by Meg Harding
So he’s back to blurting his thoughts aloud. But in this instance it is working for him so he’ll let it slide. “Can’t keep up, old man?” he teases, nipping at Aaron’s jaw.
Aaron climbs on top of him and digs his fingers into Jackson’s sensitive sides. “I’m going to show you an old man,” he says, smiling while Jackson writhes and shrieks beneath him.
It turns out to be the perfect motivation. One wrestling session and shower later, Aaron’s not feeling so tired, and Jackson’s forty minutes is up.
Epilogue
Four Months Later
AARON IS nervous, but his nerves have nothing on Jackson’s. Jackson is making him dizzy with the tornado impression he’s doing as he tears through the bedroom and bathroom looking for who knows what.
“Is that what you’re going to wear?” asks Jackson, pacing into view. “Should I wear something to match? Does color coordination say we’re trying too hard?”
“I like what you’re wearing right now,” says Aaron. And he’s not just saying that to get Jackson to stop changing his clothes. This is the fifth outfit he’s tried on, and he looks good in it. His fitted gray slacks and his crisp sky-blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up are perfectly fine. In that they make Jackson look hella fine. The last thing he wants is Jackson to put on a green shirt to match the dark green one Aaron’s wearing with his black dress pants.
He puts his hands out and wiggles his fingers. “Come here for a second.”
Jackson shakes his head, frowning mulishly. “We don’t have time for this. We need to be at the restaurant in forty minutes.”
“And you’re still stressing over your clothes. Come here.”
Jackson does the thing he likes to do where he thinks about whether it’s worth arguing with Aaron about telling him to do something, and then he starts forward. Apparently this is one of the times it isn’t worth protesting Aaron being bossy.
He puts his hands in Aaron’s. “What?”
Aaron folds his hands around Jackson’s. He tugs him down for a slow and purposeful kiss. If they didn’t have somewhere to be, he’d skip the conversation and finish this. It’s a lot of effort to pull away, and it takes him a second to remember what he was going to say.
“This isn’t a big deal. Everything is going to be okay. I’ve met all of your family before. The majority of them knew what was going on.”
Jackson frowns. “I know that. But this is the first time you’re meeting my parents as my actual boyfriend. That’s a big deal. Especially with our history.”
“Are you afraid they won’t like me because I’m an escort?” asks Aaron. He’s not going to lie; he’s scared of that very thing. He’s just hiding his fears better than Jackson.
“No,” says Jackson. “They’re not closed-minded. They don’t care about that. Maybe if you were a hooker, they would. But you’re not….”
“You’re getting off topic again.”
“Sorry.” Jackson shakes his head. “I’m not worried about your job. Mom and Dad were pretty disappointed I felt the need to lie to them, and what if they feel like you lied too? They forgave me because I’m their kid and they kind of have to, but you’re not. What if they hold a grudge?”
His eyebrows wing up in surprise. He imagines he must resemble a cartoon character. “I don’t think it’s going to be a problem,” says Aaron slowly. He tries to think of something reassuring to say, words that will properly explain why Aaron knows it won’t be an issue. There’s a crashing sound from the living room. He imagines it’s probably the lamp on the end table. Maxwell’s knocked it over at least seven times since Aaron got here three days ago. “I’m going to go clean up whatever mess he made. You’re going to not change your clothes, and you’re going to do whatever you need to do. We’re going to have a great evening.”
If he says that enough, maybe one of them will start to believe it.
They make it out of the house four minutes after their proposed deadline, and Jackson kindly lets Aaron drive. He’s been in the car with Jackson driving a handful of times and it’s one of the scariest things he’s ever witnessed in his entire life. When Aaron accuses him of being an insane driver, Jackson swears he doesn’t drive like a crazy speed demon. It’s the other people on the road who are the problem, he says. Aaron tells him he’s full of shit and should have been a Formula One driver.
So now Aaron drives. It’s a compromise that keeps everyone happy.
