This was strangely domestic. Not very long ago, they’d been fooling around against his Lamborghini, negotiating orgasms and money as if there were an actual exchange rate between the two, and now . . . this. Sharing a blanket on the sofa, watching movies and eating his mother’s famous soup. Sex wasn’t on the table tonight—likely not for the next few nights—and Blake was okay with that.
More than okay with that, in fact. Though he didn’t dare say it out loud, the truth was, Blake liked this arrangement. He would have preferred for Jason to be healthy and not so miserable, but there was something to be said for curling up in front of the TV with someone like this. Though he never wanted for anything in the bedroom these days, it had been a long time since he’d scratched this particular itch.
And no matter how much he rationalized it in his mind, he couldn’t make himself believe Jason was fulfilling his role as an escort, providing company in exchange for money. Maybe that was the deal on his end, but for Blake? Not even close. He couldn’t imagine sitting here like this with anyone else.
It wasn’t company he wanted right then. It was Jason.
So what the hell do I do when he flies home?
The universe had a hell of a sense of humor, as did Jason’s immune system. His flu stubbornly hung in there until the day before he was flying home. Blake really couldn’t justify taking any additional time off work, and Jason needed to get back to Market Garden, so rescheduling wasn’t an option. They’d just have to wait until Blake returned to London again.
Fortunately for Jason, he was very much on the upswing by the time they had to head to the airport. Still exhausted and dragging his feet, still a bit pale, but his sinuses—and most importantly, his ears—were clear enough to fly without wanting to hurl himself out the nearest exit.
As Blake was finishing up his coffee, Jason came into the kitchen with his small suitcase in tow. His heart sank—yeah, it was time.
“You want another coffee before we go?”
Jason shook his head. “Thank you, no. I’m hoping to sleep in the air.”
“Good plan.” Blake plucked a set of keys off the rack. “We’ll take the Land Rover. More room for luggage, and I’m less likely to deck someone if they ding the door while we’re unloading.”
“Precisely how many vehicles do you need, anyway?”
“I’d say I have enough.”
“For what? A small army?”
Blake chuckled. “I have my weekend toy, my everyday car, and one with some decent cargo space and four-wheel drive in case it snows.”
“I suppose that makes sense.” Jason grinned. “Somehow I doubt the arrangement happened for such practical reasons.”
“Not really, no.” Blake shrugged. “But hey, they’re paid for in cash, free and clear, and I take care of them. So why the fuck not?”
“Far be it from me to judge.” Jason’s smile underscored the lack of sarcasm in his voice—it was a gentle, amused observation, not nose-wrinkling or snark.
“Anyway.” Blake picked up Jason’s suitcase and gestured at the door. “After you.”
“I can get that.”
“It’s all right. Doesn’t weigh a thing. And you’ll get to carry it plenty when you get to Heathrow.”
“Ugh. Don’t remind me. I have to carry the bastard in the bloody Tube.”
Blake thought for a second. “I could always have one of the drivers pick—”
“No, no. You’ve already spoiled me quite rotten. I don’t think that will be necessary.”
“If you change your mind, let me know.”
“I will.” Jason paused. “Thank you, again, by the way. I know this trip didn’t play out like either of us wanted, but I . . . I did enjoy it.”
“Me too.”
Their eyes locked, and they both smiled, but it was a struggle for Blake.
Any chance I could still reschedule your flight?
Jason cleared his throat and broke eye contact. “Anyway.” He started toward the door, and Blake followed.
On the way out, Jason paused, gazing at the covered Lamborghini.
“Something wrong?”
“No. No.” Jason looked over his shoulder. “I guess it’s hard to believe you’ve got cars like these right here in your garage.”
“Well, I can’t exactly keep them in the living room.”
Laughing, Jason rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean. These seem like cars that live in show rooms.”
“Sometimes I can’t believe they’re out here either.” He glanced at the cars, and then realized Jason was no longer staring at the vehicles, but at him. “What?”
“It’s . . .” Jason hesitated. “I guess it’s funny. Whenever I’ve spent days at a time with someone—with a client—they remind me at every turn that they’re made of money. But with you, it kind of fades into the background unless we’re negotiating a price or drooling over your Lamborghini. Otherwise, you’re just . . . a regular guy.”
Blake cocked his head. “Is that a good thing or a bad one?”
Jason smiled again. “It’s a good one. A very good one.”
“For what it’s worth,” Blake said quietly, “that goes both ways.”
“Really?”
Blake nodded.
And there it was—that long, unflinching eye contact that had put Blake off-balance the night they met, but now seemed to be . . . almost normal. A comfortable thing between them.