Page 27 of Don't Shoot Me Santa

How could anyonenotbe turned on by that?

His boyfriend was a forensic fucking superhero.

Sure, maybe it wasa littleinappropriateto pop a semi on the drive back while Kenny dissected behavioural markers and victimology clusters, but that wasn’t Aaron’s fault. It was Kenny’s. For being so goddamn hot and emotionally unavailable in a trench coat. And that fucking scarf. The one he wrapped around himself as if auditioning forBrooding Academic: The Musical. It didn’t even keep the cold out. It was there to remind the world he was smarter than you, colder than you, and somehowunreasonably fuckablewhile discussing forensic linguistics.

So when Kenny pulled up on the driveway, headlights cutting across the garden hedge and the engine ticking with heat, Aaron concocted a plan.

And before anyone says it—

No. This wasn’t a deflection.

Absolutely not.

This wasn’t him shoving away the fear or the trauma or the million whispering ghosts living under his ribs. Wasn’t him distracting himself from the fact that another vulnerable child had been left out in the cold as if he didn’t matter. Not the way it clawed at him, reminding him who he was, where he came from, and that no matter how good he tried to be, there were always monsters out there. Ones that looked an awful lot like his bloodline.

Nope.

This was him wanting Kenny to fuck him.

Desperately.

Like,life or death,soul-realignment,get-fucked-so-good-the-past-shuts-upkind of wanting.

Completely rational.

Totally healthy.

Now all he had to do was sell that to the man currently convinced itwasdeflection.

Good thing he had a pole and a playlist. And a total lack of shame.

While Kenny unlocked the door and wandered inside with the shopping bags, Aaron kicked off his boots, dropped his coat on the bench, and headed straight for the jukebox in the dining room.

The house was warm, but he was burning.

So he flicked through the old vinyl until he found his weapon of choice. Etta James. Sultry. Raw. A voice dripping sin even when she sang about making soup. As the first saxophone notes crawled out of the speakers, Aaron glanced towards the kitchen and smirked. Kenny, crouched at the cupboard, pulling out the ingredients to make dinner, jeans stretched tight over his arse, tried very hard not to react. But his shoulders gave him away. That little hitch, the slight tension. He’d heard the song. Heknew.

Aaron chuckled under his breath.

Game on.

He yanked off his jumper, leaving nothing but pale, goose pimpled skin, marked in places only Kenny ever noticed. He was already wearing the tightest jeans he owned. The baby-blue ones. Borderline indecent. Meant for warmth, originally. Practicality. But right now? Very handy. He then kicked off his socks next, partly because it was practical for what he planned to do and mostly because socks were the enemy of seduction.

Seduction required bare skin, firm footing, and absolutely no shame.

He had all three.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the hallway mirror.

Yeah. This would work.

So he sauntered into the open-plan kitchen where Kenny was avoiding looking at him. The pole hung from the timberbeam splitting the arch between the kitchen and the lounge. It had been a joke installation. Therapy-through-stupidity. One of Aaron’s more brilliant ideas. To keep going with his pole fitness since leaving behind the uni society.

Tonight, though? Tonight, it was centre stage.

He grabbed it with one hand and leaned into the curve of his body, letting the music bleed through his limbs. Not fast. Not flashy.Intentional. All long lines and hip rolls and enough eye contact to register as a war crime.

He swung once with ease and fluidity, arching his back into the dip, dragging his fingertips across his stomach as he twisted and dipped low, thighs catching the light. He flexed up into the pole, gripping with his inner legs and moved into an aerial dance in perfect rhythm with Etta James declaring she just wanted to make love.