Chapter Twelve
Jax
Christmas day was quiet but exceptional. Now that Rider and I had crossed that line and slept together, he seemed more at ease. We both were. For one thing, the sexual tension between us was gone. We had trouble keeping our hands off each other, and spent a good part of Christmas day in bed together. I wasn’t sure exactly why sex with him was different from any other omega, but being inside him was earth shattering. I craved him, and he seemed to feel the same toward me. When we finally did come downstairs, Mrs. Lane had a knowing smile as she served the big turkey dinner she’d prepared for us.
“You boys look well rested.” She smirked as she scooped a big serving of mashed potatoes onto my plate.
I smiled. “You know, I do know how to serve myself.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble at all.” She moved around the table, and proceeded to serve an equally huge scoop of potatoes to Rider.
He widened his eyes. “I don’t think I can eat all that.”
“Just eat what you can.” She patted his head like he was five, then she left the room. He met my gaze. “I think Mrs. Lane knows we had sex.”
I grinned. “She’s probably in the kitchen knitting baby socks right now.”
I found it endearing when his cheeks tinted pink. He blinked down at his plate. “Does she expect me to eat all of this?”
I picked up my fork and cut the tender turkey easily. “Just do your best.”
He shrugged and dug into his meal. We ate in silence for a while, enjoying the stuffing with water chestnuts, and the fresh baked rolls. I did my best to clean my plate, but it wasn’t possible. Rider did even worse than me, leaving over half his food.
He set his fork down, and patted his stomach. “That was so good. But I’m done.”
“You know she made a pumpkin pie, right?” I laughed at his horrified expression. “Later. We can have dessert later.”
“Yeah, like, tomorrow?” He smiled.
“Hey, we never set up your art studio yesterday.” I pressed my napkin to my lips.
“We were a little distracted as I recall.” He licked his lips. “Not that I’m complaining.”
“Let’s do it now.”
He frowned. “Oh, I don’t want to ruin your Christmas day doing that.”
“Ruin it? Why would it ruin it?” I laughed, sliding out of my chair.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.” I tossed my napkin down.
“Well, okay then.” He stood too, grabbing his plate and mine.
I widened my eyes. “What are you doing?”
He frowned. “Taking our plates into the kitchen.”
I shook my head. “No. Mrs. Lane won’t like that.”
“Why not?”
“She just won’t.”
“Why?”
I grimaced. “She’s… sensitive.”
“Pfft.” He ignored me and headed for the kitchen.
I sighed, and followed, shaking my head. “I tried to warn you.”
When we entered the kitchen, Mrs. Lane’s eyes zeroed in immediately on the plates Rider held. “Well look at that.” Her voice was soft. “You carried your plates in for me.”
“Yep.” He gave me a smug glance, and I just sighed.
“Do you think I’m too old to clear the table, young man?” She lifted one gray eyebrow, and took the dishes from him. “Do I look feeble?”
His smile faded. “Uh… no. I was just trying to help out.”
“Why would I need help?” she asked sharply.
“Umm…” He winced.
“Because I’m old?”
“No.” Rider shook his head vehemently. “That’s not it at all.”
“It’s my job to run this household. Your husband, pays me very well to take care of all these little details. What’s he supposed to think if his new omega has to clear the table? Maybe he’ll decide he doesn’t need a house manager after all.”
“Oh, no, he wouldn’t —”
“Do you want me out of a job, young man?” She scowled.
“Of course not,” Rider muttered, looking confused.
“If I needed help, I’d hire someone to assist me. But I don’t need help. I’ve been doing this job for over forty years. I’ve never slacked off. Not once.” She lifted her chin and set the plates in the sink. “I certainly don’t need my employer’s husband to do my work for me.”
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
She sniffed. “I suppose you’ll want to start cooking the meals too?”
He widened his eyes. “Oh, God no.”
She busied herself by the stove, and she gave me an irritable look. “What are you smiling at?”
I made a zipping motion in front of my lips.
“He tried to warn me,” Rider said, giving me a weak smile.
“Warn you about what?” She frowned.
“Nothing.” Rider moved toward me. “Nothing at all.”
She gestured to the pie sitting on the burner. “Would you boys like your pie now? Maybe Rider could serve it.”
