by Meg Harding
It’s definitely a sob of relief that tears from his throat when Aaron kisses him, blanketing him with his body and rolling his hips insistently against him.
“So good,” he praises him, trailing kisses from Jackson’s lips to his jaw, to the lovely spot right behind his ear. Jackson’s head tilts back into his pillow, fingers forming claws on Aaron’s shoulders. “What do you want?”
“You,” says Jackson. Duh. What type of question is that? It should be obvious. He can’t think about anything else. Aaron’s name is the only thing coming through his thoughts loud and clear. The rest is all lost to the haze that’s settled over him.
Aaron frames his face, brushes their noses together. His dark eyes are intense, lashes half lowered. “How do you want me?”
Jackson shakes his head. He doesn’t know. He just wants. “Stop trying to make me think,” he says, and grumbles when Aaron starts to chuckle.
Aaron kisses the tip of his nose. “I’ve got an idea. Trust me?”
Jackson narrows his eyes. The result of the last “trust me” was definitely worth it, but it was also a massive tease. He nods slowly.
“You’re going to love this,” promises Aaron, and then he’s pulling away.
Jackson lifts his head to throw it back against the pillow in frustration. He wants Aaron to stop pulling away. Before he knows what’s happening, Aaron’s cock is dangling in front of his face, his knees framing his sides. His lips part as much from surprise as from the desire to get right to work.
He’s just got them around Aaron’s plump tip, when Aaron swallows him halfway down. His hips jolt up in surprise, and he pulls away to start apologizing, but Aaron’s pushing them back down and taking him deeper. His cock smears over Jackson’s lips, his hips rolling in a clear get-on-with-it gesture.
Jackson finds it very hard to concentrate on his task when Aaron is so enthusiastically taking care of him. But he gives it all he has. He really, really does. He sinks his fingers into Aaron’s muscled ass, tilts his head back, and takes him in. He’s sloppy around him, swallowing when he can, slurping and moaning around his thick length. His jaw aches, and he loves it, doesn’t even consider stopping. His hands keep Aaron from pulling out. He breathes harshly through his nose, ignores the spit running down his chin.
He keeps at it, taking him deeper with each rock of his hips, until Aaron’s sac is brushing his face and his lips are stretched impossibly wide around the bottom of his shaft. He holds him there, knowing he’s going to need air soon, and swallows once, twice. Aaron stills above him, body going rigid, and then he shudders. He’s like an earthquake building force. His muscles tighten and then release, tremble over him, and then heat is pouring down Jackson’s throat, choking him in the best way. He pushes him up, catches the rest on his tongue, relishes the lazy thrust of Aaron’s hips into the warmth of his mouth as he finishes.
He’s expecting Aaron to finish him off with his hand, his body having gone almost completely limp above him, but his lips are back around him, and he’s got one hand on Jackson’s sac, the other teasingly circling over his hole.
All it takes for Jackson to come is the spit-slick pressure of a finger sliding inside him, stretching him and stroking him from the inside.
He buries his face against Aaron’s thigh, unthinkingly bites into the fleshy muscle to try to quiet the stream of grunts pouring out of his throat. He feels like he comes for ages, each pulse of his cock slow and dragging, his stomach rippling with the harsh tremors.
Aaron doesn’t pull away from him, doesn’t stop petting him from the inside or let go of his sac. The way he’s humming around Jackson’s dick makes him think he might never stop coming, and his cock does make a valiant effort to make that true. It twitches weakly, nothing coming out, but not able to completely soften with the overload of sensation. Aaron doesn’t release him till Jackson’s grunts have turned into hiccupping cries, his body still shaking with aftershocks.
He turns himself around then, enveloping Jackson in his arms and rolling so Jackson’s cradled against his chest. He’s sprawled over him like a sheet, breathing wetly against his neck. Jackson can’t make himself form words. His muscles feel overtired, unable to function. He breathes in the smell of Aaron’s sweat, the reek of sex that clings to the bedclothes.
Aaron runs a hand through his hair, down his shivering back. “Sleep,” he whispers. “We’ve got some time.”
