On the Clock (Market Garden, #8)(26)

“Yeah, yeah. Come here.” Blake wrapped his arms around Jason and kissed him.

Jesus Christ. Fifteen minutes ago, he’d been nodding off in the never-ending customs line after a flight in Purgatory class, and now . . .

Now.

God.

Prince Charming may have been able to awaken Sleeping Beauty, but Jason’s kiss could bring a half-dead businessman into the correct time zone, wake him up, and give him a hard-on. Disney, eat your heart out.

Jason drew back, and he was actually a little winded. “Fuck. I thought you’d be tired.”

“I am.” Blake ran his tongue across his lips. “I was.”

“Still need a shower?”

“That depends.” Blake pulled him closer again. “Are you planning on joining me?”

“As if you have to ask.”

He brushed his lips across Jason’s. “I suppose we should work out a price.”

Jason hesitated. “How long did you say you’re in town?”

“Just a few days.”

“Would it be presumptuous of me to think we’ll spend a fair amount of time together during—”

“Not presumptuous at all. I was hoping your schedule would allow it.”

“I . . . might have cleared my schedule.”

“Oh?” Blake lifted his eyebrows, and the sheepish expression on Jason’s face—especially the hint of a blush—was f*cking adorable.

“Well, it does make business sense,” Jason said. “You are, after all, quite the high roller.”

“I am. So what’s that shower going to cost me?”

Jason grinned and trailed a fingertip along Blake’s jaw. “This one’s on the house. A little ‘welcome back to civilization’ gift.”

“Civilization? London barely has any skyscrapers.”

Jason pouted. “We’re working on it.”

“All of five highish buildings? Cute.” Blake chuckled at Jason’s expression. He’d missed the banter. Texts simply didn’t compare. Particularly not with a five-hour time difference between some of them. Though he’d at times woken up in the middle of the night, convinced that Jason must have texted him, and usually he had. Jesus, he was taking this whole thing too seriously. But it was one of the good, fun things in his life. Nothing wrong with that. Part of Jason’s customer service. And he went all out.

“So how free are you?”

Jason shrugged. “Free.”

“Define?”

“I poured the milk out and threw away all perishables so I don’t return to a smelly fridge.” Jason winked. “That kind of free.”

“Well, if you want to . . . you know, move into the hotel suite. There’s plenty of space. Strictly for convenience sake.”

“Of course. Traffic can be a pain.” Jason waved a hand. “That’s me being English. London is a nightmare.”

“I negotiate enough with Brits to know when you’re being facetious.”

“Ah, smart mouth on you. I’ll put it to some better use when we’re upstairs.”

“Imagine me being wittier and funnier than, ‘Yes, please.’”

Jason grinned. “Imagined. You’re being very witty.”

The car finally arrived. The driver unloaded them and Blake checked in—a process that went so smoothly that it seemed everybody had just waited for him and was glad he’d made it. In a polite, unmistakably British way. And somehow, Blake managed to fake the dignified businessman persona and play along when all he wanted was to grab Jason and drag him off to bed by his hair, Stone Age style.

Eventually, the staff wished him a pleasant stay and he gathered his key cards. Jason, who’d been watching fish in a large aquarium near the counter, fluidly joined him on the way up. A distinguished-looking elderly couple stepped onto the elevator, and Blake had to remind himself that Brits never, ever spoke in elevators. And they probably also frowned upon pinning well-dressed rentboys to the wall for a kiss, even if it was jet-lag therapy.

Fine. He could wait. It was only a few more minutes.

The elevator was, naturally, in no great rush, and the elderly couple took their time getting off at their floor. Then the elevator seemed to crawl upward. By the time he and Jason had reached the penthouse door, Blake was starting to ponder how British polite society would accept a couple of guys f*cking right there beside the door to the room they were on their way into in the first place.

Jesus. Wouldn’t that be hot?

“Need help with that?” Jason’s voice startled him.

Blake shook himself. How long had he been standing there with his key card hovering near the door as he mentally rode Jason against the elegant wallpaper? “Sorry. That flight must’ve taken more out of me than I thought.”

“As long as it didn’t take anything that’s mine.”

The possessiveness in that playful comment sent a jolt of electricity through Blake. Oh yeah, time to get into the room before that up-against-the-wall fantasy came true.

He remembered how to use the key card and, not a moment too soon, the door to the familiar penthouse was open. As he set his garment bag and suitcase on the antique, velvet-upholstered chair, a hiss of fabric on fabric made his hair stand on end. He turned around as Jason slid his tailored jacket off his shoulders.