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THE RESONANCE

LUCA

The acoustics in the new studio were, quite frankly, obscene.

Beau had built the structure about fifty yards from the main house, facing the mountains. He had spent weeks researching soundproofing, insulation, and the reflective properties of different woods. He had poured the concrete foundation himself, framed the walls with his own hands, and installed floor-to-ceiling windows that let the Arizona sunset pour in like melted butter.

He had built a cathedral for Luca’s music.

And right now, Luca couldn’t play a damn note because he was too distracted watching his husband fix the door hinge.

“It’s catching,” Beau grunted, crouching low to inspect the bottom hinge of the heavy oak door. “Wood swelled with the heat. Needs planing.”

Luca lowered his violin and rested it on the piano bench. The air conditioner hummed softly—another marvel of Beau’s engineering, silent enough not to interfere with recordings—but the room still felt hot.

Or maybe that was just Luca.

He watched the flex of Beau’s back muscles under his t-shirt. It was an old gray thing, stained with sweat and sawdust, clinging to him in all the right places. Beau had been working on the ranch since dawn, and he smelled like labor—like salt and cedar and hard work.

It was a scent that hijacked Luca’s brain chemistry every single time.

“The door is fine, Beau,” Luca said, leaning back against the grand piano. “You’re obsessing.”

“I’m thorough.” Beau didn’t look up. He pulled a screwdriver from his back pocket. “If I build you a studio, it’s going to be perfect. No squeaky hinges ruining the recording.”

“You already built me a perfect studio. Now come here and let me thank you.”

Beau paused. He turned his head slowly, looking up at Luca from his crouched position. His eyes were dark, hooded in the way that usually meant Luca was in trouble.

“I’m working,” Beau said, though his gaze had dropped to Luca’s legs, bare beneath his gym shorts.

“You’re always working.” Luca set his bow down next to the violin. The gold wire of the repair caught the light—a reminder of the first time Beau had fixed him. “Come here.”

Beau stood up slowly. He wiped his hands on his jeans, dust ghosting into the air. He looked rough and dirty and imposing, a stark contrast to the pristine, elegant room he’d built.

He crossed the space between them in three heavy strides.

“You’re supposed to be composing,” Beau murmured, crowding into Luca’s personal space. He didn’t touch him yet. He just loomed, radiating heat. “I heard you playing that adagio. You stopped.”

“I lost my inspiration.” Luca reached out, hooking his fingers into the belt loops of Beau’s jeans. “I need a new muse.”

“Is that so?”

“Mmm.” Luca tugged him closer, until the denim pressed against Luca’s thighs. “I was thinking something rugged. Quiet. Good with his hands.”

Beau huffed a laugh, the sound vibrating in his chest. “You’re a brat.”

“I’m your husband.”

“Same thing.”

Beau finally moved. He reached out, his large, calloused hands cupping Luca’s face. His thumbs dragged over Luca’s cheekbones, rough skin against smooth. The friction sent a shiver straight down Luca’s spine.

“You’re too clean,” Beau said, tilting Luca’s head back. “I’m covered in dust. I’ll get you messy.”

“Please,” Luca whispered.

Beau groaned and crushed his mouth to Luca’s.

It wasn’t a sweet, married kiss. It was a claiming. It tasted of coffee and grit and possession. Beau kissed like he built—with focus and intensity, constructing the moment brick by brick.

Luca opened for him immediately, his hands sliding up Beau’s chest to wrap around his neck, tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. Beau tasted fantastic. He tasted like home.

Beau spun him around, pressing Luca back against the polished curve of the grand piano. The wood dug into Luca’s lower back, grounding him.

“Jump,” Beau ordered against his mouth.

Luca jumped, wrapping his legs around Beau’s waist. Beau caught him easily, his strength casual and terrifying, holding Luca suspended as if he weighed nothing.

“God, I missed you today,” Beau growled, burying his face in the crook of Luca’s neck, biting lightly at the sensitive cord of muscle there. “I was out at the north fence line, fixing wire, and all I could think about was this. Coming home to you.”