A minor traffic accident on the highway makes them thirteen minutes late to dinner at Bastien’s restaurant.
His heartbeat rockets up a notch as they stand outside the door. He’s not feeling as outwardly calm now that he’s here and they’re late. No one likes people who are late. It’s rude.
Jackson finds his hand long enough to give it a hard squeeze. “Like ripping off a Band- Aid,” says Jackson. “We go in on the count of three.”
His family is waiting for them, and not one of them looks in any way intimidating. Both Anna and Louis stand up to hug him and shake his hand, saying they’re glad to see him again. Things are a little awkward at first, with everyone crowded into the booth and wondering what can and shouldn’t be said. They make polite small talk while sipping at their drinks, and it’s a little stilted. It’s like being at those big dinner meals at their reunion.
It’s Laurence who breaks the tension once the appetizers have all been served—not by Bastien, who’s sitting in the booth eating with them this time. He plucks a tart from one of the various plates.
“So,” he says, “is the escort business better here or in California?”
“Laurence!”
Aaron laughs at the indignant look on Laurence’s face upon hearing the angry chorus of voices.
“What?” asks Laurence. “It’s a valid question.” He looks at Aaron. “Jackson said you’re staying for a while. He said your dogs are even going to be here in like a week or something. That sounds kind of long-term to me. I didn’t think you’d stop working while you’re here.”
There’s another chorus of “Laurence!”
Aaron waves his hand. “It’s a perfectly fine question. I will be working while I’m here, and the business is about the same so far in terms of money and the amount of clients I get. Dates are a little bit different. Lot of charity deals.”
Once he’s shown that the topic is acceptable, he’s flooded with questions, and the elephant in the room is removed. Dinner is much smoother after that, and he can feel Jackson relaxing against him as the night continues on. Whenever he glances over, Jackson has a pleased expression on his face. He’s smiling a lot, laughing.
When Jackson isn’t gesturing with his hand, it’s resting on Aaron’s thigh beneath the table, fingers absently rubbing. Things are definitely going to be better than okay.
JACKSON CAN’T believe how well dinner went. He knows he’s saying it over and over again, because Aaron’s got that completely charmed look on his face he gets when Jackson rambles. But he can’t help himself. It just went so well. His mom pulled him aside after dinner to tell him how glad she is that he’s happy and how fantastic Aaron is. And she apologized. That nearly sent him into shock. She said she was sorry for pressuring him about getting back out there. She ruined it a little by insinuating he wouldn’t have met Aaron if she hadn’t been pushy, and despite the many holes in that logic, he lets her have it. Who knows, maybe he wouldn’t have met Aaron if it weren’t for her trying to hook him up with everyone and their mother’s sons and daughters.
He’s so busy thinking about how he was worrying for nothing, he doesn’t realize they’re not going back to his house till they’ve been in the car for at least twenty minutes longer than they needed to be.
“Where are we going?” he asks, breaking off midway through a story from dinner that he was telling like Aaron wasn’t there for it.
“A friend of mine from school has an art studio a little outside the city. He’s letting us borrow it for the night. And don’t worry. James is picking up Ma
xwell to watch him for the night.”
Jackson furrows his brows in confusion. Aaron’s expression is looking very smug. He’s got something sneaky planned. “Why do we need to borrow his studio when we have a perfectly fine house to sleep in?”
Aaron smiles fondly, side-eyeing him and huffing. “Always with the questions. Have I let you down yet?”
“No,” says Jackson. “But that doesn’t make me want to know what’s going on any less.” If anything, it makes him want to know even more.
Aaron rolls his eyes. “We’ll be there in like ten minutes. You can wait that long. Why don’t you tell me again about how much your mom likes me?”
Jackson hopes his face shows how unimpressed that distraction tactic makes him feel. He cranks up the radio and sings along obnoxiously loud to every song that comes on. Maybe he can make Aaron laugh so hard that he’ll be forced to pull over and gasp out his plan. It’s a long shot, but at least it’s an entertaining attempt.
