“DANIEL, I’M
sorry if I’ve offended you,” Owen said hurriedly. “There’s nothing wrong with your style. We just felt that with Ander’s fashion bent….”
Daniel held his hand up to stop the flow of Owen’s words. It didn’t help to know this was just another example of shiny Ander versus dull Daniel. It didn’t help that the person delivering the news was someone he’d hoped had been flirting with him.
Nope. Just business, as suspected.
“Of course. The show needs to look the right way.” Daniel nodded as he fiddled with his silverware. “I understand. So, uh—do you give me their number and I’ll set something up?”
“Actually, I was thinking I could assist with the wardrobe upgrade myself.”
The waiter brought their glasses of wine, which gave Daniel a moment to pause, stare at the sleek wooden tabletop, and breathe. Sympathy shopping? What the hell should he do about that?
When the waiter left them alone once again, Daniel mustered his most polite smile. “Owen, you don’t have to do that. I’m not insulted or anything. You can just give me the name of your person.”
Owen regarded him, head tilted to one side. The intensity of his look made Daniel uncomfortable. Owen let the silence sit for a moment, then rested his elbows on the table. “Daniel,” he said with compassion, “if I wanted to just give you the phone number, I wouldn’t have asked you to lunch.”
Daniel drank his wine; it didn’t do anything embarrassing like drip out of his mouth or make him choke it out his nose. He pretended to be enjoying whatever twenty-seven bucks a glass bought you, then put the glass down casually.
“So why
did
you ask me to lunch?” he asked boldly, so calm and steady from the waist up that he couldn’t exert control over his right leg, which flinched with all the power of confused embarrassment and kicked Owen under the table.
Owen jumped, the table rattled, and Daniel wanted to die.
“Sorry,” he muttered. A quick glance around and Daniel marked his route to escape.
Except.
Except an ankle had now hooked over his unreliable leg, with an unmistakable brush of soft velvety sock under the hem of his pants.
“Oh.”
Owen’s smirk was delicious. The way his broad shoulders leaned in, they twisted just enough for Daniel to imagine a whisper in his ear. “I asked you to lunch because I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
“Thinking about giving me a makeover?” Daniel threw in, mostly as a way to take in oxygen without being obvious that a gasp was itching inside his lungs.
The rub of Owen’s leg under the table moved a little higher, dragging his pants up. Daniel bit his bottom lip, nudging his thighs apart to give his suddenly aching dick a break. Unfair. Everything about Owen Grainger was un-fucking-fair.
“Victor said you needed a new look,” Owen murmured, batting his eyelashes at Daniel. “I told him there was nothing wrong with the way you filled out a suit—but that maybe I could find something that accentuated all the good things a bit… better.”
Something about the way his lips curled around
all the good things
made Daniel’s stomach flutter. Good things—he wanted to know more about what Owen saw, because the last compliment he got was from a drunk guy who told him he had a nice mouth as they passed each other on the street.
“So you volunteered to take me to lunch.”
“And shopping.”
Who knew that word could sound so dirty?
“I—well, thanks. I’d love to take you up on that,” Daniel managed as somehow Owen’s ankle reached the inside of Daniel’s right knee.
“Are you busy today?” Owen asked, innocent as could be.
The waiter arrived before Daniel could answer, but Owen never blinked. He thanked the man for his food, turned down fresh pepper, and not once did his gaze leave Daniel’s face.
“No, thank you,” Daniel told the waiter, desperate for him to go the hell away.
“Was that to my question?”
Daniel shook his head. “No to pepper. Yes to you.” He pretended to find interest in his pasta—spicy lamb sausage and yellow tomato sauce in an interesting twirl on the plate. As his senses refocused from Owen Fucking Grainger to I Skipped Breakfast, Daniel took a breath. He would eat, he would go shopping with Owen, he would become a human Ken doll, and maybe—just maybe—all this sexual tension would lead to something more than him spraining his wrist when he eventually got home.
“Mmmm,” he said.
“Yeah, it looks delicious.” Daniel looked up to find Owen looking at him, not the pasta.
A snorting laugh bubbled up before Daniel could shove it back down. “Oh my God, that’s your first clunker.”
“Pardon?” One eyebrow lifted.
