On the Clock (Market Garden, #8)(25)

God. He’d been right.

This was worth every penny.

Jason disappeared from the frame, likely to get rid of the condom. Meanwhile, Tristan was holding on to Jared, stroking his hair with an unsteady hand and murmuring softly to him. And Jared, well, he was the epitome of the phrase “wet noodle.” His eyes were closed, his body limp and relaxed on top of Tristan’s. Even when Jason returned with a couple of towels, Jared could barely move. Jason and Tristan helped him get up and roll onto his side, and the two of them gently cleaned him off.

It struck Blake how quickly they could shift from practically being porn stars to this genuine tenderness—regardless of why they were doing this tonight, the three of them obviously cared about each other. That, too, struck him. It had been ages since he’d been with someone who held him like Jason and Tristan were both holding Jared.

And just like that, Blake’s postorgasmic lethargy was turning into something else. Something he didn’t really want to feel tonight.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll, um, let you guys relax a bit. Thanks for the show.” He smiled, hoping it looked real. “Well worth the money.”

“Glad you enjoyed it.” Tristan glanced up from stroking Jared’s hair and flashed a tired grin, but then went back to paying attention to his boyfriend, who must’ve fallen asleep already.

Jason held Blake’s gaze, and his eyes narrowed slightly. Then he too smiled, if halfheartedly. “I’ll see you when you’re back in town?”

Blake moistened his lips. “Of course. Can’t wait.”

“Neither can I.” Jason’s smile became more genuine, but his arched eyebrow suggested he was, as always, reading Blake.

Blake muffled another cough and broke eye contact again, ostensibly to glance at his keyboard, which fortunately hadn’t gotten any semen on it. “See you soon.”

“See you soon.” Jason reached for his laptop, and the video went dark.

Blake set his laptop aside and got up to get a shower. He didn’t need one—a little cum never hurt anyone—but it was something to do. As the hot water rushed over him, a mix of arousal and sadness confused the f*ck out of his senses.

The guys had put on one hell of a show. He was absolutely satisfied, so why didn’t he feel right? When his mind drifted back to the performance again and again, it wasn’t the sex that held his attention. It wasn’t three gorgeous men making out and f*cking for his entertainment.

All he could think about was how much he wished he could find someone who looked at him the way Tristan looked at Jared.





Blake couldn’t help the little flutter of excitement when he stepped out of customs at Heathrow and Jason stood there, leaning casually against the railing, dressed to the nines. Well, eights. He didn’t wear a tie, but that suit was tailored within an inch of his life—and not in that new fashion where the suit was a couple of sizes too small and the jacket wouldn’t close unless the wearer held his breath. No, this suit was perfect, and the tight shirt promised the warmth of skin underneath, nearly within reach.

Their eyes met.

They both smiled.

Blake’s heart pushed hard against his rib cage. He hadn’t managed to sleep on the overnighter. He’d wanted to get the paperwork done on the way so he’d have more time to spend with Jason. And seeing him now made it all worth it.

They hugged when Blake got out from behind the railing. It was a natural gesture, one that could be interpreted by onlookers as old friends or flames saying hi.

“How are you?” Jason asked.

“Surprised you’re here. It’s what, eight in the morning?”

“And you were circling Heathrow for forty minutes.” Jason flashed his teeth.

“Oh god, don’t remind me.” Blake eyed the coffee shop by the exit. Get jittery off too much caffeine and Jason, or stay as jittery as he already was? “How long did it take you to get here?”

“Ten minutes.”

“You live in Heathrow?”

“No, I checked into a hotel close by. Didn’t want to miss you.” Jason fell into an easy stride next to him. “How was the flight?”

Oh gods, so boyfriend-y. “I submitted a request to management to close up that stupid ocean between our continents.”

Jason side-eyed him. “Expect the Icelanders to protest.”

“All five hundred of them.” Blake yawned. Then he spotted his driver. “That way.” They headed for the limo, and the driver put his luggage away.

“Where to, sir?”

“Hotel. I am f*cking desperate for a shower.” Blake saw Jason’s lips twitch. “And breakfast.” Another twitch. Blake rolled his eyes and elbowed him playfully. “Real breakfast.”

“Of course.” Jason batted his eyes. “After a long flight like that, anyone would need a good Old English.” As he stepped into the car ahead of Blake, he added, “I understand that sausage works wonders on jet lag.”

Blake almost choked. He glanced at the driver, whose expression hadn’t change. If he was amused or offended, he was too British to show it.

Blake joined Jason in the car, and as soon as the door was shut, he said, “Sausage? Really?”

Jason laughed. He slid closer and ran a hand over the top of Blake’s thigh. “I meant of the breakfast variety. I don’t know how you could possibly have thought—”