He scrunched his face. “I really was just trying to be helpful. I didn’t man to insult you, Mrs. Lane.”
“If you knew how many times I hear I should retire in a given week, you’d be amazed.” She huffed. “Why just the other day, some young girl in the checkout line told me it was high time Mr. Hamilton put me out to pasture. What am I, a brood mare?”
“No.” Rider shook his head.
“When I need help, I’ll ask. But don’t hold your breath.” She tucked a tea towel in the top of her skirt.
Rider sighed. “I truly meant no harm.”
She grimaced, and waved at him. “Oh, I know. I’m just in a mood.”
“Yeah, a mood Rider put you in.” I grinned.
“Hush you,” she muttered.
I laughed, and put my arm around his shoulders. “What do you say we go set up that studio of yours?”
“Yes, please.”
We made our way out of the kitchen.
“Wow. You weren’t kidding. She really didn’t like me helping out.” He gave me a puzzled look.
“She’s the most easy going person in the world, unless you make her feel like you don’t think she can handle her job.” I bit my bottom lip. “Then she gets extremely touchy.”
“I noticed.” He laughed.
We headed up the stairs to the room Rider had chosen yesterday to use as his studio. He pushed open the door, and stood in the center of the room, examining the space. “This is so awesome. I mean, just look at that view.” He pointed to the window that showed snowcapped mountains in the distance, and rolling green lawns.
“Where did the movers put all your art stuff?”
“In the garage.” He sighed. “I didn’t know how big my room would be, so I just had them put all my paintings and the easel in there temporarily.”
“Let’s go get it.” I moved to the door.
“No. I can get it. You don’t need to help with that part.”
I scowled. “Why wouldn’t I help you?”
His gaze dropped to my jeans and white shirt. “You’ll get dirty.”
“I’m fine.”
“Okay, but you’re going to ruin your shirt.”
I shook my head and followed him out of the house. It was late afternoon, and there were dark clouds overhead. The air was crisp and chilled, and I had a feeling it might snow later. I punched in the code to unlock the garage, and he rolled up the big doors. There to the side of the pristine garage was his easel, stacks of canvases, and three boxes marked “Rider’s art stuff.”
I moved to the canvasses and pulled one out to get a better look. It appeared to be a self-portrait, and it was excellent. The painted lines of Rider’s face were bold, and the look in his eyes vulnerable. “Wow. You’re really good.”
He shifted uneasily. “I’m okay.”
“Seriously? This is great. I recognized it was you immediately.”
He smiled, looking flattered. “Really?”
“Absolutely. You’re really talented.”
“Thanks.”
I laughed. “Trust me, I wouldn’t compliment you if I didn’t really mean it.”
He held my gaze. “Thanks, Jax.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Well, enough about me.” He laughed gruffly, and grabbed a couple of canvases, and started for the door.
I smiled at his humility, took hold of some paintings, and then I followed him out of the garage. It took about six trips for us to get everything, including his easel, up the stairs and into his studio. My hands were covered in dirt, but somehow I’d managed to keep my white shirt clean. I fingered a tube of oil paint, studying the container. “Don’t most people paint with acrylics these days?”
He came over. “I do both. I like that acrylics dry faster, but sometimes I like oils because I can come back and massage things a day later.”
“I see.” While we’d carried things back and forth from the garage to the house, he’d become overheated and taken off his shirt, tying it around his waist. His sinewy chest and shoulders had been distracting enough, but now with him standing so close, I could smell his soapy scent mixed with perspiration. He smelled nice; clean but manly. I pulled my gaze from his smooth, tanned skin, and, trying to distract myself, I picked up a bottle of flaxseed oil. “I thought artists used linseed oil?”
“We do. I was trying an experiment.” He smiled.
“What kind of experiment?”
“I wanted to see if the results differed between them. They’re made from the same plant, but linseed oil goes through a refinement process and can contain additives. I was on an all-natural kick, and so I used flaxseed oil because it’s pure and safe for human consumption.”
“What did you discover?”
He grinned. “That it took a lot longer for the paint to dry with flaxseed oil. Linseed has stuff in it that speeds up the drying time.”
“Hmmm.” I set the bottle down. “Let me see some more of your paintings.”
He winced. “Really?”
