Spanish Angel
Bee

As always, it was loud in Room A-215. Spanish was always full of endlessly chattering students. It was sixth hour after all, and a Friday too. The noise would not be helped. So while the endless torrent of juniors traded stories and made plans for later on that night, one boy sat silently. Way in the back, face down, black hair covering the smoky eyes, and shrouded in layers of dark clothing. His hands worked quickly, one sketching and the other shadowing over a page in the black book lying open on the desk in front of him. A booted foot tapped unconsciously to the beat of the music blaring out through the blending headphones over his ears. Not many of the kids in this class knew the strange boy's name. It just wasn't commonplace to talk to weird people. So, Trent Pyerce remained silent, shrouded, and completely absorbed in his task of sketching a quick, simple picture of his teacher trying to calm everyone down.
Once attention was called, roll was taken, and the last bell rang, Trent closed his book and let out another discouraged sigh. His professor, Miguel Asbury, had become his latest fascination. Being a lover of beautiful things, Trent could not help but try to copy the beauty on paper. Copy it to something that he could keep safe to himself. Homework was passed out, and as Professor Asbury went over the directions, the words passed without notice by Trent.
The shrouded boy listened but not to the words. Instead, to the fluency of the Spanish-speaking man. He watched the slick honey hair, noticing the fine few strands that had fallen out of place and were now hanging about the pale blue eyes. Those hands were large and defined well with bone. A looming structure that imposed on his students yet left room for friendliness too. Trent sighed and allowed his eyes to follow the lanky legs in every graceful step. Step, pause, step, step, pause, then more fluent Spanish.
Professor Asbury moved off to the side of the classroom, leaving his students to themselves. He leaned tiredly against the window ledge and peered out as if he too were glad it was Friday. Trent watched, wondering what might be going on inside that head. He was looking off into the distance, . Trent's interest piqued again and he grabbed his sketch book. He had just rested into a comfortable position when a sharp warning look from those pale blue eyes turned to him. Trent gasped softly and bit his lip, averting his gaze from the amused smirk and trying to concentrate on his assignment.
The gothic boy was greatly relieved when the final bell rang, releasing them from the prison. He hung his head, letting his hair fall as usual over his eyes and tried to shuffle out with the crowd. However, as always, he ended up behind everyone, clutching his sketchbook close to his chest. From behind his hair, he regarded his teacher, wanting to stay behind, but not wanting to ruin his image. He was saved the trouble when the teacher called him back.
"Would you stay after a minute please Trent?"
Trent stopped moving in the act of taking a step, and settled in the position he was in. "Yes sir?"