“Your sexy flirting thing—it’s perfect. But the delicious thing?” Daniel made a “meh” face, then went back to his pasta. If anyone asked, he would blame the wine.
He tried to keep his cool when suddenly Owen’s leg disappeared from its snug perch on his knee. One mouthful, chew chew chew, all good. He swallowed not a moment too soon, because a second later, a socked foot pressed against his dick. Daniel’s eyes watered as a flush bloomed from cock to forehead, sweat trickling behind his ears. He wanted to moan or maybe just lean back in the chair, close his eyes, and let Owen do ridiculous things to him in public, but he didn’t do any of that.
Daniel took another bite of pasta and tried to pretend steam wasn’t rising from his body.
“I apologize,” Owen said sweetly. He still hadn’t picked up a fork or unfolded his napkin. “Maybe you’ll let me try again?”
Chewing methodically, Daniel let one shoulder rise and drop, as if he didn’t have insistent pressure against his cock, didn’t feel his hips traitorously rocking in tiny waves.
“How about—I can’t wait to get you out of those slacks and into something tighter?” Owen asked, toying with the stem of his wineglass.
“A little porn-y, but better,” Daniel choked out, wiping his mouth with his napkin.
“I want to check your inseam?”
Daniel made a face. “Tailor talk isn’t sexy.
I want to chalk your hem
—I don’t know, it just doesn’t flow.”
Owen nodded, regarding the ceiling with a tilt back of his head at the same time he pressed his heel against Daniel’s confined and protesting balls. He didn’t even blink when Daniel coughed over a moan.
“So maybe I should stick with….” Owen turned to face him again, a tiny smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Are you almost done? I have somewhere I want to take you.”
Daniel mopped at his sweaty forehead with the napkin as he turned to find the waiter. “Check!”
OWEN HAD
the food wrapped, which was helpful, because Daniel needed to compose himself. When the waiter came to collect their plates, Owen’s foot disappeared from Daniel’s crotch and everything became very businesslike—aside from Owen’s smirk.
“Do you need the restroom?” Owen asked politely as he reached for his wallet.
“No, no. Just that wall so I can put my coat on and not offend anyone with eyes or anything.” The lack of pressure helped him manage his erection a bit better, but Owen was still sitting across from him, still so damn sexy that Daniel was up to about thirty ways he wanted to put his tongue on him—and that didn’t help at all.
“I apologize for rushing your meal.”
“You can buy me a slice of pizza later.”
Owen’s sexy eyebrow raise made another appearance. “Maybe I’ll buy you dinner.”
“I believe you have plans again with Ander and Rafe and your partner,” Daniel retorted, his tone souring on “partner.”
“Don’t mind Victor.” The waiter dropped by for the leather folder, then hurried away after putting a takeaway bag on the table. “He’s rude and boorish and….” Owen trailed off, a weird blip of rust in that smooth flow of words. “He’ll come around once filming starts.”
Daniel wanted to point out that he didn’t give a flying fuck whether Mr. British T liked him or not—they weren’t destined to be friends. He just wanted to be taken seriously during the wedding planning.
And not to look like an idiot on television.
Or in front of Owen.
“I’m sure,” he said instead, prep school manners at the forefront. “It was only one quick meeting and I was, ah—distracted.”
Owen looked mighty pleased at that.
Check paid, coats fastened, they walked out of the restaurant, Owen with a hand at Daniel’s back, carrying the leftovers in the other hand.
“So, where are we going?” Daniel asked as Owen ducked around him to open the door. Because Daniel would take a chance on sexy hookups with smoking-hot guys, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to do that in the dressing room at Barney’s.
“We’re going to Victor’s, actually. I took the liberty of setting something up.”
A black Town Car appeared magically in front of Butter’s as soon as they hit the sidewalk, complete with a driver in Ray-Bans to open the back door for Daniel. As he slid across the seat, Daniel tried to find his lost footing again. How about a list?
Owen flirted with him at the first meeting.
Owen invited him to lunch.
Victor wanted Daniel to have a makeover.
Owen offered to handle it.
Owen flirted more and then caused Daniel to have an erection in the middle of a four-star restaurant in Midtown.
Owen wanted to have sex with him.
Owen was bringing him to…
Victor.
When Owen sat down next to him—far closer than he needed to be—Daniel scooted toward the window.
