Page 76 of Home Grown Talent
His climax surged, boiling over, hot and sticky across his belly and Owen’s hand, muscles tensing as his body clenched and jerked in release.
Owen held him close, spooning them together as he laid soft, soothing kisses against Mason’s shoulder, his neck, the side of his face.
Awash with endorphins, and unexpectedly emotional, Mason twisted around in his embrace, hiding his face in the soft juncture of Owen’s shoulder and neck. He didn’t want to look at Owen. Was scared of what Owen might see on his face.
Gently, Owen shifted them both, getting comfortable, but he kept his arms around Mason. Just… holding him.
After a while, as the flood of happy hormones receded and Mason started feeling more in control of himself, Owen said, quietly, “Do you mind when I call you angel?”
Mason huffed amusement against Owen’s shoulder and looked up. His eyelashes felt wet. He hoped Owen didn’t notice. “What’s wrong with ‘Mason’?”
“Nothing. I like Mason. A lot. But…” His smile turned self-conscious. “I like that nobody else calls you angel.”
Mason cocked an eyebrow. “My parents call me Angel.”
“Not the way I do.” Reaching up, he pushed his fingers through Mason’s tangled hair. “My sweet, debauched angel.”
“Oh my God,” Mason laughed, burying his face into Owen’s shoulder again.
They lay like that for a few minutes longer, until the beeping of the oven timer interrupted the peace. Mason sat up. “Dinner,” he said, smiling down at Owen.
Relaxed, happy, and totally unselfconscious, Owen sprawled in Mason’s bed like he belonged there.
Because he does, Mason’s heart supplied. He does belong there.
It was an electrifying thought, and it jolted him out of bed faster than the fear of over-cooked coq au vin. “I’m just going to take dinner out of the oven,” he said, “then jump into the shower. You go first, though.”
Dragging on shorts and a sweatshirt, he quickly washed his hands and dashed into the kitchen.
Half an hour later, hair damp from the shower, loose-limbed and glowing, he sat across from Owen at the kitchen table, grinning like an idiot. The evening had darkened to twilight, and Mason had lit a candle between them. The effect was ridiculously romantic, and Mason might have thought it was too much if Owen’s eyes, gleaming in the flickering light, hadn’t looked so fond.
“My God, this smells amazing,” he said when Mason spooned a generous helping of coq au vin onto his plate from the casserole on the table. He was serving it with crusty wholemeal bread that he’d made that morning—sod the carbs—and some simple sauteed green beans.
Owen ate like he did everything else, with all his straightforward feelings on display. In this case, pure pleasure. His groan of delight as he took his first mouthful might have raised Mason’s interest if he hadn’t just been so thoroughly sated. It did give him a warm glow of satisfaction, though.
“Incredible,” Owen said, eyes wide. “Blimey, Mason, this is fantastic. It’s like restaurant food.”
Mason felt his cheeks warm. “Thanks.” Praise for his cooking meant a lot to Mason. It gave him a sense of accomplishment he simply didn’t feel when people told him he was beautiful. Beauty was just a genetic roll of the dice. This, though? This was something he’d created with his own two hands using talent and training. This was something that gave another person pleasure, that fed and nourished them.
This was something worthy of pride.
Owen concentrated on his meal for a while, and Mason concentrated on Owen. He loved watching the enjoyment on his face, the way he dabbed up the last of the gravy with the bread Mason had baked that morning, the line of his throat as he tipped his head back to take another mouthful of Pinot Noir.
After Owen had finished eating, though, his expression changed. The pleasure and relaxation were chased away by something else, something that brought a frown to his brow.
Mason frowned, too. “Penny for them?” he said lightly, topping up Owen’s glass and then his own.
“Hmm?” Owen looked up, blinking. He’d been miles away, which was not a good sign after a fantastic fuck and a fabulous meal. “Sorry, I was…”
And now he looked uncomfortable, and the expression triggered a queasy flutter in Mason’s stomach. Mason pushed his own plate aside, unfinished. “What is it?”
Owen shook his head and sipped his wine. “Nothing. It’s stupid.”
“It can’t be both of those things.” Aware that he’d sounded sharp, Mason forced a smile. “It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me, though.”
Owen appeared to consider that, then said, “I’ll tell you, if you want.” He reached across the table, taking Mason’s hand and squeezing. “Come on. Bring the wine and let’s get comfy on the sofa.”
The warm grip of his hand and the smile in his denim-blue eyes eased Mason’s spiking anxiety. As he followed Owen into the living room, Mason wondered whether Owen was one of those people blessed with a high emotional IQ, or whether he and Owen were just especially in tune with each other.