“I was right here,” Luca gasped, head falling back. “Waiting.”

“I built this room for music,” Beau said, his hand sliding up Luca’s thigh, rough fingers catching on the hem of his shorts. “But I think we need to christen it first.”

“Beau—”

“I want you to make noise in here,” Beau murmured, his hand slipping beneath the fabric, finding heat. “But not with the violin. I want to hear you scream. I want to test the soundproofing.”

Luca whimpered. It was undignified, but he couldn’t help it. Beau knew exactly how to touch him—a thumb pressing firmly against his perineum, fingers teasing, knowing the exact geography of his pleasure because he had memorized it over the last nine months.

“The door,” Luca gasped, clinging to Beau’s shoulders. “Beau, the door—unlocked—”

“Ellie’s with Diego. Rosa took them into town for ice cream.” Beau bit down on Luca’s collarbone, marking him. “We have an hour. Maybe two.”

“Two,” Luca managed. “Definitely two.”

Beau laughed against his skin, then carried him—still wrapped around his waist—over to the deep, plush rug Beau had insisted on buying for ‘sound absorption.’

He lowered Luca onto it, following him down, a heavy blanket of muscle and heat.

Beau didn’t bother with undressing fully. He was a man of efficiency. He shoved Luca’s shorts down, kicking them away, and unbuckled his own belt with frantic, clumsy haste that betrayed how desperate he actually was.

When Beau settled between his legs, fully clothed but for the essentials, Luca felt exposed and cherished all at once.

“Look at you,” Beau whispered, hovering over him. The afternoon sun turned Beau’s silhouette into a halo of gold. “So beautiful. My music.”

He reached for the bottle of oil he kept in the studio—ostensibly for wood polishing, though they both knew why it lived in the desk drawer now—and slicked his fingers.

“Beau, please,” Luca begged, his hips bucking involuntarily. “I need—”

“I know.”

Beau didn’t make him wait. He prepped him swiftly, efficiently, his eyes locked on Luca’s face, drinking in every wince and gasp. And then he pushed inside.

The fill was overwhelming. Luca cried out, the sound bouncing off the perfectly acoustically treated walls.

“Loud,” Beau praised, grinning wolfishly. “Good acoustics.”

He began to move, and the world narrowed down to friction and sweat. Beau was relentless, driving into him with a steady, punishing rhythm that snapped Luca’s head back against the rug.

Every thrust hit that sweet spot deep inside, wringing pleasure out of Luca like water from a stone.

“You… fixed… the hinge,” Luca panted, his words fracturing in time with Beau’s hips.

“Fixed everything,” Beau gritted out, bracing himself on his forearms on either side of Luca’s head. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto Luca’s chest. “Fixed the door. Fixed the fence. Fixed… us.”

“We weren’t… broken,” Luca gasped.

“We were,” Beau said, driving deep and holding it there for a torture-sweet second. “But we aren’t anymore.”

He pulled back and thrust again, harder.

Luca shattered.

It wasn’t a gentle unraveling. It was a crescendo, a fortissimo explosion that tore a scream from his throat. He came hard, spilling onto his stomach, his vision going white.

Beau followed him seconds later, groaning Luca’s name into his mouth, his body shuddering with the force of his release.

Silence returned to the studio slowly.

The air conditioner hummed. The dust motes danced in the slant of light.

Beau rolled off him but didn’t go far, pulling Luca into his side. He ran a hand up and down Luca’s arm, his breathing slowly returning to normal.

“Good acoustics,” Beau decided, his voice gravelly and satisfied.

Luca laughed, a breathless, happy sound. He turned his head, looking at his husband—at the gray t-shirt riding up, the sweat drying on his skin, the ring on his finger made from the broken pieces of Luca’s past.

“Excellent acoustics,” Luca agreed. He reached out, tracing the line of Beau’s jaw. “But I think the hinge is still squeaking.”

Beau closed his eyes, a small smile playing on his lips. “I’ll fix it tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Luca whispered.

He looked over at his violin, at the gold wire gleaming on the bow. He looked at the man holding him.

Tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that.

Forever.

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