Emery spread Paxton’s cheeks and slotted his hard cock between them. Paxton inhaled and tipped his head back to rest on Emery’s shoulder. Emery kissed the side of his neck and ground his dick against Paxton. He squeezed Paxton’s firm ass cheeks to fit around his cock as he thrust. Electric heat zipped up Emery’s spine and raced back down to settle in his gut, intensifying as his sensitive foreskin dragged over the place he wanted to bury himself.
Paxton groped blindly and pulled at Emery from the awkward angle to bring their bodies closer together.
“God, fuck my thighs,” Paxton breathed. “Please.”
“Yes.” Emery stumbled back a step, almost slipping but managing to find his balance gripping Paxton’s hips.
A harsh breath punched out of Emery. He scrabbled for the bottle of lube, panting as he tried to pry open the cap one-handed. Paxton took it from him and squirted lube into his palm. He swiped it between his legs and reached between them. Emery’s eyes fluttered closed at the light skim of fingertips over the tip of his cock.
The first thrust between Paxton’s muscular thighs was a blissful glide. Emery pressed his mouth to Paxton’s shoulder, mouthing at it and rolling his hips. He reached around, running his fingers over the damp curls surrounding Paxton’s cock and gripped it.
“Fuck, yeah. Like that.” Paxton moaned. “You feel so good.”
Emery jerked him off. Steam filled his lungs with each panting breath he dragged in. The heat became overwhelming. Paxton clenched his thighs, and with a final sharp thrust Emery grunted and came. His cock twitched, encased in the heat between Paxton’s legs.
“Oh shit.” Emery leaned heavily on Paxton for support. After a moment of catching his breath, he squeezed Paxton’s cock, speeding up his strokes. “How’s that?”
“Yeah.” Paxton gave a jerky nod, his hips rocking into Emery’s grip.
With a twist of his wrist, Paxton seized up, slapping a palm against the shower wall to remain upright as he came. Paxton let out a low groan and come spilled onto Emery's fingers as he slowed down. He pressed a kiss to Paxton’s back before pulling away.
Paxton stayed still for a few seconds after and Emery admired the picture he made. He was a mess again, thighs shiny with Emery’s release and lube, legs trembling with aftershocks from his own orgasm. Pleasure and pride danced together in his chest; he did that to Paxton.
“Here’s the problem with two-in-one,” Emery said when he reached for the shampoo. “It reduces the concentration of conditioner, so you have to use more of it to clean up.”
Emery squirted a dollop into his hand and gave himself a perfunctory wash. He offered the bottle to Paxton, who was still coming back down. Emery grinned and rinsed off.
“Did a number on you, did I?”
Paxton hummed.
“Well, then.” Emery squeezed some shampoo into his hand and skated his fingers over Paxton’s broad back. “Let’s get you taken care of.”
Neither of them spoke while Emery cleaned Paxton off. The intimate bubble encasing them was even stronger now. Emery held his breath and guided Paxton beneath the shower head, the water beginning to go lukewarm and the steam dissipating.
“Are you tired?” Emery asked.
Paxton nodded drowsily, dark eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. He tipped his head back into the spray and swiped his hands over his face, brushing away the excess droplets of water. Paxton shut off the valve and stretched his arms overhead.
They dried off with towels that Paxton pulled from a shelf in the corner and Paxton offered Emery clothes to sleep in.
“No. I’ll be fine.” Emery waved at Paxton. “You provide more than enough body heat for the both of us.”
The corner of Paxton’s mouth lifted. He tumbled into bed with Emery, their nude limbs tangled together. Paxton imitated an octopus and nuzzled up against his side, hooking his leg over Emery’s. His warmth enveloped Emery and he found himself absently tracing the bony knuckles of Paxton’s hand.
“Had a good time tonight,” Paxton mumbled into Emery’s neck.
“Me, too.” Especially without the buffer of a ghost hellbent on playing matchmaker, Emery left unsaid.
Paxton fell asleep quickly. Sleep eluded Emery, his mind unable to shut up. He needed to figure out what road he and Paxton were speeding down.