“Yeah. I like seeing them.”
He frowned. “I’m not sure.”
I inched closer. “Rider, show me. Why are you being so secretive?”
“I’m not. It’s just, I’m sure you have better things to do than look at my lame ass paintings.” He crossed his arms, looking uneasy.
I leaned toward him. “Show me… please?”
Exhaling, he groaned and went to a stack nearby. “These were from last year. I was going through a purple and blue phase.” He laughed self-consciously. “Don’t make fun of me.”
“I won’t.” I studied the painting he’d flipped around so I could see. It was of a man half dressed, sitting on a chair staring off into space. Rider had used dark blues and rich purples, and it was a striking composition. “Wow. That’s good. Was that a model in your art class?”
His face tensed. “No. That’s uh… that’s actually Dale.” He turned away so I couldn’t see his expression.
“Oh.” I stared at the painting, feeling odd. He’d captured the other man’s pensive expression so well, as if he knew every line of his face. That thought annoyed me, but I wasn’t sure why. “He looks very deep in thought. What was he looking at?”
He laughed. “The TV.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. He was watching a ball game. I just decided to paint him because he was sitting still for once.” He kept his back to me.
“It’s really well done.”
“Thanks.”
“Now I can put a face to the name.” Unfortunately.
He chuffed. “For whatever that’s worth.” He grabbed another painting, holding it up for me to see. It was of a woman in her fifties, sitting in a garden, and holding a cat. “This was my mom.”
I moved closer. “She’s pretty. Her face has good character.”
A little smile lit on his lips. “She was awesome.”
“I’m sorry she’s gone.”
He glanced up, and gave a shrug. “Nobody lives forever.” He set the painting down, and started unpacking boxes. There was a desk in one corner of the room, and he set his brushes and some of the paints on that wide surface.
“Can I help?” I needed something to distract me from staring at his naked torso. He had a beautiful body, and it was hard to ignore.
He stopped what he was doing. “I feel weird making you do anything so menial.”
I scowled. “Why?”
He gestured toward me. “You look like you should be conducting a corporate seminar on how to be a millionaire, not unpacking my boxes.”
“You have this weird idea that I’m some snooty rich guy. I have money, but I’m just a person.” I moved over and opened the flaps on a box, peering in.
“Yeah, a person who was born with a platinum spoon in his mouth.”
“Rider, stop it.”
He allowed a guilty smile. “I’ll try.”
I rolled my eyes, and pulled out some more paints from the box. I squinted at the label on one. “Asphaltum?”
He smiled. “It’s a fancy way of saying brownish-black.”
“Ahhh.”
“It was one of most popular colors in the 18th century.”
“Good to know.” I smirked, and pulled out two tubes of paint. “You have two blue ochre?”
He walked over, and pointed to the descriptions. “One is oil and one is acrylic.”
I nodded. “Got it. Are the textures the same to paint with?”
“They’re similar, but different.”
I laughed. “That wasn’t helpful.” He grinned, and my pulse picked up speed. He had the best smile, and I had to fight the urge to kiss him. My gaze dropped to his bare chest, and I sighed.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
He frowned. “You sure?”
“Yes.” I unscrewed the lid on the tube of blue ochre oil paint. I squeezed, and a small blob spurted onto my finger tip. “Pretty.”
“Want to try painting something?”
I winced. “I’m not a creative person.”
“Ah, come on. Anyone can paint.” He took the acrylic blue ochre from me, and undid the cap. “Hold out your finger. I’ll let you feel the difference in textures.”
I did as instructed and he spread a dab of the paint onto my finger. I stared at my hand, frowning. “Hmmm. Yeah, I can see there is a difference.”
“They even smell different.” He held the tube of acrylic up to my nose, and he bumped it playfully against my nostril. “Oops.”
“Hey.” I laughed gruffly. “Did you get paint on my nose?”
“Maybe.” He grinned.
Reacting instinctively, I smeared one of my fingers on his chest, and he widened his eyes. “Now we’re even.” I twisted my lips to stop from smiling.
“How dare you.” He laughed.
“Oh, I dare.” I rubbed my other finger on his pectoral, giving him a challenging look. “You’re right. The textures are different.”
He stared down at his paint smeared chest. “You bastard.”