AARON HAS a plan. A goal. It’s a bit of what was intended when he took on this job that’s no longer a job. And it’s a bit of his too personal feelings emerging. He’s going to make this fling the best damn thing to ever happen to Jackson’s romantic life thus far. He’s going to show him just how he should be treated. He’s going to do as much as he can in the time they have left to restore the confidence he knows Jackson is capable of possessing. He’s going to steadfastly ignore that he’s in way over his head.
But back to his plan. It’s multilayered, and he thinks breakfast in bed with an extra treat was a fantastic start to it. Jackson slept like the dead against him, not even waking when their alarm for the day went off. He had to shake him awake, which led to slow kissing and murmurings of “we really have to get up now” from the both of them.
The breakfast isn’t his only plan for the day, though. They’ve got another luau that night, and Aaron distinctly remembers Georgina saying how much Jackson likes to paint faces. How he loves doing Comic-Con for that reason but is often too busy to go. The Carlisle family has a lot of kids. Hordes of them it, feels like, when they do group dinners. He thinks Jackson would have fun being able to paint their faces during the luau, and it would be entertaining for the children as well. He’ll admit to that being a little selfish of him. Time they spend sitting still for face painting equals time with one less shouting child running around.
First he’s got to get through the day’s competition, though. And actually find time to talk to Georgina about how to set it up. Unfortunately for him they’re all being kept a good distance from each other as they practice shooting a bow and arrow at targets. He’s going to go out on a limb and say that at some point in the past, someone accidentally shot the person standing closest to them.
When it comes time for the competition, they line up single file in three groups. Each section of the target is worth a certain amount of points. They’ve each got two chances to hit it. Aaron watches as several people completely miss the targets but manage to rally and hit one of the outer rings on their second try.
He hooks his chin over Jackson’s shoulder. “Nervous?”
“No.” Jackson taps Aaron’s chin. “It’s kinda painful when you do this.” Aaron withdraws, trying to hide his smile. He twists his smile into mock outrage when Jackson turns to face him and says, “What about you? Any performance anxiety?” He wiggles his eyebrows obnoxiously.
Aaron haughtily sticks his nose up in the air. “None. I bet I score more points than you.”
“Oh? What do I get if you lose?”
Aaron closes the distance between them, stops just shy of touching him. “What do you want?”
“I want you to take me on a date. The most random, noncliché one you can think of. Completely one of a kind.”
Aaron blinks. “You don’t ask for much, do you?” He shakes his head. He can work with this. Even if he does beat Jackson, he’s going to do this. “You’ve got a deal.”
Jackson gets eight points on his turn, hitting the center and the ring immediately next to it. He raises his brows in challenge as Aaron steps up to the mark. He can do this. He just needs two perfect shots. If he can pull it off, then Jackson won’t even be expecting the hella awesome date Aaron’s going to whip up.
He’s got not one clue how he manages it, but he hits the center twice. Jackson looks more than a little impressed. “So what do I get?”
Jackson smiles cheekily. “The fantasticness of my company.”
“Wouldn’t I have that either way?”
Jackson pats his shoulder as they w
alk to join his waiting family. “Now you’ll never know.”
HE’S NOT even finished eating his brownie when the first child comes up to him with her big eyes and her shy expression. “Hello, Chloe,” he says. She keeps staring at him. He breaks off a chunk of his brownie and holds it out. She takes it and pops it into her mouth.
Her question comes through a mouthful of chocolate. “Can you paint my face to look like a sea turtle?”
That was unexpected. Is she going to cry when he tells her he doesn’t have anything to paint her face with? He starts to say he’s sorry, but Aaron elbows him.
He stops and looks at him, brows furrowed. “What?”
Aaron points to an empty table beside one of the many flickering torches. “Everything you need is right over there.” He leans in and kisses his cheek quickly, lips warm and faintly sticky from the fish he was eating. He’s a fan of the first part. Not so much the second. “Go have fun.”
