Page 27 of Home Grown Talent
And Owen had pushed him away.
He threw one arm over his face and groaned.
Fuck his life.
It was for the best—no doubt about that. He was under no illusions as to why Mason had come onto him last night. Mason was drunk and feeling horny, and Owen was… well, he was there, and he had a pulse. For some guys, that was all you really needed.
But yeah. No.
There was a part of him, though—okay, it was his dick—that was pissed off at last-night-Owen for doing the right thing and turning down a night of meaningless sex. Because, physically, at least, Mason was so very much Owen’s type, it wasn’t even funny. And yeah, maybe it wasn’t just the physical stuff. That moment when he’d pouted and pointed at his shirt buttons, practically demanding that Owen undress him? Owen let out an embarrassed laugh at the memory. Christ, he was a sucker for a spoiled brat…
Owen’s dick throbbed with need. Groaning, he wrapped his fingers around his shaft under the bedcovers and stroked, allowing himself the luxury of wallowing in the memory of Mason leaning in towards him…
The soft pout of his sulky mouth.
Owen’s hand moved faster as he let himself imagine a different ending to the evening. One where he pushed Mason down to his knees, ripped open the fly of his tux trousers and shoved his cock down that lovely throat.
Within moments, Owen’s hand was stripping his cock desperately, his breath coming hot and fast. When he came, it was sudden and violent, too soon and so hard that he curled in on himself, groaning as the hot semen splashed his belly, his chest.
He lay there for long moments afterwards, stunned by the intensity of his reaction. How quickly he’d come, how strongly the image of Mason on his knees had affected him.
Christ, was he really that superficial? Apparently so.
If the world was fair, that would have been enough to deal with his preoccupation with Mason for one day. But the world wasn’t fair. Thoughts of Mason intruded all through his morning run, and all through the long, hot shower he took afterwards. Even as he made, then ate, his breakfast.
And for some reason, it was the moments when he’d seen Mason at his most vulnerable that kept coming back to him.
The hurt expression on his face when they’d been in the bar and Jay had said that the most fun he’d had all evening was when Owen had got rid of that journalist.
His gratitude when Owen had taken care of him when he was being sick.
His angry mortification when he’d tried to kiss Owen, and Owen had pushed him away.
Hell.
Perhaps his impulsive decision to do Weekend Wellness wasn’t as rational as it had felt last night. He really didn’t have the time for another project, and in the cold light of day, the “good for business” angle felt really quite thin.
No, he had to own it: he’d been swayed by Mason. By his beauty, and by that knowing, sexy pout that seemed calculated to go straight to Owen’s cock.
It certainly hadn’t been Owen’s head making the decision. Well, it was too late now to pull out. He’d told Mason he would do it, and he’d stand by that decision. He’d just have to make sure he set some clear boundaries with Misty Watson-King about his availability. Oh, and pretend that pass last night had never happened.
After breakfast, and before he headed off to his first job, Owen bit the bullet and called Misty. He half-expected her to say she’d thought better of the idea overnight and it had just been the wine talking, but no, she was just as enthusiastic as she’d been at the awards dinner. And when Owen told her he’d decided to do it, she was positively triumphant. After commending him on recognising that her offer was not an opportunity to be missed, she said Naomi would send him and Mason information on next steps over the weekend.
Once he’d hung up on Misty, he texted Mason.
Called Misty about WW—she’s over the moon. You’ll be getting an email in a day or two :-)
He stared at the screen of his phone for a few minutes after sending, but there was no response, and eventually, he tucked it away and headed out to work.
Hunter Gardens occupied a fairly basic unit at an industrial park a few miles from Owen’s house. It wasn’t exactly glamorous, but it had a decent-sized office, ample secure storage for his gear, and parking for the vans.
As usual, Owen was the first to arrive, though Mac wasn’t far behind him.
Mac, Owen’s best friend from his school days, was a tall Amazon of a woman who wore her long, curly hair scraped back in a ponytail and not so much as a scrap of make-up. Prior to working for Owen, she’d spent most of her days stoned with one loser boyfriend after another. But after agreeing to help Owen out temporarily when he was trying to get the business off the ground, she’d decided—to Owen’s eternal astonishment—that she actually preferred hard physical labour and early mornings.
“Wotcher,” she said—her traditional greeting—when she entered the office.
“Morning,” Owen replied, swigging his instant coffee. “Kettle’s just boiled.”