…hard as a rock. But’re ya always dis tight, chere?”

“Sometimes,” Logan husked. Lily leaned over him until her breast brushed the back of his head. He closed his eyes and leaned back into it with a low, smothered groan. She was doing things to his body that were becoming painfully obvious.

He’d just come down the hall for a distraction, fer cryin’ out loud…

He felt his nipples pebble and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, hard.

“Gonna make a lil’ suggestion. Y’might like dis one, if ya’ve got a moment.”

“S-sure.” Her hands were molding him, combing through the back of his hair and making fire slither over his nerve endings.

“M’gonna turn off those mean, harsh lights dat’re bot’erin’ dose heavenly dark eyes o’ yours. ‘Specially since yer so shy, petit.” Logan wanted to protest the removal of her heat from his back as she moved away to turn off the lights. The dressing room was suddenly flooded with darkness, and Logan’s heartbeat skipped. He smelled that tempting perfume again, and felt the soft brush of her fleece robe at his neck. Warm breath feathered over his ear, reminding him of her flamboyant white boa.

“C’mere, chere. Get comfy, now…” This time Logan did groan at the feel of small, even teeth grazing the top of his ear and her breath, now hot, swirling over the whorls, right before she speared the moist tip of her tongue inside.

“Oh, God!” he rasped. “Oh, God…”

“Always respected a prayin’ man,” Lily chuckled, and her hand was inside his shirt, running her fingers through the crisp mat of hair on his chest. “Damn, sugah, yer heart’s poundin’.” Her voice was full of quiet awe.

Logan swallowed again. “Guess…ya just have that effect on me.”

“So sweet,” Lily mused, and he felt her tip his head back, coming around him to meet him halfway, and she dipped her lips to his in a kiss that set him on fire. Logan was glad he was already seated, because his knees would have buckled.

“Lily’s” lips were hard and unyielding, nipping at him, devouring him, succulent, hot.

He tasted thoroughly male, flavored slightly by a breath mint he must have had before. Logan ignored the almost metallic tinge of leftover lipstick and groaned into Lily’s mouth as she took from him. Her hands feasted on him, loving the feel of his hot skin and how firm and hard he was all over. Logan reached up to cup Lily’s smooth, satiny cheek, and she covered the back of his hands, lacing her fingers through his in an almost possessive gesture. Lily’s tongue stroked his, wooing it, teasing him, and he abandoned himself to its slow, lush dance.

“Who do ya want me ta be, shoog?” Remy asked, in his own voice.

“Whoever ya want, fer now,” Logan confessed. He leaned back and cleared his throat. “I’m catchin’ a cab home. Gonna call for it in a coupla minutes. If ya want…maybe we can split the fare.” This was greeted by a giggle.

“Sure, shoog. We can split it.” Logan heard a sigh that seemed to stroke him. “Gimme ten minutes instead. Can’t be in polite company in my robe, now, can I?”

“Uh…baby? Can I, uh…can I ask ya a favor?” Remy halted in his tracks as he rummaged in the dark.

“What’s dat, shoog?”

“Just this once…” Logan almost didn’t know what he was asking for. “Ya don’t hafta, y’know, wear the whole thing, but…”

“I understand, shoog. Not ready fo’ de magic t’end, is dat it? Like Lily in all her glory? Wan’ a lil’ more o’ her feminine wiles?”

“Yeah. I, uh, I would.”

“Customer’s always right,” she trilled. Logan winced for a moment, wondering what she meant by that.

“Lily?”

“Yeah, shoog?”

“I enjoyed yer show.” Logan got up and scooted his chair back. He found her in the dark and brushed his hand down the small of her back, lingering there. “And yer beautiful. Just…thought I’d tell ya that.”

Touched, Remy told him “Meet ya out front, shoog.”

*

Fifteen minutes later, Logan felt self-conscious, impatient and slightly foolish. Was she standing him up? He wondered for a minute if she thought he was desperate. He was a fan, he mused. Maybe she thought he was just a groupie.

And it felt awkward. Logan wasn’t made that way, not impulsive like this. Watching other patrons leave together in cabs or walking with arms looped around each other’s waists just made him feel restless and more lonely than before. It frustrated him, and his ardor was cooling off. The breeze outside picked up, actually making him feel slightly chilled.