Jackson’s torn between scrubbing the slightly wet sensation from his cheek and thanking Aaron profusely for setting this up. It’s so much better than having to talk to adults about their put-together lives all night.
“You’ve got to let me do yours later,” he settles for saying. “Think of something you want to be.”
Chloe follows him over to the table and patiently waits for him to get set up. Her patience runs out there, though, and she twitches and tries to talk nonstop while he lays down the turtle pattern on her petite face.
“That tickles,” she says, nose wrinkling as he tries to color it.
“Close your eyes, and count to twenty,” he instructs her. “Takes your mind off it.”
And that would have worked. If she counted to twenty in her head rather than aloud. She stops wrinkling her nose, but her head moves slightly with every word.
In the end, despite her wriggling efforts, there’s a pretty nice sea turtle on her face, and she runs off with an excited squeal to show her parents. He doesn’t have long at all to wait before someone else is plopping down in front of him and demanding something else. He loses time, focused on the seemingly mile-long line of children (and the odd grown-up or two). He’s pretty sure he paints a variant of every sea creature known to man, and he does a couple of characters too. There’s Nemos and Stitches, two Shreks and a Fiona, and his absolute favorite—a stormtrooper done on a very bossy little girl.
Once the lengthy line is exhausted, and the time is close to midnight, Aaron takes the seat in front of him. There’s no one waiting behind him.
Jackson shakes out his hand, curious to know who or what Aaron will want to be.
“How about Ant-Man?”
Jackson can’t help but grin at him. “Like in the helmet?”
“In the helmet.”
“You got it.” He starts outlining, distractingly aware of the man whose face he’s drawing on. He can feel Aaron breathing on him, remembers when he drags the brush over a high cheekbone how his lips followed that same path only that morning. He clears his throat. “Your favorite Avenger?”
Aaron’s lips barely move when he answers. “No. Just thought he’d be the most challenging.”
Jackson has to pull away to laugh. It won’t do to smudge the paint over Aaron’s face. Once he’s calmed himself, he gets back to work. “Who’s your favorite, then?”
“Iron Man, of course.”
“Of course.” He shades in a portion of his forehead. “I love Black Widow. She’s like my ultimate crush. The be-all and end-all of coolness. I wanted to be her growing up.”
“Big Marvel fan?”
“Duh,” laughs Jackson. “I’ve got a wall of comics in one of my bedrooms. And you’d best believe I’ve seen all the films. And the millions of cartoons on Netflix.”
“Who’s your… ship? Is that the right word?” His forehead wrinkles when he asks it, and Jackson smoothes them out with the butt of his brush.
“It’s the right word,” he says. “I’ve got a couple. It’s hard not to. But I mean, Deadpool and Spidey? That’s some good shit. Hilarious.” He starts to fill in the red. “Have you read any of the comics or anything?”
“Nope. Just the films. The occasional cartoon.” He frowns. “I’ve never really been able to do the whole pictures-with-my-words thing. I prefer to read something and come up with the visual in my head.”
Jackson mock gasps. “I don’t think we can be friends,” he says, trying to sound serious but giggling by the last word. “Nah, I know what you mean. James is the same way. He likes his visuals better. Prefers being able to use his imagination. Now me? My imagination gets all used up doing this.” He pulls the brush away. “You’re all done.” Aaron looks insanely cool, his face perfectly resembling Ant-Man’s mask.
He brushes his thumb lightly over Aaron’s painted lips. “If I kiss you right now, does that make me Wasp?”
Aaron leans in, the very tips of their noses barely touching. “Why don’t we go back to the room and find out?”
It might be cheesy, but Jackson beams. He’s so down with that.
Chapter Eleven
AFTER A rousing morning of seashell collecting along the long stretch of Makalawena Beach, Aaron wants nothing more than to stand in an air-conditioned room and do nothing. He’s from California. He went to school in Texas. He thought he knew hot. Those places have nothing on the blistering heat that’s trying to sear his skin off. He doesn’t think he’s ever going to get the smell of sunblock out of his nose.
But Jackson is seemingly impervious to the heat, and he has plans that don’t include air-conditioning.