Perhaps the magical properties of the sex ritual had tied Emery to Paxton on some sub-level of physical reality, causing his typical caution against relationships to cloud. Otherwise, how could Emery explain why he felt so safe and comfortable in Paxton’s arms when things between them were so new? Paxton mumbled unintelligibly in his sleep, squeezing Emery closer and breaking his concentration.
Maybe none of that mattered. Emery rolled into Paxton’s warmth, tucking his nose against Paxton’s forehead. In the morning he could tell Paxton that he might’ve met a spirit at the party.
Two
Telltale Ghosts 2 Preview
EMERY
The ticking pocket watch mocked Emery Belmont from its spot on the pristine kitchen island. The golden family heirloom was open, the watch face caught in a staring competition with Emery. The watch would win.
Frowning, Emery tapped his slender fingers in a random pattern against the side of his coffee cup, the contents long-cooled. It was after ten in the morning and Emery had sat in his re-renovated kitchen, dressed for the day, nursing coffee since eight, when he usually would have left to catch the commuter line for work. On any normal day, he would be in his downtown office in Boston’s financial district—if Emery hadn’t quit his job two weeks earlier on Halloween.
Emery combed his fingers through his hair, smoothing the loose blond strands back; he hadn’t been using his usual styling paste. The cabinets remained silent, no longer offering input now that his house was ghost-free. Emery had no idea he could miss the opinionated creak-thumping cabinets speaking to him. The corners of his mouth pinched in at the thought. He was not missing his stupid ghost after it had plagued him day and night throughout October.
Giving up on the cold coffee dregs, Emery slid his mug across the sleek white countertop and propped his elbows on the island, folding his fingers beneath his sharp chin.
Tick. If Paxton were around, he would still talk to the cabinets, ghost or not. Tick. Emery was not talking his feelings out with inanimate objects. Tick.
It was the right decision to quit—Emery didn’t regret that.
It had only taken a few hours sitting in his high-rise office with sleek furniture and floor to ceiling windows the first Monday after that whirlwind weekend before his skin itched with displeasure. The office allowed him to transition remotely from home while his accounts transferred to the other financial advisors handling his clients during his personal leave. How was a man meant to return to a lucrative career in corporate financial analysis after facing down a ghost with magic? It was a life he no longer wanted, now that he knew the truth about the supernatural world that existed on the fringes of everyday reality. However, the euphoric rush of the weekend’s events—mischief night, the intimate ritual cleansing that rid him of his pesky ghost problem, Paxton, the Halloween party, Paxton—wore off after a couple of days, anxiety creeping back in with its spindly, cold fingers digging into Emery’s stomach.
It left Emery stuck in a holding pattern of preparing for the day as normal, then stopping midway, remembering that wasn’t his life anymore. He followed this by sitting around his beloved historic house in Charlestown with a half-finished cup of coffee until it went cold, contemplating his next move. The new routine was briefly interrupted by invitations from his mother, which he fended off with excuses of seeing the pretend boyfriend he didn’t have, and texts from Paxton and his friends.
Emery didn’t do impulsive. He thought out his choices and options from every angle with the mind of a strategic chess player. It was what made him so sought after in his career.
Without a job, there wasn’t much reason for Emery to get dressed, yet he had continued his regul
ar weekday morning routine, opting for gray slacks, a crisp shirt, and a navy cable knit pullover. It had been easier the first two days, when his mother eagerly swanned in to keep his new free time occupied—lunch at the country club rubbing elbows with Boston’s high society, a mid-week visit to Charlestown just because she could now that Emery had time to spare. It was simple to pretend Emery still maintained control over his life, that it wasn’t spiraling away from him in the wake of his rash choices.
At least, until Emery had grown overwhelmed by her mothering. He began avoiding her so he didn’t have to face more of her badgering about meeting the boyfriend he made up, conveniently using Paxton’s features and personality to describe this perfect, non-existent partner to Celeste, which she ate up, her motherly matchmaking finally at rest with the belief Emery found his happiness.