“Victor’s, huh? I thought you were supervising this little makeover?” he asked coolly.
“I am. Victor’s in the editing suite all day working on our last project’s postproduction.” Owen put the bag of food on the floor between them, eyeing Daniel curiously. “He won’t be there.”
“So I’m too old for this and we have to work together,” Daniel sighed. He rapped his knuckles against the window to distract himself as they pulled into traffic. “Can we just be frank about what’s going to happen this afternoon?”
That delicious smile curved Owen’s mouth into a bow; his tongue darted out for a moment before he bit his lip and then leaned into Daniel’s space. “What do you want to happen?”
Daniel huffed in annoyance. His dick stiffened as Owen tilted his head to one side, all but leaning their bodies against one another. “I want you to stop being a cock tease,” he murmured.
“All in good time, Daniel,” Owen whispered before pulling back and righting himself on the seat.
For a worrying split second, Daniel envisioned a scenario wherein Ander had set this all up just to get him laid.
OWEN GRAINGER
was a thirty-three-year-old idiot.
Making Daniel his project—instead of letting Victor work his meddling magic—was supposed to be the more rational and adult thing to do. He had a plan and reasons and a ton of other things, which made him better than Victor. More professional.
All that suddenly went out the window.
Because Daniel Green looked so unbelievably good—and so unbearably sad when Owen dropped the makeover thing in his lap.
His lap.
Oh God.
Remembering Victor’s past escapades made Owen sick to his stomach. Sleeping with the wedding planner? Romancing people he had no intention of doing anything with past the final shoot of the show? That wasn’t Owen.
“Owen?”
He blinked until Daniel swam back into view; shrewd brown eyes regarded him, and Owen let his gaze wander to avoid their glare.
A makeover felt like too strong a word. Owen wanted to get at that head of fine brown hair and neat beard with products and scissors. He wanted to put Daniel’s strong, compact body in a tailored suit and then shove him onto the set and watch the viewing audience fall in love.
Or lust.
Owen would understand each and every crush that developed, because he had one too.
“Listen, I want you to know something,” Owen murmured, moving closer. “I don’t usually do this.”
“Makeovers? Boys? Dirty footsie in classy restaurants?” The quips were lighthearted, but Owen could read the darting of Daniel’s eyes, the way he bit at his lower lip.
“Get involved with people on the show,” he answered honestly, because he hadn’t. Not ever. His love life was a joke, his sex life casually infrequent. For years his life had been about the production company and making it a success. The days of hedonistic pleasure were long, long gone.
Daniel nodded, angling his body back toward the window. “Good to know,” he said, almost dismissive. He didn’t say another word, his gaze directed toward the city flying by as they raced across town.
Owen led Daniel to the doorman-guarded door of Victor’s building. The excess of the place, the sheer waste involved in every centimeter of the penthouse playground, created an ache in Owen’s stomach and his bank account every time he visited.
White marble gargoyles peered down at them as they walked into the darkened lobby, Owen resting his hand at the small of Daniel’s back. The young man stiffened, then relaxed, leaning in Owen’s direction as the concierge approached them, key in hand.
“Mr. Grainger,” the man said smoothly. “How are you today?”
“Fine, thank you.” With his free hand, Owen gestured toward Daniel. “Everyone else is here, yes?”
“Yes, sir. They arrived about a half an hour ago.” He regarded Daniel with polite curiosity, then walked to a small door near the ornate front desk.
The concierge unlocked the outer door to reveal an old-fashioned elevator door, which he pushed open for them to enter.
“After the crew leaves, I’d appreciate no one be sent up,” Owen said right before the door closed.
“Of course, sir.”
Then they were alone in the tiny paneled elevator car.
“Do you live here too?” Daniel asked. Owen hadn’t moved his hand and Daniel hadn’t shrugged it off.
“No, I live in Midtown. A long-term residence hotel.”
Daniel wrinkled his nose. “And Victor lives in Wayne Manor?”
Owen laughed. “No, in the penthouse of Wayne Manor.”
He braced himself for Daniel’s reaction when they exited after a bumpy lurch and grind to the top. Owen slid open the little door to reveal the penthouse—no easing you into it, just a step from claustrophobia into a wild industrial warehouse space renovated into Batman’s bachelor pad.