He’d already called for a cab; six of the ones he beckoned to were there for other people. The seventh time was the charm; an orange taxi with the company name in blocky yellow letters on the side drove up to the curb. “You Jim?”

“Yeah. Can ya give me a minute? I’m waitin’ on a friend ta come outside.” The cabbie tsked, then shrugged.

“I’m runnin’ the meter, pal.”

“Fine.” Logan mentally counted his cash, figuring he had enough to get home. He stared longingly at the club’s entrance, waiting for Lily to come out. He counted the minutes that seemed to drag as the cab’s engine hummed behind him. One. Two. Three.

“Ya sure she’s comin’?” the driver asked as he flapped open his newspaper. Shit. Logan wasn’t sure. He’d never admit that out loud. He felt an ugly flush as he pondered the worst case scenario.

Maybe she had just toyed with him, just to try him on. It wouldn’t be the first time, or the last…

Logan stared out into the busy street, watching a woman leaning up over the roof of a stretch limo that looked like it was for a wedding party. The cabbie whistled out of the blue, nodding to someone over Logan’s shoulder. “Lookin’ good, hot stuff!” he chortled.

“Ready?” Lily asked in a sultry voice. She looped her arm through his and Logan grinned without looking at her.

“Ready, Freddie.” He led her to the rear door and opened it for her. “After you.”

“Such a gentleman, ain’t he?” she cooed. Logan eyed her appreciatively. She had changed into snug, tapered Capri jeans and five-inch black heels. They emphasized those long legs. Her rump was still shapely, but the curves were less generous than they appeared in her gown. She wore a leopard-print top and lightweight denim jacket, and her hair was a carefree auburn flip that reached her shoulders. She’d toned down her makeup slightly, repainting her pout, but the glittery lashes were gone. Her natural ones weren’t much shorter, Logan noticed, to his amusement. Even devoid of her earlier trappings, she was stunning.

The cab ride was relatively quiet. “Lily” hummed along to the radio, voice still barely on the edge of a contralto, even though the singer of the song he enjoyed was male.

“Sad woman, take it slow, things will be just fine,” she thrummed, tapping her fingers on her knee. Logan watched the streetlights flicker over her profile and shining auburn locks, not caring that they weren’t hers. There was something soft and plaintive in her demeanor, even slightly sad.

“Do ya like ta be called Lily?” Logan murmured in a near-whisper.

“Ya can call me whatever ya want,” he replied, collecting Logan’s hand and curling hers around it in her lap.

“Then Lily it is,” Logan mused. “Fer now.” Remy looked over at him in quiet surprise, before they both resumed staring off into the dark.

Logan paid the driver quickly. Lily added a couple of extra dollars for the tip, and their flight up the steps and inside the main corridor of Logan’s floor was a blur. Remy felt the firm tug of Logan’s hand as he nearly dragged him down the hall to his front door.

“Cozy,” he murmured.

“It’ll do,” Logan agreed hastily as he keyed open the lock. Her perfume was driving him crazy, and he hungered for her mouth. She tapped his shoulder.

“Ya in dat much of a hurry, shoog?”

“Yeah…damn door sticks,” he cursed, jiggling the knob and giving it a harsh shove. Remy stopped him a moment.

“Temper, temper, shoog,” he cooed, looping an arm around his neck and closing in on him. Panic leapt into Logan’s chest.

Not out here… But she swallowed his protest in a deep, breath-stealing kiss, reaching as she did down to the knob, giving it a deft twist. He listened incredulously to the squeal of the old hinge as the door swung open with ease. “Now, where were we?”

“Get comfy,” Logan muttered before he pulled her inside, kicking the door shut after him.

“Oh! It’s nice…” Remy didn’t get to finish his sentence before Logan’s hands were on him, and they felt oh, so good, roughly peeling him out of his jacket, cupping his face to drag him down for more hungry kisses that made his knees weak. It had been so long…

And Logan felt so right to him, fitted him so easily. Despite the disparity in their heights – not quite as stark once Remy kicked off his heels – they moved together easily, as though they’d been lovers for a long time. Remy rapidly worked open the buttons of Logan’s shirt, scraping the sleeves down from his burly shoulders. His eyes gobbled him up in the near-darkness; Logan was silhouetted in the faint light from the street lamps outside, all solid muscle and built on compact lines. His broad chest was matted in dark hair, and flat, tan nipples were stiff with arousal, matched by a noticeable bulge beneath the nondescript beige pants. “Damn,” Remy breathed. “Look at ya, petit. C’est si bon, non?”