Distraction-free, Emery faced the stark reality. He had discovered magic was real—along with ghosts and who knew what other paranormal myths—and promptly allowed himself to tear apart his stable life.
Maybe one of Paxton’s so-called cryptids would come knocking at Emery’s back door next.
The truth was, Emery had embraced Celeste’s numerous visits so he didn’t have to sit in his house alone without Paxton or the ghost. He loved his house, with its antique exposed beams in the ceiling and the restored hardwood floors traversed by the colonial family that built the home. But as much as he adored the charming New England Colonial he had lovingly put to rights after buying it from an enthusiastic Red Sox fanatic that used it as a shrine to the team, Emery had come to learn that a house wasn’t always a home without the people who filled it with vibrant life.
Emery had grown used to having Paxton around, sharing his bed, leaving socks everywhere and now Emery missed his larger-than-life presence.
The phone at Emery’s elbow lit up, skewing on the counter from the vibration announcing a new text message. Now the screen was mocking him with the name scrawled across the top: Paxton Santos. Emery ignored it for the time being and straightened the phone to line up parallel with the edge of the island.
A sigh escaped him and he reached out to trace the side of the ornately designed pocket watch left to Emery by his eccentric grandfather, Cyrus. He spun it so the face couldn’t beat him in another staring contest. Instead, Emery peered into the shiny back of the watch, where his distorted reflection judged him. Even in the wonky mirror image, Emery could make out the tightness around his blue eyes, the downturn of his mouth. The distortion softened his sharp features, though maybe that was more that Emery’s hair was loose, a lock threatening to flop over his forehead in mutiny for forgoing his styling paste that kept it in place.
The heirloom was his good luck charm. According to his grandfather’s stories from Emery’s childhood, it would always protect him. Emery willed it to produce an ounce of guidance, poking it and exhaling heavily when nothing happened.
It was like he had somehow lost the deeper connection he felt to it after the Halloween party where the spirit of a woman dressed as a countess had sought his help.
Paxton’s name lit up on the phone screen again. Emery gave up on the watch and checked the messages he’d avoided. The conversation app opened to five new messages from Paxton.
[7:42am] Just found a new coffee place that opened in my neighborhood while I was on my run.
[7:57am] Omg you might actually die for this mochaccino, this is so damn good!
Amusement tugged at Emery. Paxton would be the type to go for a morning run and then get a chocolate latte after. It was an impossible feat to keep the fond smile off his face.
[8:11am] Are you free today? I have a custom tile project on the schedule. It’s near your place, I could swing by if you’re going to be home?
[10:12am] We can order pizza and pretend I’m still working on your house.
Tempting. More tempting was the high chance of kissing Paxton while he tasted of pizza and ran his fingers under Emery’s shirt. The memory of Paxton crowding Emery into the pantry at the Halloween party sent a coil of heat sizzling through his groin.
[10:17am] Oh and did Aggie tell you about the holiday market thing? The downtown one starts next weekend and we were talking about going.
Emery’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, debating his reply. Emery always went to the holiday markets with his best friend, Grace, and her bubbly wife, Aggie. They liked to tour them the same way people joined in Boston’s SantaCon bar crawl, sampling mulled wines and spiced cocktails while they purchased the most ridiculous gifts they could find. One year Emery drunk-bought his parents a winter-themed vintage concrete goose collection dressed in colonial costumes. Celeste still put it out for decoration every year and Emery played a game with himself to find which obscure room of the estate she hid it in so he couldn’t claim she had disposed of it.
Before he could overthink too much, Emery tapped out an affirmative for Paxton: She hasn’t, but I’m sure you’ll be delighted by our own version of SantaCon. Afraid I’m booked up for the day, but perhaps this weekend we can do something?
It was a reasonable reply, confirming plans he could build his courage up for and putting off surprise time alone, even if there was the promise it would be a pleasant afternoon.
