Page 59 of Home Grown Talent

“Really?”

Owen waggled his eyebrows. “I have plans for breakfast.”

“Intriguing,” Mason said, his wide smile transforming suddenly and comically into a huge, jaw-cracking yawn.

“You really are tired,” Owen said, moving forward and settling his hands gently on Mason’s hips, tugging him forward, loving the little moan Mason gave as their chests bumped.

“I’m totally wiped,” Mason admitted. “Been up since four and on the go the whole day.”

“Yeah?” Owen said. “Poor baby.”

Mason gave a funny, little laugh that was a bit embarrassed and a bit pleased. Encouraged, Owen kissed his nose, then drew back. “Bloody hell, your nose is like ice!”

“I’m like that all over,” Mason said. “That beach was fucking freezing.”

“Were you modelling swimwear?” It hadn’t been warm today—in fact it had been grey and overcast. Definitely not nice enough to be mostly naked outside.

Mason shook his head. “Nope, high-end tailoring, would you believe? But the photographer had us barefoot in the water for ages, splashing in the shallows, then sitting around on wet rocks looking wistfully out to sea. The water was fucking freezing, and it was pretty windy at times.” He shrugged. “He was pleased with the results, though, so that’s good.”

Owen let go of Mason’s hips and reached for his hands, twining his warm fingers with Mason’s icy ones. “Let’s get you warmed up,” he said. “Do you want to take a hot shower while I make you that tea I promised?”

Mason shook his head. “Maybe later. Could we just…” He trailed off, his cheeks pinkening. He wanted to ask for something but couldn’t seem to find the words, and for some reason, Owen found that incredibly cute.

“You want to go to bed?” he guessed. Mason nodded, but Owen could see from his hopeful expression that there was something else too that he wanted.

“Okay,” Owen said agreeably. “Let’s go to bed and I’ll take care of you.”

Mason sighed happily and let Owen tug him towards the bedroom.

Once they got there, he seemed to be too tired to do anything but just stand while Owen undressed him, shepherded him into bed, and then gave him a long, slow, thorough blowjob, edging him a couple of times before finally letting him come in big, greedy, exuberant pulses.

“Tha’ was so good,” Mason mumbled as Owen settled in behind him spoon-style, tugging Mason closer, one arm anchored round his waist. “Wha’ ’bout you, though?”

“I’m great,” Owen said, smiling against his neck. “I can wait till tomorrow. Just go to sleep.”

Mason probably didn’t hear that—he was already gone.

Owen leaned up on one elbow and watched him for a few minutes. The lines of exhaustion were already smoothing out as he breathed, slow and deep. And as Owen’s own iron-hard erection slowly subsided, a warm ache of helpless affection took its place. It was an odd feeling. A hazy, unknowable compass point located somewhere between joy and fear.

You’re overthinking it, he told himself. Just go to sleep.

And at last, he did.

It was almost nine hours later that Owen finally woke, blinking in astonishment at the alarm clock. He never slept this long. His job required him to be up and about early most days, and it had become an ingrained habit to rise around six, even at weekends.

Well, not today apparently. It was nine-forty already, and Weekend Wellness would be starting in twenty minutes.

Owen slowly sat up, his gaze snagging on the man lying beside him. At some point in the night, he had let go of Mason, and Mason had moved away, curling in protectively on himself. Now, his face, turned into the pillow a little, was mostly hidden by his messy hair. He was still sleeping soundly.

Owen eased himself out of bed, careful not to wake him. He had Things To Do.

Padding through to the kitchen, he quickly set the coffee maker going, then pulled up the recipe on his phone that he’d decided to make—Eggs Benedict.

He started by getting out all the ingredients and equipment that he needed. Already he had a sneaking feeling that it might have been a better idea to buy the ready-made hollandaise sauce he’d spotted in the supermarket yesterday, rather than making it himself from scratch, but he was where he was. And it couldn’t be that hard.

Before he started on the sauce, he split the muffins ready for toasting and put on a pan of boiling water for the poached eggs—those would only take a few minutes when the time came, so he just needed to be ready to go. What else? Oh yes, bacon. He set the grill as low as it would go and put the bacon on to cook slowly so it would get nicely crispy. The coffee machine beeped then, and he quickly poured himself a cup and took a huge swig. Okay, now he was ready to tackle the sauce.

He started by melting the butter in one pan and skimming the whitish milk solids off the top while, in the other pan, he whisked together egg yolks and tarragon vinegar in a bowl over a pan of water. His gaze darted anxiously between the two pans as the minutes ticked by. The yolk mix was supposed to thicken—that was the cue to start adding the butter—but it seemed as thin as ever. Was the difference subtler than he’d thought?