Dreaming in Color by Cameron Dane (autobiographies to read .TXT) 📕

those eyes and strong cheekbones had always captured his interest back in the neighborhood. Holy shit. Colin had fantasized and imagined a thousand different scenarios for what and who the man who haunted his dreams might be. Never once had he pictured someone he already knew.

Sort of.

Long, strong fingers dug into Colin's arm and pulled him down the stairs. “Get off this land”—that voice, oh God, that voice held nothing but impatience—“before I have you arrested.”

Colin yanked his arm out of the bruising hold but didn't back away. In fact, he pushed a little himself.

“Are you going to pretend you don't know me?” he asked. “Even when I already said my name? Because I don't need a formal introduction to the owner of this residence anymore.” Colin's focus shifted to the house. He could barely wrap his brain around the spinning of new information, and ultimately brought his gaze back to the man so close Colin could smell and feel his heat. “How the hell did you get from Bleeker Street in Henderson all the way to Fiji, Marek?”

More: Why the fuck are you living in my dreams?

Chapter Three

Marek Donovan. No way; it couldn't be. Yet those pure blue eyes and sharp cheekbones stood out clear as day in Colin's mind, and he knew that it was. One year behind Marek in school, Colin had shared a few mutual neighborhood acquaintances with the teen, but they never talked much themselves. A handful of time in four years, at most. Very tough, Marek never said much, but one always felt his presence when he was nearby.

Pretty much exactly like the faceless man in my dreams.

Still… Marek? No way did the dude like cock.

Confused as hell, Colin tore his stare off Marek's pretty eyes and looked around. As always, his attention caught on the residence and its door. “Maybe you're just a coincidence,” he said softly, almost to himself. “Maybe it's more about the house, and you just snuck in through osmosis.”

“What?” Marek's voice rose. Well, at least as high as one with such gritty depth as his could. “Never mind. I don't care.” He raced across the porch and pulled the door shut. Leaning against it, he added, “Just get off my property.”

Victory number one. Colin lifted his gaze to meet Marek's. “Well, at least now you're admitting you own it.”

The thick stubble on Marek's cheeks and jaw flexed, and Colin thought he probably gnashed his teeth. “You're right; I do own the land and the house. It's mine. So leave. Now.”

In deliberate defiance, Colin did a quarter turn and walked with careful steps down one-half length of the porch, always mindful of the body behind him. Marek. He has a name now. Start using it. Colin occasionally ran his hand over the porch railing, the windowsill, and front of the house, dirtying his fingers with the residue of neglect. On the outside, Colin maintained decorum; inside, though, a thousand questions and comments wiggled around fighting to spill from his lips. About Marek, about his presence in Colin's dreams, and did Colin somehow have the same role in Marek's. But equally important, Colin wanted to know about this beautiful, sad house, and why Marek had let it fall apart.

He came to a pause right in front of Marek, nearly close enough for their crotches to touch. The man—Marek—didn't so much as flinch. Interesting.

“You're not at all curious about why I'm here?” Colin asked. “About how I ended up on your porch, in fucking Fiji?”

Marek stared back, without blinking. “No, I'm not.”

Colin felt slapped, but he didn't let the sting show. “Do you even admit you once knew me?”

“I do. You were”—Marek's focus lowered to Colin's chest and then finished going down, assessing thoroughly—“skinnier back then.”

Shit. He is gay. Don't get too excited. Don't get hard. Swallowing past a sudden tightness in his throat, Colin answered, “A man can change a lot in a dozen years.”

A small but visible jolt shook Marek right then, gaining Colin's complete attention. Colin flashed back to the first vivid dream and the pain laced in the “Help me's” that still rung loudly in his head. What the hell happened to you, Marek? Colin reached up and brushed his knuckles across the man's hard, warm cheek.

Marek reared and then shoved Colin away, his eyes lighting with fire. “Don't touch me.” He circled Colin and flew down the steps, as if Colin possessed some communicable disease.

Colin lifted his hands. “I apologize.” Marek's focus kept shifting to the dense trees at the side of the house, and his body strained, as if his will barely held him in place. If he ran, maybe beyond the trees to the mountain that consumed most of the small island, Colin might never get his questions answered. “Look,” he said, gentling his tone. “I know it sounds insane, but I'd like to see your house. I feel like I need to go inside.”

His lips thinning to pale, Marek uttered, “Take a grand fucking tour if you want. Door's open. There isn't anything in there worth seeing or stealing.” He looked at the house with as much intolerance as he did Colin. “Don't bother to lock it on your way out.” Without looking back, Marek disappeared around the house in the same direction from which he had come.

Shit. Fuck. Damn.

Looking up, alone once again, Colin locked his hands behind his neck. “Well, that's not exactly how I expected this first meeting to play out.” He didn't know if he talked to God or the house. Either way, the fact that he had taken to talking out loud with nobody around to listen couldn't be a positive sign of his mental health.

Colin took a stabilizing breath anyway, opened the front door, and stepped inside. “All right, house, if you have the answers, show them to me.”

Standing statue-still, air trapped in his lungs, Colin waited for a sign: a whisper of cool air to tickle his skin, a creak or groan from the second level