Coffee and Tea Epilogue

By K.L. Noone

Sequel to Coffee and Tea

Colby and Jason Kent-Mirelli are having an excellent visit to London. From charity galas to unexpected new friends, the trip has been a delight. Tonight they’re hosting retired spy Ben and his romance-novelist husband Simon for dinner, but Ben and Simon might have a surprise or two in store.

Simon Ashley adores being friends with Colby, these days -- he’s apologized for his own teenage cruelty, and he means it. So he wants to do something nice for Colby. And when he learns that he and Colby share certain preferences involving kink and submission and spanking demonstrations, Simon’s definitely got a few ideas. With Ben’s assistance, of course.

Meanwhile, Jason knows all about his husband’s favorite fantasies, and is happy to give Colby exactly what he needs ... with a little help from their friends.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JMS Books LLC
• Release date: Dec 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9781685506223

K.L. Noone

K.L. Noone loves fantasy, romance, cats, far too sweet coffee, and happy endings! She is also the author of Port in a Storm and its upcoming sequel, available from Less Than Three Press, and numerous short romances with Ellora’s Cave and Circlet Press; her fantasy fiction has appeared in Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Sword and Sorceress anthologies. With her Professor Hat on, she teaches college students about Shakespeare and superhero comics, and has published academic articles and essays on Neil Gaiman’s adaptations of Beowulf, Welsh mythology in modern fantasy, and Terry Pratchett’s Discworld novels.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Jason Kent-Mirelli liked plans. Order. Preparation. He didn’t mind some surprises—his husband baking a triple-layer oatmeal stout-infused chocolate cake, or pouncing on him for a fabulously erotic afternoon escape in their shared trailer during a break in filming—but in general he wanted to know the direction of the world.

The world was not currently behaving according to plan. Well, sort of. In a way. In the sense that they’d agreed to this dinner party, and it was happening. It was inarguably doing that.

It’d been going well so far. Jason had hoped for that, though a small piece of his head had been busy coming up with scenarios to handle worse outcomes, just in case.

But they had new friends, who’d shown up right on time, a promptness Jason had internally approved. They had the coziness of the London flat, his and Colby’s second home, shimmering in familiar bookshelves and abstract metalwork art. They had Jason’s mother’s rustic chicken cacciatore recipe, the simple Italian country bread he and Colby’d made the day before, and fluffy greens and herbs and goat cheese. They had Colby’s adoration of all cheese, really; it’d been an impressive cheese board. Plus strawberry cheesecake tarts and gold-dusted tiramisu and tiny mint chocolate miniature cakes because Colby had been worried, that morning, about not having baked enough.

He had. Ben and Simon had been properly appreciative. The table attested to that: plates and forks scattered in the aftermath of food and conversation, nobody getting up, a space slowly filling with shared stories about filming, writing, improbable adventures in Venice, and falling in love.

Jason was happy that his husband was happy. He loved seeing that, knowing it.

He had not expected to be still entertaining guests, who after all were new friends, not old ones, four hours later. Into the night.

Not that he didn’t like Ben and Simon; he did. He hadn’t expected Colby to want them to stay so long. To be so comfortable. To keep opening wine, and chatting about international travels, or fantasy settings, or romance novels that three out of four of them had read.

He looked at Colby, across their dining table, in lamplight and candlelight. His husband was smiling, pouring more wine, saying, Oh, drat, this one’s nearly empty—I’ll open something else—how do you feel about mead? I’ve been experimenting with boysenberry— and then hesitating as if unsure boysenberry would be welcome.

Simon Ashley, gold and blue prettiness on full display, held out his wine glass Colby’s direction. You’ve been experimenting. As in…you brew your own honey wine? Because he was who he was, the gesture nearly knocked over his fork, and the tumble of antique silver steampunk-design spheres and glowing candles that were serving as a centerpiece, and Colby’s wine glass.

Jason started to move, old stuntman reflexes in action—but Simon’s husband had also moved, understated and unobtrusive, a hand in the right place at the right time.

Of course he had, Jason thought. Ben Smith was nothing if not good at that, being in the right place, anticipating. Physically, mentally. As a theoretically retired spy-turned-agency-instructor should be.

He’d learned that little fact two days before. When they’d all been at the same literacy foundation charity gala—a foundation that Colby Kent-Mirelli had supported for years, and of course Simon Ashley had been a marvelous bestselling historical romance author presence, a draw for crowds and donations, this year—and Colby, of all of them, had looked at Ben and said, you’re not a history teacher, are you…we’ve met before, at my father’s residence, when I was twelve and everyone forgot I existed; did you get the documents you needed…?

Ben at the moment was steadying Colby’s glass, entertained. The silver flecks in his hair caught the light; he might’ve been unremarkable, generally average in height and weight and overall shades of brown and tan, hair, eyes, skin, affability. The unremarkable part lasted until someone like Colby surprised him, or until his disaster-pixie of a husband tripped over a rug or someone else’s foot or the air.

Ben said, "Our files on you were so incomplete, back in Berlin."

Colby got even more delighted. You had files on me? He’d worn violet, tonight: a fuzzy sweater that felt like a cloud to Jason’s exploring fingertips, over simple blue pants. Jason’s head had done some mental translation earlier, when they’d been getting dressed and Colby’d said trousers; Colby’s voice contained a glorious medley of stories, from London to Paris to Berlin to Hollywood, but tended to get more English when they came over here, to the flat Colby’d had for years, so close to museums and history and delight. Jason loved that, too.

The outfit was a message. He knew