“I ain’t gotta clue what that means,” Logan admitted, gripping Remy’s narrow waist and pulling him close. Their voices mingled on a single, drawn out moan as they continued to grope, kiss and claw at each other. They made their stumbling way to Logan’s bedroom down the hall. Remy pondered silently that the apartment was a single, and it was evident that he lived alone. The room was uncluttered and held few personal effects. A white Rubbermaid hamper stood in the corner. A small Ikea computer desk sat beside the window, and a queen-sized bed with a dark comforter looked lonely, needing the weight of two bodies pressed into the mattress. Remy led him over to it and sat back against it, stroking the coverlet with his palm. He leaned back on his elbows and spread his legs. “C’mere, shoog,” he said invitingly.

Logan’s hand shook as he stroked back a log of Remy’s wig from his face. “Yer tremblin’,” Remy whispered.

“It’s just…it’s been a long time. I don’t…I don’t normally do this.”

“Dat’s fine, chere,” he soothed, reaching up as Logan leaned over him, closing in on him. He palmed his cheek. “You’ve been a perfect gentleman so far. Let Lil’ Miss Lily take good care o’ you.”

She pulled him down to her, flattening her hands against him and running them over the contours of his body, moaning in approval. He felt so solid and satisfying against her, chest mashed against hers, and for a moment, Remy regretted the padding he wore tucked into the Victoria’s Secret 36C underwire bustier, a barrier between them. But he enjoyed playing this role that came so naturally to him, that was a part of him.

It was just how he was made.

He made short work of Logan’s slacks and rolled him to his back. “Damn, shoog. Sure are fine.”

“Get outta here,” Logan huffed nervously, but he arched into Remy’s touch as she teased his nipple. Remy breathed over it, long red hair brushing his skin as he nuzzled it, then lapped it hotly, humming low in his throat in contentment.

“Taste so good, petit,” he groaned, savoring him. He lingered there a moment, taking his sweet time, suckling and teasing the tiny peak while he fondled the other one.

“Oh, God,” Logan breathed, for what would be the third of many, many times that night as Remy slowly seduced him. That wicked mouth trailed down over the hills of his chest and down his ribs, nipping them one by one. That long, slick hair trailed ticklishly over his sensitive flesh, teasing his inner thighs as Remy loomed over his crotch. Talented, even teeth worried the edge of his snug briefs, then caught the waistband, giving them an insistent tug.

“Mmmmmmm,” Remy hummed as he dragged them off, down Logan’s muscular, tapering thighs, then over his stocking feet. “Can I take these off? Or are ya still feelin’ shy?” Logan chuckled in the dark. “I’ll take dat as a ‘why not?’ den.” He tugged off Logan’s socks and then mouthed his big toe, lapping at the webbing with the tip of his tongue. Sensation shot straight to Logan’s cock at the feel of that wetness, especially in a spot where he was so ticklish. He arched off the bed with a yelp that made Remy giggle. “Sorry, shoog. Couldn’t resist.”

“Please,” Logan said. “Need you. Need ya real bad.” Remy softened, and rejoined him on the bed, giving him an almost chaste kiss.

“I’ll give ya whatever ya need, chere.” Then that mouth was on him again, moving back down where he needed it most, and Remy engulfed him in one smooth dip, taking Logan straight to heaven. Remy lolled his heated, stiff flesh around in his mouth, seating him fully as he began to suck. Long, deep pulls began to draw warm, salty precum from his tip, and Remy savored the plump smoothness of the head against his flattened tongue. Remy’s face, slightly tented by his gleaming curtain of long hair, was an erotic sight as he descended on him, again and again. His fingers feathered over Logan’s sac, then cradled it as it drew up hard and tight as a leathery golf ball.

“Yer gonna finish me off…too fast,” Logan gasped.

“Non. Not in a million years, shoog. I wanna feel ya. Wan’ dat real bad.” He mouthed the words into and around Logan’s flesh before he continued his ministrations. Logan was reluctant to let Remy remove his lips from him, when it felt so good to buck up into that sultry, wet heat and to be stroked by that velvety tongue.

