anticipation makes it sweeter.”
Jackson’s skin burned as his own tattoos drew themselves under his clothes. He had long forgotten the sensation. The coils and swirls inched over his flesh, his own soul branded on his exterior. It was his inner truth claiming ownership of the vessel. And in turn, Jackson was the valiant soldier who sought men to feed his inner self. Vegas had sacrificed his own pleasures for others, but Jackson couldn’t have been more different in greedily taking his own.
Screwing his eyes shut, Jackson concentrated. He relaxed into letting Vegas’s heat wash over him, but not consume him. It wasn’t right and not at all fair to Cillian for Jackson to violate what he and Vegas now had. The boiling need eased, and Jackson stood straighter. He focused on the affection Vegas had for another, and instead of being a harsh, icy shower, was a cooling salve on scalding skin.
Vegas didn’t miss a beat and delivered the salad to the pass-through. He tapped the bell, calling, “Order up!”
On the other side, Cillian grabbed the plate and was gone again.
Vegas considered his order tickets, then pulled out a pen from his apron pocket to make notes on the various slips of paper. He counted off on his fingers and then jotted another series of numbers, and finally spread them out in a line on his workstation. The things that took longer to cook went first, and the things that took only minutes went last; that way everything came out piping hot. Vegas had explained it all to Jackson once, but Jackson had been too busy staring at him with his jaw wide open in horror when Vegas had decided he was going to be a chef.
At least he was damned good at it.
Jackson checked the back of his hands, and his tattoos had faded into shades of muted gray. He would have never predicted the sense of relief that came with knowing his magical seal remained firmly in place.
“We should talk,” Vegas said, gesturing to the walk-in cooler. “I’ve got a few minutes until I have to get these orders in.”
Fuck. Vegas didn’t give up. Jackson got the memo. He knew. He didn’t need it nailed to his door like a dead chicken.
Jackson could only imagine how well it was going for Cillian, letting Ennis down on Christmas. Had to suck. Saddled with babysitting a new friend’s temporary baby and then having the guy he loved for, well, forever—or so Jackson assumed—only to have the guy break up with him.
Following Vegas into the walk-in, Jackson headed to the back, directly underneath the overhead compressor unit. He nibbled his bottom lip, crunching at the flesh—not to cause pain, but trying to work up the nerve to address it head-on.
Vegas shut the door behind him, the vacuum seal sucking into place with a hissing whisper.
“I know about you and Cillian,” Jackson spit out before Vegas turned.
When he did, Vegas had scrunched up his face, seeming confused. “What are you talking about? We’re just friends.”
Jackson forced a swallow down against the growing lump in his throat. “I know you’re just trying to cushion the blow. It starts out as innocent enough. You hang out with him more often, you ask him on part-time because business at the Charms of Zephyr is slow, you break your seal for him….” He stuttered as his words died. “I saw you in the back room jacking off. I watched you break your seal.”
Vegas’s eyes widened. “Are you kidding me? I broke my seal for you .”
Jackson’s heartache turned to surprising irritation. “Why the fuck would you even do that? Even I know how much you wear your abstinence and humanity like a badge of honor.”
“I wasn’t going to abstain forever,” Vegas said, indignant. “As you said, we’re living Viagra. I was just waiting for the right time. I was jacking off to see if I could still come because being physical is a big part of an incubus relationship with another.”
Jackson palmed his face. Nothing was making sense. None of the words that fell from
Jackson’s skin burned as his own tattoos drew themselves under his clothes. He had long forgotten the sensation. The coils and swirls inched over his flesh, his own soul branded on his exterior. It was his inner truth claiming ownership of the vessel. And in turn, Jackson was the valiant soldier who sought men to feed his inner self. Vegas had sacrificed his own pleasures for others, but Jackson couldn’t have been more different in greedily taking his own.
Screwing his eyes shut, Jackson concentrated. He relaxed into letting Vegas’s heat wash over him, but not consume him. It wasn’t right and not at all fair to Cillian for Jackson to violate what he and Vegas now had. The boiling need eased, and Jackson stood straighter. He focused on the affection Vegas had for another, and instead of being a harsh, icy shower, was a cooling salve on scalding skin.
Vegas didn’t miss a beat and delivered the salad to the pass-through. He tapped the bell, calling, “Order up!”
On the other side, Cillian grabbed the plate and was gone again.
Vegas considered his order tickets, then pulled out a pen from his apron pocket to make notes on the various slips of paper. He counted off on his fingers and then jotted another series of numbers, and finally spread them out in a line on his workstation. The things that took longer to cook went first, and the things that took only minutes went last; that way everything came out piping hot. Vegas had explained it all to Jackson once, but Jackson had been too busy staring at him with his jaw wide open in horror when Vegas had decided he was going to be a chef.
At least he was damned good at it.
Jackson checked the back of his hands, and his tattoos had faded into shades of muted gray. He would have never predicted the sense of relief that came with knowing his magical seal remained firmly in place.
“We should talk,” Vegas said, gesturing to the walk-in cooler. “I’ve got a few minutes until I have to get these orders in.”
Fuck. Vegas didn’t give up. Jackson got the memo. He knew. He didn’t need it nailed to his door like a dead chicken.
Jackson could only imagine how well it was going for Cillian, letting Ennis down on Christmas. Had to suck. Saddled with babysitting a new friend’s temporary baby and then having the guy he loved for, well, forever—or so Jackson assumed—only to have the guy break up with him.
Following Vegas into the walk-in, Jackson headed to the back, directly underneath the overhead compressor unit. He nibbled his bottom lip, crunching at the flesh—not to cause pain, but trying to work up the nerve to address it head-on.
Vegas shut the door behind him, the vacuum seal sucking into place with a hissing whisper.
“I know about you and Cillian,” Jackson spit out before Vegas turned.
When he did, Vegas had scrunched up his face, seeming confused. “What are you talking about? We’re just friends.”
Jackson forced a swallow down against the growing lump in his throat. “I know you’re just trying to cushion the blow. It starts out as innocent enough. You hang out with him more often, you ask him on part-time because business at the Charms of Zephyr is slow, you break your seal for him….” He stuttered as his words died. “I saw you in the back room jacking off. I watched you break your seal.”
Vegas’s eyes widened. “Are you kidding me? I broke my seal for you .”
Jackson’s heartache turned to surprising irritation. “Why the fuck would you even do that? Even I know how much you wear your abstinence and humanity like a badge of honor.”
“I wasn’t going to abstain forever,” Vegas said, indignant. “As you said, we’re living Viagra. I was just waiting for the right time. I was jacking off to see if I could still come because being physical is a big part of an incubus relationship with another.”
Jackson palmed his face. Nothing was making sense. None of the words that fell from
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