this.
Rachel was already wandering toward a curved, sloping piece carved out of solid wood, but Ace couldn't get his feet to move. There was so much of it here, with more doors on either side of the lobby, and how many floors above them? The sun had been past its zenith when they'd come in. That gave them a few hours, at most , before they had to head back to the sectors.
A few hours to take in a lifetime's worth of art. How the fuck did he choose? Where did he start ?
“Shh.” Cruz slid his arms around his waist, his chest hot against Ace's back. “Take a breath, lover.”
Guilt crashed in on him, swift and mean. Cruz had offered him a magical present, and Ace was rewarding him with a panic attack. “It's amazing. It's the best surprise in the world, man. I just—”
“I know.” Just that, but the knowing warmth said more. It said I know you , a sentiment proven by the words that followed, whispered against Ace's ear. “I arranged things with Dallas already. You can explore for as long as you want. We have dinner and a cozy place to sleep upstairs.” His voice dropped to a suggestive rumble. “Even flashlights if you want to stare at art all night long.”
So, he was offering Ace the impossible choice between art and dirty hot sex. Nah, who was he kidding? He was Ace fucking Santana. He was going to get both.
Cruz hadn't been exaggerating—their bed for the night was damn cozy.
The top floor of the museum had a damn-near panoramic view of the distant mountains and the setting sun through what Ace had assumed to be miraculously unbroken windows. It had turned out to be some sort of tough-as-shit polycarbonate that would probably survive the next couple of apocalypses intact.
The tough-as-shit part was probably what soothed Cruz about the relative security. He hadn't taken chances with anything else. The doors were barricaded and probably booby-trapped, and Cruz had unloaded a small armory of weapons onto one of the tables before sitting down to share their picnic dinner.
The security was all Cruz. The cozy part—Ace detected a specific flair in the nest of pilfered blankets piled high on a sturdy mattress. Cruz's flashlights and glowstrips had been replaced by candles, an entire damn table of them that reflected off the windows and created a second galaxy of flickering stars. Not to mention their dinner basket, which had been filled with some of Lili's most decadent, sumptuous specialties.
Ace would bet his favorite paint collection that Lex had been here, or at least acted as co-conspirator.
Rachel peered over at the painting he'd taken from downstairs and propped up against the wall. She nibbled the corner of a fluffy pastry stuffed with cheese and seasoned chicken as she tilted her head, squinted, then finally traced her fingertips lightly over the rough surface. “I like it, but I think I prefer the one with all the little dots.”
“It's a technique called pointillism,” Ace supplied, then washed his own pastry down with the rest of his wine. That was a Lex touch too, he'd wager, and it was fair enough. If there was any time to be sipping Sector One's finest vintage, it was after scoring your very own Monet. “Not a bad metaphor for the O'Kanes, you know. All those little dots add up to something amazing when you take a step back.”
Cruz leaned forward to refill his glass. “We could take both of them with us, you know. There's room in the car.”
“Mmm, let's leave the Seurat.” Rachel grinned wickedly. “For next time.”
No one admitted aloud that there might not be a next time. Tensions with Eden grew daily, diminishing the chances for the three of them to slip away. Tonight, by silent agreement, they were living in a bubble. A glorious, art-filled bubble of wine and lazy smiles and slow touches and an inevitable naked tangle of bodies.
They weren't talking about the tablets they'd taken with their dinner, either. The third week in each blister pack, and any dose could count. The
Rachel was already wandering toward a curved, sloping piece carved out of solid wood, but Ace couldn't get his feet to move. There was so much of it here, with more doors on either side of the lobby, and how many floors above them? The sun had been past its zenith when they'd come in. That gave them a few hours, at most , before they had to head back to the sectors.
A few hours to take in a lifetime's worth of art. How the fuck did he choose? Where did he start ?
“Shh.” Cruz slid his arms around his waist, his chest hot against Ace's back. “Take a breath, lover.”
Guilt crashed in on him, swift and mean. Cruz had offered him a magical present, and Ace was rewarding him with a panic attack. “It's amazing. It's the best surprise in the world, man. I just—”
“I know.” Just that, but the knowing warmth said more. It said I know you , a sentiment proven by the words that followed, whispered against Ace's ear. “I arranged things with Dallas already. You can explore for as long as you want. We have dinner and a cozy place to sleep upstairs.” His voice dropped to a suggestive rumble. “Even flashlights if you want to stare at art all night long.”
So, he was offering Ace the impossible choice between art and dirty hot sex. Nah, who was he kidding? He was Ace fucking Santana. He was going to get both.
Cruz hadn't been exaggerating—their bed for the night was damn cozy.
The top floor of the museum had a damn-near panoramic view of the distant mountains and the setting sun through what Ace had assumed to be miraculously unbroken windows. It had turned out to be some sort of tough-as-shit polycarbonate that would probably survive the next couple of apocalypses intact.
The tough-as-shit part was probably what soothed Cruz about the relative security. He hadn't taken chances with anything else. The doors were barricaded and probably booby-trapped, and Cruz had unloaded a small armory of weapons onto one of the tables before sitting down to share their picnic dinner.
The security was all Cruz. The cozy part—Ace detected a specific flair in the nest of pilfered blankets piled high on a sturdy mattress. Cruz's flashlights and glowstrips had been replaced by candles, an entire damn table of them that reflected off the windows and created a second galaxy of flickering stars. Not to mention their dinner basket, which had been filled with some of Lili's most decadent, sumptuous specialties.
Ace would bet his favorite paint collection that Lex had been here, or at least acted as co-conspirator.
Rachel peered over at the painting he'd taken from downstairs and propped up against the wall. She nibbled the corner of a fluffy pastry stuffed with cheese and seasoned chicken as she tilted her head, squinted, then finally traced her fingertips lightly over the rough surface. “I like it, but I think I prefer the one with all the little dots.”
“It's a technique called pointillism,” Ace supplied, then washed his own pastry down with the rest of his wine. That was a Lex touch too, he'd wager, and it was fair enough. If there was any time to be sipping Sector One's finest vintage, it was after scoring your very own Monet. “Not a bad metaphor for the O'Kanes, you know. All those little dots add up to something amazing when you take a step back.”
Cruz leaned forward to refill his glass. “We could take both of them with us, you know. There's room in the car.”
“Mmm, let's leave the Seurat.” Rachel grinned wickedly. “For next time.”
No one admitted aloud that there might not be a next time. Tensions with Eden grew daily, diminishing the chances for the three of them to slip away. Tonight, by silent agreement, they were living in a bubble. A glorious, art-filled bubble of wine and lazy smiles and slow touches and an inevitable naked tangle of bodies.
They weren't talking about the tablets they'd taken with their dinner, either. The third week in each blister pack, and any dose could count. The
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