"You seemed distracted today," The amusing smirk was hidden behind clasped hands, but the light in the blue eyes did not hide the laughter. Trent took a deep breath and mumbled quickly to the floor, hugging himself tight.
"Iwanttodrawyou."
"Come again?"
Trent shook his hair back and defiantly met the amused blue eyes. Acting like a shy schoolgirl wasn't going to get him anywhere. Again he said, "I want to draw you." Only this time, he enunciated every syllable.
"I see." Professor Asbury paused for a moment, also becoming serious and lowering his hands. "And why, may I ask, do you wish to do that?" Trent didn't know how to answer so he shrugged his shoulders. "I'd love to." Trent's head snapped up.
"Really Mr. Asbury?"
"However." The professor continued. "I'm afraid that would be inappropriate." Trent nodded his understanding, not really understanding at all. The blue eyes were amused again. "No argument?"
"I don't argue with teachers," Trent replied.
"That's not what I hear in the staff room."
"Fine, I don't argue with you."
"I guess you don't really want to draw me then," Professor Asbury waved his hand in dismissal. "You may go then."
"No," Trent said suddenly, not knowing even himself where the courage had come from. Professor Asbury smirked and turned his attention back to his fidgeting student. How often had he seen students back off as Trent had walked by? Now the boy was standing here in front of him, all befumbled.
"No?" He asked. "No what?"
"No, I am not leaving yet. I would really like to draw you Professor. I it's okay with you."
"I believe I already mentioned the inappropriateness that the situation would put me in." Professor Asbury hid his smile as he made it more difficult for the boy.
"Why?" Trent tilted his head slightly and allowed his book to rest lower on his stomach.
"Because. I am a teacher, and you are my student. Teacher's don't regularly pose for their students."
"But you will."
"You sound awfully sure of yourself Trent."
"I am," the raven-haired boy actually smiled, elaborating at the raise of two sleek eyebrows. "If you weren't willing, you would have told me a direct 'no' right from the start."
"Ah, you are observing. Very well, I guess you've beat me at my own game. I suppose I can allow you to draw me." He smirked and stifled a chuckle at the boy's surprised gasp.
"Really? When?" Trent hugged his book again. "Now? Please? I'd really love to draw you now. Fifteen minutes, I promise!" He was excited now and the words flew from his mouth before he even had time to think about them.
His teacher laughed and told him to sit which he immediately did. Professor Asbury folded his hands in his khaki lap and waited patiently. His blue eyes calmly regarded the boy, even noting the slight nervous quirking on the left hand side of his lips.
"What are you waiting for Trent? I thought you wanted to draw me? Where's the direction?"
"Oh! I'm sorry!" Trent leapt up then, pacing back and forth. The picture he'd been sketching earlier came to mind and he stopped. "I'd like it if you went and stood over by the window again."
"So polite." Professor Asbury smirked, playing along and moving to where the boy's pale hand indicated.
"Now don't move. Get that far off look in your eyes again," Trent commanded as he grabbed his book and sat in his normal seat to continue the picture. What seemed like a few seconds later, his teacher began to speak again.
"You do realize that it's been near a half hour already." The liquid cool voice poured over the dark boy, startling him from his silent reverie. Glancing up at the wall clock, he realized that it had indeed been twenty- eight minutes since they'd began.
"You can move now if you want, I can do the rest on my own," He was slightly flushed now from the amount of concentration he had been giving it.
"You do draw a lot."
"Professor?"
"I see you doing it all the time. If you don't mind my asking, is it always me?"
"No!" Trent replied a little too quickly and looked away as the crimson stained his already reddened cheeks.
"I see," Professor Asbury said slowly, allowing a slight smile to creep to his lips. "Well then, do you need a ride home?"
"What?" The raven-hair covered the boy's cheeks, but his eyes peered curiously out.

"Just being friendly. I know you walk home everyday."
"If it's no trouble," Trent said slowly. "I would like a ride home."

"Good. And perhaps next time we do this, it should be sometime more convenient for both of us."
"Yes sir."
He bid his professor goodbye as he stepped from the mountaineer and into his driveway.
"Oh by the way Trent," Professor Asbury halted the raven-haired boy. "How old are you?"
"Sixteen," Trent mumbled.
"Ah," There was a slight pause then the thin lips stretched into a kind smile. "You are very talented for being so young." Trent nodded, flushing again as his teacher backed out of the driveway.

The next time Trent found himself drawing his teacher was not for another three weeks. This time when Professor Asbury dropped the shrouded boy off, he was invited inside.
Trent brooded around, gathering supplies as his Professor sat silently at the kitchen table, watching over the brim of a coffee cup.
"Did you plan this Trent?"
"No."
"Where are your parents?"
"Gone," Trent left no room for conversation, so Professor Asbury didn't press the issue. Instead he watched, mildly interested, as the boy hurried about. He stood abandoning his coffee when he was beckoned into the cleared living room. Professor Asbury settled unquestioningly into the chair, moving about as instructed.
"So Trent," he began quietly, barely moving his lips as the boy began to get intimate with the canvas. "Why me?"
"What do you mean?" Trent knew full well what the man was asking though.
"Why do you draw me like this? Am I the only one?"
"Yes you are." Trent replied quietly. "And I'm glad that you're willing." They both remained quiet for the next few minutes as Trent leaned closer to his easel, using long strokes of his charcoal to capture the magnificent swoop of blond hair.
"Why are you home alone?" Professor Asbury inquired softly again.
"I don't want to talk about it," Trent pulled his hoodie off and stretched his arms before picking up the black stick again.
"I want you to talk about it," his teacher insisted. He could see that something was pestering the boy.
"I SAID I DON'T WANT TO!" Trent threw his charcoal down and it snapped in half on the hardwood floor. He stood looking dumbly where it lay in two. Professor Asbury held his breath, not moving from his pose for fear of upsetting the boy further. "That was stupid of me." came the soft, tired voice.
"You're not stupid Trent."
Trent was silent as he picked up the severed medium and resumed his sketching. A little rough around the edges, and softened in the shading eyes. A little confused 'V' that had suddenly developed in his teacher's forehead also became known. The next hour was completely silent, and when Trent next spoke, it was to tell him to leave.
"Can I at least see it?"
"Please, just go," Trent looked down in the corners of his eyes, blinking hard. Not exactly sure what he was feeling now. Behind his eyes burned and he just wished the fucking bastard would leave.
"Trent." Professor Asbury started, but the boy tipped the easel in his hurry out of the room.