Something came over me when he smiled at me. He looked so fucking sexy, I couldn’t help myself, and I squeezed the tube again. A big splat of oil paint hit his breast bone and I snorted.
“What the hell?” He wrinkled his brow, looking amused.
I set the tube on the desk and smeared the paint over his flat brown nipple, massaging until it beaded beneath the tip of my finger. My cock warmed at the whimper he gave, and the next thing I knew I was kissing him. I held his face with both hands and I sank my tongue into his open mouth. He didn’t seem to mind. He kissed me back, wrapping his arms around my waist. He tasted good, and his breath was warm against my tongue.
My hands dropped to the top of his jeans, and he stiffened, giving a nervous glance toward the door. “Hold on.” He left me to lock the door, then he was back, helping me to get his pants off.
I got my jeans and underwear down around my ankles, and my cock poked from under my white shirt. He was naked now, and I shoved the brushes and paints out of the way, and lowered him onto his back on the desk. His cheeks were flushed, and he had blue paint on his jaw from my hands. Neither of us spoke. We were both focused on one thing, fucking. I smeared what paint was left on my fingers down his rippled abs, and smiled salaciously. “You said flaxseed oil is safe for human consumption?”
He nodded, looking aroused and confused. “Yeah.”
Without explanation, I grabbed the little bottle of oil, and opened it. Then I slathered my cock with the cool ointment, wincing a little at the temperature. He laughed as he realized what I was up to, and he inched his ass closer to the edge of the desk. Then he pulled his legs to his chest, and I took in the beautiful sight of his puckered, pink hole. My cock jerked with need, and I leaned in and pressed the head of my cock to his opening. His fingers dug into my thighs, and his lips were parted in anticipation. When I pushed in, he threw his head back and groaned, his nails sinking into my flesh.
The tight squeeze of his ass made me growl because it felt so good. I put my hands on his chest and started pounding into him, holding his heated gaze. Usually we took a little more time with each other, but it seemed we were both on board with a good hard fuck right now. The friction of my slick cock in and out of his tight ass made me feel crazy with lust. I couldn’t remember needing someone like I did Rider. Not since I was younger. Not since Thomas.
“Jax,” he moaned, distracting me from my thoughts.
I focused on him again, the delicious grip of his hole making me almost delirious with need. “You like my cock?”
“Fuck, you feel good inside me.” He clenched his muscles on my dick, biting his lower lip.
My response was to thrust harder, needing to come so bad I felt stupid with lust. I wanted to watch him come. I loved the look on his face when he let go, and the sounds he made; so raw and needy. I looked down to where my cock was buried inside him, stretching him open and owning him. My cock was wet and hard as it split him open over and over. His stiff, ruddy cock bounced against his hard abs, leaking a creamy trail over his skin.
“I’m gonna come in you,” I rasped, lunging my hips forward like a piston.
“Yeah, come in me, Jax.” He panted, his eyes glittering with need.
Rolling my hips, I pegged his prostate and he cried out as a spurt of cum oozed across his stomach and chest. “Oh, fuck.” His body jerked and his hand found his cock, squeezing and tugging as he moaned in pleasure.
The sight of him letting go had my climax hitting me like a freight train. My muscles clenched, and I flooded his insides, thrusting roughly until I’d emptied my balls. I collapsed on him, breathing hard and inhaling his musky scent. We’d fucked enough times in the last twenty-four hours that he smelled familiar, comforting. My heart squeezed with something close to affection as he ran his hands through my hair gently.
“Fucking, hell,” he wheezed, giving a gruff laugh. “And you say you’re not creative?”
I grinned and lifted my head. Our eyes met, and my heart did that weird tugging thing again. “I can’t keep my hands off you.”
“Good.” He sighed.
I grinned, pulling out of him. My legs were shaky, and I was winded. “If we’re gonna keep having sex this much, I need to get back in shape.”
He sat up, pushing his hair off his forehead. “I’ll help you train.” He gave an exaggerated wink.
I laughed, and pulled up my pants. I helped him off the table, and he got dressed quickly.
I glanced down at my shirt. “Oops.” I wiped at the smear of blue paint on the white fabric.
“Oh, that might not come out.” He frowned.
Smiling, I said, “Doesn’t matter. It was worth it.”