“Yes,” I say immediately. “I’m very self-aware. It’s my biggest flaw.”
Aaron puts on that priggish tone he sometimes trots out when he’s trying to take the piss in a subtler way than normal. “The summation of parental success cannot be measured by one incident.”
I don’t know about that. It really depends on theincidentin question. Some kids earn themselves an entire lifetime of trauma out of one terrible, horrible, no good, very bad incident.
“You have a wife to go along with that son?” I don’t know why I’m asking. It’s not like I wouldn’t fuck the man just because he’s got paperwork stuffed in a drawer somewhere that says his dick legally belongs to someone else.
Aaron leans forward suddenly and puts his half-empty glass of whiskey down on the coffee table before drawing back and turning half in his seat to face me.
“Stop it,” he tells me, and it’s not quite an order, which is good because I’d fucking spit in his face if it was.
“No,” I say, putting my own glass down and shifting sideways on the sofa, moving closer to Aaron until we’re within invading-personal-space territory.
“Kid,” Aaron says, putting some weird emphasis on the word like it’s supposed to be a warning, whether to me or himself I’m not entirely sure. “Whatever ideas you’ve gotten into your head,you need to toss them out now. I’m your handler. I’m a senior agent. There are rules about this stuff.”
He doesn’t say, “You’re Ian Stone’s son,” which is reassuring. It makes me feel like I could still win this. That’s what rules are for. Games.
“Rules?” I shrug uncaringly. “Break them.”
Aaron’s serious expression doesn’t budge. “No,” he says firmly.
“You want to,” I say, giving him a hard stare, sure of that at least with how he keepsvery purposefullynot looking at my mouth.
“Yes,” Aaron is confident in his honesty, maybe because he knows it doesn’t matter. He can want to kiss me, to fuck me right here on this sofa, but it only matters if he actually goes through with it, which he thinks he won’t. There’s an arrogance there that I want to take a knife to, cut it open to see what might bleed out.
I can feel the warmth of him this close, a steady, human heat, like a flame inside a lantern, something you can reach out and touch, holding the glow between your hands.
Aaron grabs my wrist when I reach for him, his hold strong but not bruising.
“Stop,” he says again, but his body betrays him. He’s angled himself toward me, open and inviting rather than closed off and guarded like he should be. His brows pull together in a strained frown even as his thumb runs over the pulse point on my wrist, eliciting a shiver from me that throws us both off from the shock of it. I’m not usually so reactive, but there’s something in the odd duality of Aaron’s softness and rough edges that has all of my attention.
“Whatever it is you’re looking for here,” Aaron murmurs, eyes locked raptly on mine, “I won’t be able to give it to you.”
I lean in just that little bit closer, bringing my other hand up with a pretense at palming Aaron’s hard jaw, forcing him tocapture that hand as well. Both hands successfully restrained, I smile at him, slow and sharp, edging on malevolent.
Aaron watches me like a man trying to figure out how best to defuse a bomb when the timer is already at T minus five seconds. That’s another one of his hero tendencies coming into play; he doesn’t have the good sense to know when a battle is lost, when it’s better to save himself so he has the chance to maybe fight another day. Director Snow would get it. She seems like a big-picture bitch to me.
To emphasis the point I wish I didn’t have to make, I tilt my head slightly to the left and look up at Aaron from under my eyelashes, a purposeful provocation, and tell him straight out, “Don’t need a dad, don’t need a babysitter, don’t need a motherfucking boyfriend.”
That seems to twist an imaginary knife in Aaron’s gut, a vicious wrenching, the shock giving him some clarity. “What do you want from me, Rohan?” he asks, but he knows. Asking is just part of the game.
If there’s one thing that being my dad’s son has taught me, it’s that when you’re challenged, you accept it. You play, and youwin, whatever it takes.
“A mistake worth making,” I say.
It’s not a proper answer, but Aaron seems to understand, which is the only thing that matters in the end. All of this bullshit coaxing and equally boring seduction is for his benefit, not mine. I’ve got no taste for any of it, never have.
“Is that what this would be?” he asks, the golden shade of his irises pitching darker, his pupils dilating with an explosion of want.
I’m staring right at him, unwavering, eyes locked on his like the muzzle of a gun perfectly trained on a stationary target, when I answer simply, “Only one way to find out.”
Aaron doesn’t come at me like I expected him to. I was braced for an attack of harsh, gun-hardened hands and an even rougher mouth, but that’s not what I get.
I sit, momentarily stunned, thrown off-balance like I very rarely allow myself to be as Aaron uses one hand to hold onto my wrists, keeping them safely secured down in the space that still remains between us and moves in to press an achingly soft kiss to the juncture between my neck and jaw. I tilt my head to the side, further exposing that patch of skin to him.
Air catches in my throat, escalating to a strange little gasp. There’s a vulnerability to the intimate noise that I’m not sure I like, but that has Aaron smiling, obviously pleased, as he drags his mouth across the expanse of skin set between my jawline and cheek until he can press another gentle—bordering on chaste—kiss to my lips.
His mouth is warm and dry although tinged with the rich taste of whiskey. I swipe my tongue out to wet his lower lip, and Aaron squeezes my wrists in warning as if to sayno, not until I tell you.
