The Spencer Cohen Series, Book Three(5)

By: N.R. Walker



He stared at it and swallowed hard. “It’s Kempff’s 1965 performance with the Berlin Philharmonic in Berlin…” He shook his head, still looking at the record cover. “Spencer…”

“Did I do perfect?”

Then he looked up at me. His eyes sparked with something I wasn’t sure I’d seen before. “You did.”

The cashier took the album and checked it for scratches before he re-sleeved it. I paid some indecent amount of money for it, thanked the cashier, and we left. Only we didn’t get too far. Andrew stopped just a few steps up the street. “I can’t believe you did that,” he said, still holding the album like it was the holiest of grails.

“It wasn’t that hard,” I explained. “You said Moonlight Sonata was your most favourite song. So, of course I googled best performances and read some forums to see what classically like-minded people thought, and this guy—” I pointed to the old dude on the cover “—came up time and time again.”

“No.” Andrew shook his head like I missed the point. “That you would do that for me. That you would put that much thought into something to make me happy.”

“Does it?” I asked. “Make you happy?”

“Incredibly.”

“I ordered it a few days ago,” I told him. “I kinda forgot about it until you mentioned getting a new album. I didn’t even know if it had come in yet.”

“And you made a bet for the most perfect album without knowing you could get it?”

“Sure. I just would have found you something else.”

He slowly shook his head. “Not as perfect as this.”

“Now that you mention that bet,” I said thoughtfully, “may I suggest we go back to my place and christen the papasan chair?”

He chuckled, and a faint blush crept over his cheeks and down his neck. “You were never going to lose that bet.”

I put my arm around his shoulder, and we started to walk again. “Never. Unless there’s a B Side somewhere of Jeff Buckley playing Beethoven, I don’t think the most perfect album actually exists.”

We dropped off Emilio’s lunch, and when we got back to my flat, I took the album from Andrew and slid it onto the dining table. I wasted no time in kissing him. I cradled his face with my hands and led him backwards to the papasan chair. Granted, circular, dish-shaped chairs that moved weren’t exactly suitable for sex, but this was a challenge I wanted to accept. And conquer.

He’d been eyeing off this chair for the weeks he’d been coming here, and he’d even mentioned a few times that he’d wondered how suitable it was for sex. So I knew he wanted to try this.

He pulled his mouth from mine. “Bathroom,” he whispered, then disappeared through the bathroom door.

I missed the taste of his mouth already. But figuring he was going to be a few minutes while he cleaned himself up a bit, I collected some supplies from my bedroom, leaving the lube and condom on the papasan chair. Then I put the record on the turntable but didn’t play it. Not yet.

When he came back out, he wore nothing but a towel around his waist and a nervous smile. God, he was so gorgeous. I moaned at the sight of him, the promise of what his being naked meant. My cock pulsed in anticipation.

Andrew slowly walked over to the papasan chair and bit his bottom lip. “Um.”

“Kneel on it,” I murmured. “Hold the top edge like handlebars.”

While he did that, I undressed, tossing my clothes somewhere behind me. I was too busy watching Andrew to notice anything else. He’d lain the towel over the padded papasan cushion and knelt, thighs spread wide and his arms stretched to grip the top edge of the chair. He looked perfect.

Still standing on the floor, I reached between his legs and rubbed his balls and gave his cock a few strokes until he let his head fall forward and he moaned. Then I smeared lube over my fingers and found his hole, rubbing across his entrance, then slipping a fingertip inside him.

By the time I’d added a second finger he was rolling his hips and making the most delicious sounds. He threw his head back, and his tone had the bite of impatience. “Spencer.”

Taking that as my cue, I stepped back and gently lowered the tonearm of the record player. The familiar crackle of a vinyl recording filled the room as I rolled on the condom and applied more lube, then knelt behind him. I leaned in and spoke gruffly into the back of his neck. “Ever been fucked to your favourite song?”

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