It was barely a week later that Trent approached his teacher again, this time apologizing quietly.
"No hard feelings Trent."
"Can I-" Trent couldn't finish. He didn't feel he had the right to pester his teacher anymore.
"Of course you can, but how about we do it at my place this time, eh?" The boy looked like he needed a little time away from home.
Trent was glad; he needed so very much to be wanted. He was quiet the whole way, and from the corner of Professor Asbury's eye, he could see the boy shaking. Trent rubbed his arm with one hand, gazing lifelessly out the window.
"Am I being a burden to you?" Trent asked quietly once he'd been given the grand tour. He'd decided to set up in the basement, liking the chill in the air and the bare walls.
"Of course not Trent, why would you ask something like that?" The boy only shrugged in response to his teacher, setting up the easel far from where he had Professor Asbury positioned.
"Thank you," Trent said softly. "You have no idea what this means to me."
"I don't mind. I actually rather like having you all to myself like this. I've never known a student so closely before."
"You don't really know me," Trent whispered to his canvas as he began to draw.
"What?" Professor Asbury had seen the boy's mouth move.
"Could I ask you to do something for me professor?" Trent spoke up as if that's what he had said to begin with.
"I'll do anything if you answer me this; why did you react like that when I asked you about your parents?" Professor Asbury was propped up against a distant wall, regarding his student with questioning blue eyes. Trent seemed to weigh the options in his mind before allowing anything to pass his lips.
"I'm alone all the time," Trent began. Suddenly, as if a floodgate had been opened, he heard himself telling his teacher everything. "They work all the time and try to buy my love. They never ask me how my day was, or if anything is wrong. They're never there to tell me what's right or wrong. I eat dinner alone every night! I fucking hate them so much! I get every little fucking thing I want, all I have to do is ask for it. But I never get what I that's someone to love me!" On and on he continued until tears spilled over his heavy black lashes and mascara ran in smears down his blotchy face.
Professor Asbury sat quietly and just listened, watching carefully with his cerulean gaze. When the boy was finished, he crawled to the dark heap on the white carpeted floor and pulled the raven head into his lap.
Trent curled into a trembling ball and buried his face into the clothed inner thigh. He sobbed until his head ached, unable to stop the hurt once it had broken free. His teacher was there to the end, carefully stroking the soft black hair and lending his jeans as a tissue. "I'm so sorry Trent," Was all that Professor Asbury could whisper. "I can't tell you that I understand, but I feel your hurt and I'm here to share the burden if you need someone."
"Thanks," Trent mumbled, sniffling through a now impaired nose and wiping his eyes. A moment later, he looked up at his teacher.
"You look horrible," Professor Asbury pointed out and they both laughed. "I like it when you laugh," he blurted. Then he stood, realizing what he'd implied. Trent seemed to take no notice and stood as well.
"Now that I've made a mess of myself, you owe me," The raven-haired boy stated.
"That's true. Anything you want."
"Take this off," Trent commanded, touching a finger to his teacher's stomach, indicating the shirt. He blushed, but it went unnoticed through the streaks of black down his face.
"My shirt?" Professor Asbury cocked an eyebrow. "I hardly think that's-"
"Professor, please?" Smokey eyes pleaded with him until he gave in and pulled the cotton white tee shirt over his head. He shifted uneasily under Trent's intense gaze.
Student. Student. Student. That became the mantra in Professor Asbury's mind. Trent was his student, a boy, and only sixteen to boot. No, there would be nothing less than professional to this. He wouldn't endanger anyone, defiantly not Trent, the beautiful boy just wasn't worth the agonizing. However, as he resumed his position on the floor, his torso gleaming in the sunlight, he slipped up.
"Miguel," He said quietly, softening the ocean eyes.
"Hmm?" Trent didn't bother to look up from where he had begun to work his expert hands.
"Please call me Miguel when it's just us. It feels odd sitting here like this being addressed so formally," He cringed inwardly, realizing that he'd just offered more than professionalism.
"Miguel," Trent tried it on his tongue and decided that he liked it. It sounded nice and it fit the blond angel sitting on the floor. Maybe, Trent thought. Big white wings. I want him to have soft beautiful feathery wings arching up from those sloping shoulders. "Turn around Miguel, face the wall and cross your legs. like that."