The “studio” turns out to be a massive garage-like building set in the middle of an acre or so of land. It’s a little sketchy-looking, but Jackson’s seen stranger from artists. He has to grit his teeth to keep from asking questions as Aaron opens the door überslowly because sometimes he likes to be an obnoxious tease. The lights are off inside, and Jackson can’t see a damned thing once Aaron finally lets him through the door.
“Wait here,” says Aaron. His voice echoes in the cavernous space. So do his footsteps.
Jackson waits, and it’s only for a minute at most, but it feels like forever. The lights flicker on slowly, and he stares at the scene before him. There’s a mattress in the middle of the room, with a sheet thrown over it, and buckets of paint on either side.
“Um,” he says. They could just go home and have sex on their bed? He doesn’t get what’s so special about a mattress on an art studio floor. Maybe…. “Is your friend here? ’Cause I’m not really comfortable with us being photographed like that.” Read: it’s not going to happen in a million years.
Aaron makes a horrified face that Jackson can see from across the room. “No, oh my God. Just… check out the bed, yeah? You’ll figure it out.”
He approaches the mattress, and it still looks like just a mattress with white sheets and white pillows on top. They don’t look special in any way. He has to be missing something. He paces around the bed twice before he thinks to look at the paint cans. He squints his eyes and crouches to get a closer look. Glow-in-the-dark paint. He looks from the paint to the bed and finally over to a pleased-looking Aaron.
“I think I’ve got it now.” He can’t help but grin. This is going to be so much fun. He’s heard about people doing this, but he never has. And he’s always wanted to.
Aaron laughs. “About time. Why don’t you open up those cans, and I’ll turn off the lights.”
He starts to pry open the paint cans. “This place has a shower right?” he thinks to ask.
“Yeah, don’t worry.”
“And your friend is totally cool with this?”
“He offered the place right up.”
Well that’s all of Jackson’s doubts assuaged. He pops the last lid off, and not a moment later the room is pitch-black again. He strips while Aaron tries to find his way to the bed in the darkness, and he’s waiting for him on the sheets when he finally makes it. The sound of Aaron removing his clothes is loud in the still air.
It’s even louder when they drag the paint cans closer to the bed.
Aaron lowers down on top of Jackson, kisses from the hinge of his jaw all the way to his lips. “We’re going to make such a mess,” he says, rolling to his back and bringing Jackson with him. His hand flails out toward a paint can. “I’ve got some ideas about what I can draw on you.” He bucks his hips up hard enough to send Jackson bouncing. “You’ll get to see marks from everywhere I touch you.”
Jackson kisses him and reaches for the paint at the same time. If Aaron keeps talking, he’s going to completely forget about the paint and go right for the sex. And he doesn’t want to do that. He has big plans. He’s totally going to write “mine” in big bold letters on Aaron’s back. And he knows the perfect way to get Aaron on his front. He’ll get to that in a minute, though. He’s not quite done with Aaron’s mouth.
Exclusive Excerpt
Checking It Twice
A Carlisles Novel
By Meg Harding
Closeted professional hockey player Eric Belanger is falling hard for an out-and-proud male model. He’s unable to resist Dorian’s charm and pushing personal boundaries he never thought he’d cross. But Dorian is the kind of guy who deserves someone who isn’t afraid to be himself. Eric’s fears about what coming out will do to his career clash with the future he hopes to build with Dorian. He knows he’ll eventually have to make a choice.
Dorian Carlisle knows better than to date a man who wants to keep him a secret, but there’s something about Eric he can’t ignore. So he’ll take the risk, and it’ll be all right, because this isn’t a forever romance. He’s happy to live in the moment. But somehow, at some point, feelings sneak up on him, and he’s not okay anymore. At a breaking point, Dorian must also make a decision. Their time together will either be the start of something wonderful or nothing more than a happy memory.