“Come on,” says Jackson, tangling their fingers together before Aaron can escape into the cool depths of their condo. “I put something together.”
“Does this something involve cabana boys feeding us grapes while fanning us?”
Jackson side-eyes him. “Is this your backward way of asking me to role-play with you? I can’t say that’s ever been a particular fantasy of mine. It’s like the pizza guy. Bit overdone. I don’t get the appeal.”
Aaron blinks. That was not where he was going with it. But he is curious now. “Don’t get the appeal of the pizza guy or don’t get the appeal of role-play?”
“The pizza guy.” Jackson shrugs. “Why would I want to have sex with my pizza guy? I think that would be awkward. And what if it’s bad? Then I have to find a new place to order pizza from. It’s lacking in realism. How many people do you know who have slept with the guy delivering their food?”
“None,” admits Aaron. “But I don’t think it’s supposed to be realistic. You are way overthinking this.” He has no clue how they ended up here. Not one. “Where are we going?” At the moment they’re walking down the beach, and while Aaron enjoys the time with Jackson, he’s been walking on a beach for hours already today. He’s kind of over it.
“The dock,” says Jackson. “You really don’t like surprises, do you?”
“I’d like this one more if you gave me a piggyback ride.”
Jackson actually stops walking to look him up and down. Like he’s considering it. “I don’t think I could carry you very far,” he says after a minute. “Probably hurt my back.”
“I didn’t really expect you to.”
“Oh.” They start walking again.
Aaron wonders if it’s possible for the temperature to have increased. Is Hawaii floating up toward the sun? He needs to distract himself from the god-awful heat. “I thought you didn’t like hand-holding?” he asks, deciding to assuage more of his curiosity. This will at least be helpful information for the remaining week they have. The reminder he only has a week left, less than that really, makes his chest feel tight and his stomach dip. He doesn’t want to think about it. Wants to pretend this bubble of loveliness isn’t going to burst so soon.
Jackson’s gaze darts to him and quickly away. His fingers flex against Aaron’s. “I don’t,” he admits. “I mean, not all the time. Sometimes it’s nice. But not always. Like this it’s fine. ’Cause we’re not trying
to walk around people or things, so we’re not constantly having to let go. It’s not complicating things. I mean, I’ll probably let go in a minute ’cause my hand is starting to get hot. But some people run cold, so they like to keep holding hands.” He purses his lips. “And sometimes their rings pinch my hand.”
“That makes sense,” says Aaron, and it does. Those are all thoughts he had at one point or another, and he’s normally voiced them when they occur.
Jackson looks far more relieved than he should. “I’m glad you think so.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Jackson lets go of his hand, sliding his down his board shorts. “Some people think that makes you cold. Like you’re not willing to show people you’re with them? Or that you don’t like them enough. I’ve never really got that, because I don’t think they correlate, but I’ve heard it often enough I think it might just be a me thing.”
Aaron had a suspicion. “It’s not just a you thing. Everyone is different. There are plenty of people who don’t hold hands constantly. There are even plenty of people who love someone else very much but don’t like PDA. It’s a personal preference.” He hesitates. He wants to ask about the last ex. The one who put Jackson over the edge. But that’s something Jackson shouldn’t feel pressured to talk about. Something he should offer up on his own.
Their arrival at the dock puts an end to any other questions he could ask, and Aaron’s eyes widen when he sees what’s on the deck of the boat they’re walking toward. “Seriously?” he asks, staring at the colorful fabric on the elegant speedboat.
Jackson grins. “I told you I’d take you parasailing.”
“I’d honestly forgotten about that,” he admits. He ducks his head to peck a quick kiss to Jackson’s cheek. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” laughs Jackson, teasing him. “I might be indulging your worst-ever idea.”
No, thinks Aaron, the worst idea he ever had was to accept this job. It’s also possibly his best. He hopes his answering smile doesn’t look too fake. “Well, let’s go find out, shall we?” He’s much more amenable to flying through the air when the drop is short and cushioned by water. He’s sure it’ll be fun. A very needed distraction, if nothing else.