"Miguel, I want you in my room today," was Trent's gentle request after school one day. The boy had been constantly sketching him for six months now. Since that day the boy had blown up, Miguel hadn't been back to his house.
"Your parents?" He flinched at the inquiry, thinking it sounded not exactly appropriate.
"Out of town," Trent replied, and it made Miguel even more uneasy.
"I have all these papers to grade," the blond protested slightly.
"Bring them," The boy suddenly said. "They'd make a good prop and you can work while I draw."
As always, that pleading tug in the boy's voice caused him to cave. Against his better judgment, Miguel found himself in the boy's room, and his heart leapt at the thought. He was confused. It was the first time he'd been in the kid's room and he wasn't sure whether to take it as a trusting gesture or something more.
His room was big and Miguel found himself snooping while Trent set up. The walls were painted black, setting off the too clean black carpet. Overall, it was a very brooding room and accurately portraying Trent's personality, but everything was much too neat.
"How do you want me?" He asked and the boy blushed. Miguel faltered for a minute but was saved.
"I am an artist, right?"
"Of course."
"I'd like to do a nude."
"No! Absolutely not! How absurd Trent, to ask that of your teacher!" Professor Asbury shook his head.
"I didn't ask," Trent motioned. "I told you what I wanted to do."
"No."
"Please?"
It was the smoky eyes, because a few moments later, Miguel was shedding his clothing. All the while reminding himself that he was a teacher and Trent was his student. There was nothing more to this than artistic tendencies. Nothing more than Trent admiring him as a model. Nothing more... Trent instructed him to lay belly down in the setup.
"You know I could get fired for this?" Miguel asked as the stack of unchecked papers was placed in front of him.
"No one will ever know, I promise Miguel. This is important to me." Trent sat on the floor, this time with the drawing board in his lap, and studied the fine man.
Those bones were almost too delicate to be his. They were accurately defined under the stretch of skin and muscle. Trent was in awe as he let his eyes roam wanly over the naked body. It wasn't the first time he'd seen another naked man, but it was the first time that he felt more than just a longing to draw him. Miguel turned him on, plain and simple. Trent was glad that his drawing board hid his obvious interest. The professor made his insides knot and his heart pump wildly in his chest. Now the man was naked in his bedroom, as if Trent had some sort of arcane power over him. So he couldn't have his teacher, but he sure could take one hell of a time drawing him.
So he did. Making sure that his work was flawless. The black charcoal shaded perfectly under his expert fingertips, catching the shine of the fading sunlight falling across his teacher's back, the contour of the sculpted, tan legs, and even in the drawing, those pink lips looked kissable and soft. Miguel's honey hair shined, even in black and white, tempting him to run his fingers over it.
"You're beautiful," Trent murmured. "Did I ever mention that?"
"Trent," his teacher warned, suddenly feeling very exposed. He was almost through grading the papers.
"I mean it."

"I know," Miguel said quietly after a minute. "That's what makes it bad." He did not move a muscle, even when he heard the board plop on the carpet. He just continued to check his papers as if nothing had happened.
Then he felt a hand on his leg. The hand moved slowly up the bare skin, over his round bottom, and up the curve of his spine until Miguel shuddered. Trent's breathing softened next to Miguel's ear.
"Is it bad that I think you are a work of art?"
"Yes," Miguel hissed in reply. "Please stop Trent."
"Don't you like me Miguel?" Trent smoothed his hand to the soft skin at his professor's side.
"Trent." Miguel hesitated as he sat, pulling the sheet on the floor over himself. "Even if I did, we couldn't go this far."
"Why not?" Trent asked, perfectly innocent eyes gazing up into cobalt.

