Page 159 of Silver Sweet

The album title looks stamped with old-school ink in the bottom right corner.

Several weeks ago, Tom approached me with the name of the album. We’d been lying on his bed together after a long five-hour session writing “Dead Poets”—a haunting song about measuring up to the great artists who’ve inspired us. Knowing we can’t reach them. Knowing we still want to try. Knowing it’s okay if we never come close.

His fingers trailed down the script tattoo on my bicep. The wordsplay on. “We both love Shakespeare,” he said. “So we should name the album after my favorite quote.”

“Yourfavorite quote.” My brows rose. “The band is already your middle name, nepo baby.”

“Yeah, but hear me out before you dismiss it. I actually think you’ll like it.”

I doubted, but I told him, “Let’s hear it.” I anticipated him making a show of it. Standing on the mattress. Towering over me. Instead, he crawled on top of me. Straddled my waist. His elbows rested on either side of my head, and his lips hovered over mine. His gaze flittered around the edges of my face, and his words were feather-light as he spoke.

“‘It is my soul that calls upon my name,’” he recited. “‘How silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night, Like softest music to attending ears.’”

My heart hammered in my chest.

My breath stolen.

My love his.

“Silver Sweet,” he told me. “That’s the name of the album.”

There was no question. As soon as I heard it, I knew he was right.

I stare at the mock cover of the marble statue on fire. It’s lustful, destructive, intense, and the contrast ofSilver Sweetin the corner fastens my eyes to the imagery and doesn’t let go.

“I love the dichotomy,” Tom says before I even speak. “The discord between the sweet and the fire. It reminds me of you.”

I’m too caught off guard and stunned to respond.

He starts drafting an email reply. He does this thing where he moves his head back-and-forth while he types, and the guy currently has his head on. My.Lap.He is unconsciously rubbing my cock.

I breathe deeply through my nose.

I can’t take it anymore. I reach over and undo the button of his jeans. Tom’s fingers go still on the keyboard, and I slide my hand below his waistband, underneath the cotton of his black boxer-briefs. I caress him from base to tip.

“Fuck.” He catches a groan in his throat, and his eyes flit up to me. “Phoenix.”

Yeah, we’re in his living room. But it’s 1 a.m., and all of his brothers are in their bedrooms. And it’s not like we’re fucking. I have my hand down Tom’s pants. It would take half a second to remove it.

But Tom is looking at me like I just stripped him bare in the middle of the room.

“You want me to stop?” I ask him.

He shakes his head. The motion, a pleasure to my dick.Fuck.

“Finish the email then,” I tell him.

He draws a sharp breath between his teeth while returning to the laptop. I work him with more force.

“Fuck, dude…” He squirms and tries to concentrate as he types. His eyes veer over to a bedroom hallway, then back to the screen.

His fingers start to move faster over the keys. When he hits send, he slams the laptop shut and slides it onto the coffee table.

His hand reaches up to the back of my neck, trying to pull my head down to meet him. But I draw back in resistance.

“Phoenix,” he says into a low groan.

“Say what you want,” I whisper.