Paxton didn’t take long to respond, sending laughing emojis and a photo of himself at SantaCon. Damn, he even made a Santa costume look good, opting to temporarily dye his overgrown beard and hair gray. His hair was shorter than it was now, falling above his ears instead of below in faked salt and pepper waves. His crooked, joyous smile—mid-laugh in the photo—blindsided Emery with a wave of want. Emery couldn’t believe he was hot for Santa.
Emery barely handled Paxton’s attractiveness now, he would be a goner if this was a hint of how good Paxton would look when he was older: a mix of rugged physique, deep laugh lines, and that smile Emery was weak for.
Paxton Santos was Emery’s once-rival from their days at Hardwyck Academy, a contentious enemy that lived more in Emery’s head than the true version. Then, when he re-entered Emery’s life like a storm, he became a friend when Emery was in need and…something more. The ghost that had stubbornly latched to Emery’s house picked up on the chemistry and lust between them as the basis for playing matchmaker with them like they were dolls. Paxton had been there for Emery, assisting in occult ritual sex magic to rid the house of the spirit harassing them. Paxton had made it clear that he had feelings, feelings that Emery returned despite his rocky history of the heart.
The undeniable flutter in his heart when he was with Paxton made Emery want to forget why he swore off relationships in the first place.
But pesky emotions were impossible to ignore, no matter how hard Emery tried to metaphorically backflip away from them before he could mess up, like he always did.
Emery swallowed and stood from his seat in an explosion of motion, falling into methodical pacing because he was done with sitting still. It was a miracle he hadn’t worn a track through the tiled floor with the amount of times he paced to clear his head on this matter. The phone and the watch taunted Emery from the island.
They had been texting, but hadn’t seen each other in person since their date on Halloween after…everything. Not that Emery was avoiding him. Except that he was, a little bit.
Emery groaned and rubbed his hands over his face, massaging his temples and sliding his fingers into his smooth hair. Weeks ago, before Paxton, this would never have been a problem for Emery. He was a one and done man, all casual all the time.
It was the only way to protect his heart.
Emery chewed his lip, closing his eyes in a poor attempt to hide from the surge of memories. He had been nineteen when he first met his ex, Sebastian, a dapper gentleman with pretty words who worked for Emery’s father at the corporate law firm. Things had moved fast, his parents had been thrilled, and then the soul-crushing, undeniable betrayal came—a scene burned into Emery’s brain that he would never forget.
Twisted sheets, sweaty limbs, and the stab
bing wrongness searing Emery’s heart.
He was the one to break it off, right then and there, and Sebastian had blamed Emery for it all. Emery never forgot that, either. It had been the last serious relationship Emery allowed himself to fall prey to before diving head first into his laser focus on his career. The strategy was that by sticking to casual one-night stands, he would never expose himself to a bone-deep hurt that hollowed his whole being out ever again. Without his job as a distraction to cope, the old staunched wound barreled to the front of Emery’s mind, still bleeding through the bandage at the edges.
Emery leaned heavily against the counter by the sink, flicking the tap on to drown out the thoughts crowding him with white noise. He took deep breaths until the too-tight sensation of his skin faded and his heartbeat slowed. He splashed water on his face and stretched blindly for a dish towel to pat it dry, turning off the faucet.
The hard truth for Emery to swallow was that he had feelings for Paxton. Big, potentially messy feelings that made his stomach quiver whenever Paxton was around. That scared the shit out of him.
It had been so long since he last gave in to the control of emotions rather than logic. Emery hardly knew how to untangle one from the other, out of practice after swearing off relationships. And yet, each time he crafted stories for his mother with just enough detail to sell it, a thrill ran through Emery at all the things he and Paxton got up to in his made up version of their relationship.
Emery balled up the dish towel and tossed it onto the countertop.
It was ridiculous to try to avoid Paxton forever, but if he did he could put off the temptation to fling himself bodily at Paxton with this encompassing buildup stirring with each day they spent apart after being together daily for the better part of October.
All Hallows Eve Interlude (Telltale Ghosts Book 2) Page 3