"Because I am your teacher, and you are my student."
"Miguel, this is my home. We are sitting in my room. We have no relation here. I'm just an attention-starved artist and right now, you aren't my teacher, you are my model. And..I think I'm in love with you."
Miguel almost groaned when those innocent boy-lips touched his with fiery demand. They were soft and pliable, and they sent fire straight to his groin. This has to stop. Miguel thought frantically as his hands threaded into the raven hair. He tugged their lips apart enough to whisper hotly into the boy's open mouth.
"You only think you love me. You're still so young!"
"I'm seventeen today you know," Trent whispered softly back.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Miguel allowed the boy to kiss him again, telling himself that it was because it was the boy's birthday, and he owed it to him.
"Because I forgot," Trent answered when he'd pulled away. The smoke filled eyes looked so honest and sad that Miguel jerked him close, buried his hands in the soft hair, and claimed the eager mouth.
"No!" Miguel gasped, pulling away and standing, holding the sheet to himself as he dumped the boy onto the floor. The succubus boy curled to look up at him, blending in with the black carpet in all of his black clothes.
"Miguel?"
"I have to go." Miguel left no room for discussion and grabbed his clothes. Stumbling down the stairs, he used the bathroom to dress himself, then left without saying goodbye.
Trent lowered his head and curled into a ball. He'd ruined everything, he just knew it. Miguel would never come back. He'd scared him away.

The incident did not repeat itself for a long time. In fact, it was almost as if it had never happened in the first place. Miguel pretended as if it didn't, so Trent played along, even though it hurt him deeply. It was his teacher that he found himself spending all of his time with. Miguel was the one that allowed him to practice driving, and then took him for his road test. His professor was the one that was there the day he got his license, and Trent felt privileged when he got to drive the mountaineer as a licensed adult.
Miguel took the boy in often, allowing Trent to use the spare bed and then taking him to school in the morning. A senior now, Trent was mostly focused on his studies and rarely had time to draw. Miguel found he missed it, but during dinner, those smoky eyes regarded him with a secret artists longing still.
Trent had practically moved in with Miguel and his parents couldn't care less. As always, they let their boy have his way and didn't put a word in edgewise. Miguel felt compelled to do something for the boy, so one day after school, he announced that the attic belonged to Trent. Trent grabbed Miguel in a tight hug and ran up the ladder to discover that all of his art supplies had been moved into the dimly lit attic.
"Thank you," Trent murmured as he pulled his teacher up into the roomy attic by his hand.
"Well it was no big deal Trent, you know I don't mind the company. I want you to start drawing again, you haven't drawn so much as a leaf since." He trailed off not wanting to mention that the last time he'd seen the boy draw was the day in his room.
"I don't mean just thank you for this Professor," Trent's voice held something in it that made Miguel quiver. The boy was growing and in a month he wouldn't be a boy anymore. He'd filled out rather nicely, and at times Miguel couldn't control his wandering eyes. Several times he'd peeked in on the boy while he was fast asleep, if just to catch a glimpse of a bare leg poking out or a gleaming torso in the moonlight.
"You don't need to thank me for anything Trent," Miguel blushed slightly, not something he did very often.
"Why are you blushing?" Trent smirked.
"I've been around you too long," was Miguel's smart-ass reply.
"I'd like to try again," The raven-haired boy said suddenly, shifting his gaze to the corner.
"Try what again Trent?"
"Drawing you."
"I'd like that," Miguel whispered softly, grasping the boy's chin and tilting his crimson face upwards. "I'd really like that a lot Trent."
"Not tonight," Trent whispered, feeling his jeans tighten with the touch to his face.
"Sure thing," Miguel backed off at the uneasy shifting in the boy. "I'm here when you want okay?" He walked out leaving the boy to himself, but not before he heard the watery whisper.
"I want.I want you."
Miguel chose to ignore the longing in the voice and disappeared into his own room. Trent was still a student, even if he wasn't his student anymore. By god's he'd give anything to have the boy all to himself though.

Trent's parents did not attend his graduation. He pretended that he didn't care to all of his friends, but Miguel could plainly see the hurt it caused the boy. At home, he gathered the mess into his arms and held the head to his shoulder as Trent sobbed hard. The shoulder's shook in the gown that he hadn't removed yet, and the strong arms were slack around Miguel's waist.
"They don't care about me!" Trent hiccoughed.
"Now 't say things like that," Miguel tried but the boy glared angrily at him.
"Don't you fucking say that damn you! You of all people should know how much they don't care! IT!!" Trent bit down hard on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger until the coppery taste of blood filled his mouth.
"Stop it Trent! Right now!" Miguel tore the boy's hand away and shoved him into the wall when he struggled, the brute strength reminding him painfully that this wasn't a boy anymore.
"I don't need you!! I DON'T NEED YOU! YOU DON'T LOVE ME EITHER!!!" Trent struggled, but though he was eighteen now and fully grown, he couldn't overpower his teacher yet.
"Who said I didn't love you?" Miguel blurted, blood from the raven- haired man's wound ran thickly down his own hand and dripped onto the kitchen floor.
Trent gasped softly, not knowing what to do. Instead of struggling, he hung his head and let out another sob. Miguel's fingers threaded through Trent's and he squeezed reassuringly.
"Don't do this to me Miguel," Trent said pitifully, tears dripping down his long nose.
"Do what to you Trent? What don't you want me to do?" Miguel rested his forehead atop the crown of the dark head.
"Don't pretend like you really care." The rough jerk that slammed him into the wall again caused him to yelp. A hand fisted in his long black hair and pulled hard.

