He whimpered and slunk fingers to his crotch—
“Hands where I can see them, sweetheart,” Owen growled in hot syllables at his ear.
Jason smacked his wrists against the top of the piano, and Owen thrust into him a dozen more times before he peeled open Jason’s straining zipper and freed him. Jason gasped at the efficient touches, the ribbed fist stroking around him, faster, faster.
With a bright flash, Jason exploded long and hard against the side of the piano, and Owen was another three groaning pulses behind. Spilling deep inside him.
Jason sagged against the piano, blissed out and boneless. He pouted and shivered when Owen removed himself. To go from having him so close, so intensely close to . . .
Owen turned him around and tucked him against his chest. He kissed his forehead. “You didn’t have to wait up for me, but that was lovely.” He pulled back just enough to read Jason’s expression and smiled, satisfied. “Still feeling okay.” A rub over his arse cheek.
“I can’t seem to get enough.” Jason glanced at the piano and laughed. “It’ll be easier to clean, but . . .”
“But?” God, the tender way Owen brushed fingers through his hair . . .
“I shouldn’t have bothered tuning it.”
Over the next few days, Jason tuned the piano a couple more times . . . Worth it, of course. Then Owen promised that would be it for a while; time to give the old instrument a break. Jason was fairly hopeful he was talking about the wood instrument. The wood and ivory instrument.
While Owen spent his evenings at work, Jason played for Mary—mostly practice for his Erwin Schuloff rehearsals, which were approaching . . . all too soon. He shoved the thought to the recesses of his mind and cooked and Tupperwared to Owen’s Spotify playlist—instrumental classics and a lot of Crowded House, and yes, Jason could get behind it.
He even started humming the tunes at work. While ringing up customers, while mopping aisles, while selecting a Catbernet for the not-misogynist who’d come in for more. But the time kept draining away.
When Cora came in one lunchtime, rounded the counter and sat on his chair flipping through a magazine—eyes glazed, like her thoughts were somewhere else entirely—he couldn’t help wishing he could be a part of seeing her happy. That he could show Cora she was loved.
The store doors opened, and Alex raced in waving his phone, puffed. “Carl, did you see the tweet?”
“What tweet?” he asked, pulling his phone from his back pocket.
“Earnest Point Police.” He laughed. “Owen needs saving.”
Jason swiped and tapped.
BREAKING NEWS: Sundale School’s grade ones take Sergeant Owen Stirling and Jane Marsden hostage. Their demands: three books read aloud and donuts for everyone. @Carl’sConvience Can you save us?
He looked between Cora and Alex, grinning. “Alex? Do you know how to work a till?”
Cora led the way to the grade ones’ class and waved at Craig’s youngest girl before adding her box of donuts to the stack Jason was carrying, and dashing off back to work. Kids swarmed the boxes, jumping and crying out in all shades of over-sugared delight, while Jane and Owen talked with the teachers.
Owen had been reading to the class when Jason first came through the door, but when he’d finished the book he’d grinned and, with a devilish wink at Jason, sent the kids scurrying over to him and his donuts.
Jason had never juggled so much enthusiasm before and he was laughing as hard as the rest of them.
He glanced across the room and found Owen in his dress uniform, smiling, arms crossed, hat in his hands. Smart indeed. Crisp and well put together, a man of principle, a man who would put himself at risk to save others. A man who’d done as much for Jason many times. The diligent and ethical service medal he’d been awarded glinted in slants of light coming though the classroom window, his golden hair a halo. Gosh, he shouldn’t stare so openly.
Jane weaved her way over to the donut station and nabbed one before they were all devoured. “Thanks for getting us out of a tight spot.”
“Thought you weren’t supposed to negotiate with terrorists?”
“Negotiate? We caved the moment they made their demands.”
Jason laughed, and Jane sent him over to Owen to help carry the bags of show-and-tell gear back to the patrol car.
Owen was still engaged with the teacher; Jason simply mimed, collected the zipped up duffel bags and heaved them over his shoulders. He trucked them over the school quad to the patrol car on display in the middle of the carpark.
“Jason,” Owen called.
Jason dropped the bags either side of him and turned around. Owen jogged toward him, hat back on his head, grin underneath it. He slowed his approach to a stride and gestured to the bags. “You didn’t have to take them all.”