Coming Soon to
www.dreamspinnerpress.com
Chapter One
SOMEHOW DORIAN’S name got tossed into the ring for a winter clothing line spread in some sports magazine, and now he’s on a set in downtown New York City with five big, hulking hockey players. A few of whom are pretty damn hot, and the majority of whom aren’t American. He can admit, he’s a sucker for an accent, and it’s a little distracting.
Jackson, his brother, flicks his nose. He stops staring at the tall European guy who’s talking to the tall French Canadian, who has his shirt off and an abdomen that Dorian would pay to be able to lick. He scrunches his face up at his brother, mimicking the judgey look being thrown his way. He can’t believe Jackson took this job. Isn’t it bad enough that he has to work with Denver—his twin—more often than not?
“What was that for?” he asks, gaze already trying to return to the guys. He can’t help it. He’s innately wired to appreciate beautiful things.
“I’m trying to do your makeup, and you’re making it difficult. Stop looking at the toys you can’t touch and look at me.” Jackson grabs his chin and tilts his head just so, wielding eyeliner in his other hand like it’s a weapon.
Dorian pouts, sticking his bottom lip way out. “You don’t know. I could touch them.” In his dreams.
Jackson gives him a stern look, which is ridiculous since he’s a year younger. Dorian should be the one giving the parental stare-downs. “Hands to yourself. Professional athletes are never a good idea. Now open your eyes wide and don’t blink.”
It takes a lot of self-control to not sneak glances at the hockey players while they get dressed and their makeup gets done. And well, he just doesn’t have that control. So he manages a peek or two. The whole process is a lot of clothes coming on and off, muscles flexing, watching stylists run their hands through gorgeous hair. It’s like being in a candy shop and getting told you can’t have anything. So not fair.
Dorian can list on one hand the things he knows about sports, and all of it mostly has to do with what the balls look like and the overall purpose of them: score goals. It’s not that he’s not interested—well, okay, it is—but he just doesn’t have the attention span for it. He’s done jobs with plenty of athletes, both male and female, and their sports sound interesting enough when they talk to him about them. It just doesn’t translate to him watching it.
His lack of interest isn’t normally a problem, but athletes are a peculiar lot, and sometimes that makes working with them difficult. They have a hard time understanding the shoot isn’t about them. It’s about the photographer’s vision. The designer’s vision. It’s about serving a purpose. And then there are the times where it’s like they’re sp
eaking a whole other language.
Like now.
The guys all appear to know each other, having no problem interacting and slapping each other’s backs. Dorian feels like an outsider—he doesn’t know the other model on set—and he’s wondering just what the purpose of having two token models is. Maybe it’s to model the smaller-sized clothes. Either way, it would have made more sense to use all hockey players or all models. But whatever.
Once his makeup is done, he changes into his first outfit of the day—heavy ski pants and a giant white fur hooded parka. He feels like a marshmallow, and he’s wearing more clothes than anybody else on set.
One of the guys, a six-foot-four giant with a blond mane of hair, dark blue eyes, and a scar through his left eyebrow, bumps his shoulder as he comes up beside him. Dorian wouldn’t have felt it through his many layers if it didn’t almost knock him over.
“Hey,” says the guy, Swedish accent nearly swallowing the words. “You the guy from that jeans commercial?”
Dorian blinks, staring at him in openmouthed surprise. “Um,” he says. He’s done a lot of jeans commercials and ads. “Maybe?” He clears his throat. “Probably.” Oh joy. He’s lost the ability to say more than one word at a time.
“Thought so. I’ve got a pair. They’re nice.”
“That’s… good?” So the guy may look like a god, but his conversational skills are a little lacking.
Although he doesn’t really need those skills for what Dorian would like to do….
“Look at you hogging the model, Nicco. You trying to make sure you look less stupid than the rest of us?” The guy approaching is shirtless, wearing nothing but tight black fleece leggings. He doesn’t have an accent, but he does have a ruggedly beautiful face and black curly hair. He’s maybe an inch shorter than Nicco, and when he gets closer, Dorian can see that his left eye is blue while the right is brown.