"I do fucking care, that's the whole picture Trent. I wish I didn't care like this, but I care so god damn much that every time I see you hurt like this, I want to rip your fucking parents to pieces. You don't deserve it merit more then they or I can give you."
"Stop it!" Trent screamed suddenly. "Stop talking like that. I DON'T WANT ANYONE ELSE!!!" He let his free, uninjured hand clasp the back of his former professor's neck and tug the lips into a passionate kiss.
"You're so young Trent," Miguel pleaded as the younger man pushed his shirt up, dripping blood all down his stomach.
"I'm an adult now Miguel, you can't tell me what to I hope to god you don't say no."
"I could never say no to you Trent, that's what started this whole mess." Miguel squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his lips to the pulsating temple just beneath the black hair.
It was Trent's wish to move to the studio. Miguel stopped him halfway up, tugged the blue gown off the grown man, and tossed it down the steps. It reminded him too much of how fresh and young Trent really was. Then two firm hands grabbed him under the arms and yanked him up through the crawlspace and into a soft yet hard body. Another body.
Miguel let the dark haired one lead, pulling the painted lips close to his and breathing in his scent slowly. A pink tongue darted out between black lips and traced his own pink lips. This was the moment to forget that Trent had ever been under him. The boy was within reach now.
"Take off your clothes Miguel," Trent commanded.
"You aren't going to draw me at a moment like this are you?" Miguel's cerulean eyes danced playfully in the darkness.
"No," Trent lit a candle. "I just want to watch you."
So Miguel did as he was asked, slowly, much to Trent's enjoyment. Then, of his own accord, he crawled on all fours through the flickering candle light and deftly buried his fingers into the task of removing the tight jeans on the other man.
"We're going to do this right," Miguel told him. "I've always wanted to do this with you."
"How's right?" Trent asked, innocently watching as the blond slid his trousers down.
"Ah, ah, ah," Miguel softly reprimanded, stroking the hardened member once in his hand. "This is hands on learning."

"I love you," Trent gasped and lifted his own shirt up and over his head. Miguel nodded and nuzzled the nest of dark curled hairs.
"I know Trent, now hush up."

Trent allowed Miguel to take over; it just seemed right, though neither of them had done anything like this before. Miguel took his time exploring the places that had been forbidden to him for so long, finding out exactly what made the raven-haired man gasp in approval, and twitch with arousal.
They slicked each other up with warm, scented bath oil, both squirming and moaning into the other's body. Trent made such delicious noises as Miguel worked his fingers, loosening the path that he'd be traveling soon. The hot muscles twitched and shuddered around him when he finally pushed himself in. Trent bit his hand, reopening the wound too keep himself from crying out at the intense pain.
"Does it hurt too much?" Miguel asked as he gently pulled the abused hand away and stretched out over his lover, entwining their fingers. Trent shook his head and arched up when Miguel touched the smooth nub inside his body.
They kissed, tongues dueling as they tasted each other's spit and bathed in the scent of their lovemaking. Trent panted as Miguel rocked into him, clawing his dulled nails down the expanse of tanned flesh. Miguel licked the salty sweat from the deep collarbone and wrapped his hand around Trent's hard and denied sex. A moment later, they ached into and on each other, and as fast as it had come, the moment was gone.
Somehow, both men made it into Miguel's bed, and curled up like two contented kittens. Wandering hands petted all over until they both fell asleep, atop the covers and under the rich drawing hung above Miguel's headboard. Trent had yet to notice it, but Miguel had slipped away with it and hung the beautiful drawing up. It was the one Trent had drawn of him, with huge, soft, white downy wings arching up from his shoulders. Underneath the painting, in a magnificent swoop of lettering, it read: Spanish Angel

OWARI