“Lily?” Remy closed his eyes briefly; it was so tempting to break out of the role and correct him. Call me Remy. Dat’s my name. I’ll make ya say it in yer dreams, chere. Remy. Over an’ over.

“Oui. I know whatcha want.”

“Need to see you.”

“Dat’s fine, shoog.” Remy eased off of him, smiling at his handiwork. Logan’s body was flushed and aroused, nipples and cock both stiff and appetizing, and he laid back, completely relaxed. His eyes stared at Remy with obvious desire.

“Yer beautiful.” Remy hid another wince, then began to undress.

He unfastened the hooks at the back of his neckline and eased the top down and off over his hips. Logan’s breath caught. Remy had a wasp-waist in the snug, unforgiving black bustier. Beneath the hills of his “breasts,” Logan could see the soft, shallow indent of the gap between his pecs, squeezed into a convincing valley by the snug underwire cups. He reached down and unbuttoned the jeans, shimmying them down his thighs and letting them drop to the floor. Logan licked his lips at the sight of Remy’s long, sexy legs, creamy and bare from a recent wax. Logan had an immediate vision of those legs wrapped around his waist, or dangling over his shoulders, or even splayed wide, waiting for him.

He wanted Lily, however he could have her. Have him. All of him.

“Ya wanna close yer eyes fer dis part?” Remy offered.

“No” was the brief reply. “C’mere. Come t’me.” Remy needed no further urging. He slid his hands down beneath the waistband of the black satin, boy cut girl’s bikini bottoms and stepped out of them, freeing the full glory of his erection. Logan whistled. “Damn,” he muttered. “How do ya tuck away all dat?”

“Don’ hafta in a long dress,” Remy shrugged. His cock bobbed as he walked back to the bed, smiling as Logan pulled him beneath him.

“Don’t hafta now, either.” Logan made up his mind quickly. He wanted those luscious stems spread wide open for him first, planning to give as good as he got. He lazily swirled the tip of his tongue in Remy’s navel, left bare by the hem of the bustier, making him shiver. His cock twitched. “I want you so damn bad, darlin’.” The nickname sounded yummy. Sure. Darlin’. I can deal wit’ dat… All coherent thought left his brain when Logan breathed over his stiff cock and teased his crease with his fingers.

Minutes later, a hint of lube leaked from Remy’s crack as Logan shunted and pounded into him, face strained as he grunted out curses. Logan prepping Remy and himself was a hasty blur before that hard, delicious mouth crashed down against his and Remy felt his legs pried apart. Logan’s throbbing stiffness found him, butting against him insistently before Remy inhaled a deep breath and thrust up at him with his hips. Logan swore as he sank into him, seating himself balls-deep into his hot, silky sheath.

“Feel like silk,” he grunted as Remy’s legs wrapped around his waist, just like he’d imagined. The act was ten times better than the fantasy. Logan had never had dreams this good before, but he couldn’t help but have them hereafter. Remy groaned, head thrown back and burrowing his head back into the pillow. His blunt nails clawed their way down Logan’s shoulders and brawny arms as he pounded into him, accurately, repeatedly hitting his prostate. Remy’s climax loomed closer and closer, and his sheath pulled at Logan, sucking at him as he grew more swollen, throbbing so hard that he thought his heart would stop, but he couldn’t get enough of Remy…of Lily…of those sexy, husky little sounds she made and the way her mouth dropped open as her eyes drifted shut…those compelling, beautiful eyes…

Remy came in a hot, wet rush; his juices coated their bellies thickly, flowing over Logan’s fist as it pumped his flesh. Remy’s muscles clamping down over his dick undid him, and Logan followed him moments later, giving into rapture. His voice issued forth in a gurgling, shuddering cry as his hips slammed into Remy in final, staccato jerks. He flooded Remy’s insides with his warm seed, bucking, eyes wide with the revelation of what “Lily” had done to him.

“You’re…beautiful,” he gasped, once again reaching down to stroke Remy’s cheek and smooth back his hair.

“Yer still tremblin’, chere,” he soothed. “Rest.” Logan’s spent cock slipped free of his depths, and Remy drew him down into his embrace. He worked the covers up over them, not bothering to ask Logan if it was okay if he stayed the night.

His stays in the bustier chafed him and the padding itched, but Remy decided to let him fall asleep with the fantasy wrapped in his arms.