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Wentworth couldn’t stop grinning.
“They’re not tears. The air is very dry in here.”
“Sniffing at the opera is perfectly natural, Elliot. Sniffing because you read the synopsis on your phone during intermission, however . . .”
“I wanted to know how it ends.”
“We’re about to watch how it ends.”
“If I’d known that Robert Deveraux has his head cut off, I wouldn’t have bought the tickets.”
“I’m glad you did. I love that I get to experience your first time.”
“Witnessing the decapitation of romance?”
“How much music moves you.”
“Technically, Wikipedia did that.”
Wentworth curled an arm around his shoulders. “Would you like me to rewrite the ending for you?”
“You probably could, couldn’t you?”
Wentworth shrugged, and looked toward the stage, eyes twinkling. He looked so beautiful, so happy. Elliot leaned into his side and rested his head at the crook of his neck. It was warm and comfortable and a sigh rose up his chest. He pinched the program Wentworth had rolled in the hand at his thigh. “What did that last song mean, anyway? The one between the lovers.”
“Da che tornasti, ahi misera. Miserable me, since you returned.”
“Lovely,” Elliot said dryly.
“This is some of Donizetti’s best vocal writing. It’s intense, raw, powerful. I always come away feeling deeply sad.”
“Better and better.”
A laugh rumbled through him. “You’re surprised an opera has a tragic ending?”
Elliot huffed. “I suppose I prefer happily ever afters.”
The lights dimmed but it did nothing to diminish the brilliance of Wentworth’s smile. He leaned close and his lips combed Elliot’s temple, almost a kiss. “I’m glad to hear it.”
After their third date, Elliot took him back to his place.
His mum was on a business trip to Melbourne and no one would . . . disturb them.
Wentworth found his old guitar, sat on his bed and tuned it.
Elliot leaned against the dresser opposite him and admired. “So this is what it feels like to be jealous of hollow wood and six strings.”
Laughter, and then music. Between them there was always laughter and then music.
The air vibrated, manipulated by Wentworth’s careful plucking, his strumming. He hummed a few beats and snagged Elliot’s gaze. Eyes twinkled.
And there he was
Arms crossed, amused
Friend and future
My favourite bumblebee
It was ridiculously catchy; Wentworth improvised a few more lines before Elliot leaped toward him, guitar be damned. Wentworth flung it onto the bed next to him just in time to catch Elliot, but not to brace his fall. They swooned to the mattress.
“My favourite bumble—”
Elliot kissed him. “Why are you waiting to submit your songs?”
“You like ‘My Favourite Bumblebee’? Well, then.”
“Seriously, Went. You could be famous already.”
“It’s simple,” Wentworth said, lifting onto his elbows, grinning cheekily. “I have a hard enough time keeping the girls and boys off me as it is.”
Elliot rolled his eyes and shoved him back to the mattress. But he wasn’t far off the truth. Wentworth magnetised people, students and teachers alike. All of them wanted in his orbit.
And Elliot had him between his thighs.
“A history test, and an English oral exam, and all I want to study is you.”
“Never thought I’d be so glad you’re a study-o-holic.” He grabbed his shirt and Elliot bounced as Wentworth stripped it off. “Should I grade you?”
Elliot swatted him and pressed his smirk against Wentworth’s hot skin. He wasn’t overly freckled, but there was a cluster here, between the fine hairs starting to crowd his chest. Slowly, Elliot trailed kisses down his stomach, over his bellybutton, to the waist of his jeans.
Elliot was painfully hard and Wentworth’s bulge suggested a similar state. He glanced up, revelling in the arousal in Wentworth’s gaze, his slackened bottom lip. He laid trembling fingers on the top button.
“I believe,” he murmured gravely, “you owe me a sore throat?”
“Now we both have sore throats.”
A mortifying sound left Elliot’s mouth and he suspected it might have been a giggle. He pulled the blankets up over his face, and Wentworth ducked under to join him.
“Sore throats and sore something elses,” Wentworth went on, and though it was dark Elliot knew he was waggling his brows. “Not too sore, I hope?”
“I’m fine.”
“Goodie.” Wentworth rolled on top of him, bringing the blankets around his shoulders.
Elliot absorbed his familiar, very naked weight and laughed into that mischievous face. “God, you’re incorrigible.”
“What? It feels amazing. I want to do it with you again.”
“We’ve done it four times. Sunlight is peeking through my curtains. I think we ought to sleep.”
“I reluctantly agree that you’re right. What time does your mum get back?”
“Afternoon.”
“Excellent.”
Elliot shoved him back to his side of the bed, laughing. “It does feel incredible though.”
Wentworth sighed and tucked his hands behind his head. “What did you prefer? I can’t decide.”
“All of it. The second time was better.”
“Less nervous, right?”
“Exactly.”
“Third time is, as they say, a charm.”
“Wentworth!” Elliot grabbed his pillow and flung it over that smug grin.
“Elliot!” Wentworth tossed it off the bed.
