He clapped his thigh for Mary to follow, and used the key Owen had given him yesterday. He stared at the blue metal as he kicked off his shoes. There was something about it. How Owen had hesitated as he’d pulled it out of the living room dresser drawer. Jason had been too caught up in other emotions after breakfast; lost in his need for space, he hadn’t paid attention. But now . . .
Jason gripped the metal. Had this been the key he’d had cut for Hayden? Was this the key that had once represented his hope for a happily ever after?
Mary nuzzled his hand and Jason carefully slipped the key into his pocket and patted it. He’d make sure nothing happened to it.
He glimpsed his reflection in a mirror, twisted and . . . Oh, wow. That was truly obscene.
He laughed. Really, what else could one do? “Let’s find a snack, Mary—”
Quite smartly, he halted in the doorway to the living area. The couch had been shifted, the TV repositioned at the opposite corner, the rug shifted.
And there, all gleaming and pretty, was his surprise.
Chapter Fifteen
Mary squeezed past him, fur under Jason’s trembling fingers. She sniffed around the room, reorienting herself, and finally stopped at the piano stationed proudly against the wall.
Both feet and heart thumped as he arrowed toward the stool, the open fallboard, and a square card propped on the music rack.
Got Carl’s permission to have this moved here for as long as you need it. Hope this makes you feel more at home,
Owen
Oh God, it did.
He patted the stool for Mary to jump up and took a selfie of them grinning in front of the piano. He sent it to Owen with a kissy-smile.
Jason: Thank you
* * *
Owen: You’re welcome
* * *
Jason: Will you be hungry when you get home? I’d love to make you my favourite pumpkin sage fusilli
* * *
Owen: Will eat earlier in the evening, but I’d love to bring some of that in for tomorrow night’s dinner
* * *
Jason: Consider it Tupperwared
He touched a smooth ivory key and winced. It’d need retuning. What a perfect way to spend the evening while Owen was working—making food for them, tinkering with the piano. He kept his torn jeans on the entire time, part laziness and part anticipation born of Owen’s cryptic—or maybe not so cryptic—parting words. He might have, approaching midnight, spent a few naughty minutes in the bathroom with Owen’s lubricant, and he definitely might have stripped himself of everything but the jeans and draped himself over the piano afterwards.
Car lights beamed through the front windows and cut out, and Jason shivered, minty breath fogging the polished wood. He’d left a single lamp on in the lounge for ambience, and fried sage spiced the air from earlier. All in all, not a terrible scene to come home to after a—let’s admit—rather crazy day.
Owen let himself into the house quietly and, quite like Jason had earlier, came to an abrupt stop in the doorway. His cap was off, along with his shoes and his utility belt, but the rest of him was neatly uniformed.
He laughed softly and moved easily into the room, plucking at his shirt buttons. He dropped his shirt over the back of the couch and strolled perfect musculature towards Jason.
Jason bit down on a grin and aimed for coy. “I’ve been very, very bad.”
A few lazy yips.
“Mary, I’m roleplaying.”
More gentle laughter, and Owen sliding behind him, a warm press against his back. A nuzzled kiss into the crook of his neck. “It’s almost like you plucked the fantasy from my head.”
“A bad boy getting his just desserts?”
Owen inhaled deeply and the suction pebbled goosebumps on his skin. “You, in my house, over a piano.”
He groped the hole in his jeans and sank a finger home, and Jason loved the unquestioned nature of it.
Owen’s pants dropped to his feet, a churring slide down the back of Jason’s jeans, and then—blunt, thick heat and a million nerve-endings met as Owen pushed into him.
It felt different this time. Better, dare he say. It wasn’t the position, or the satisfying clunking of keys as he’d dropped a hand to the ivory, or even the idea he was being rammed hard against a piano. It wasn’t even the naughty thrill of Owen fucking him through a glory hole in his jeans. Or the way Owen didn’t unzip him.
It was . . . the fact he hadn’t taken off his socks. The way it was all so relaxed. Like Owen hadn’t been surprised at Jason’s offering. Like he’d come home to a boyfriend who had needs and was more than content to gratify them.
It felt like fucking, yes—God, GOD yes!
But it also felt like being taken care of.
The rock-hard thrusts into him were each their own revelation. He’d been curious about sex with a man, and had anticipated far more pain and awkwardness, but this stretching hit all the right nerves. He was soaring, higher and higher toward release.