Best Man (Close Proximity Book 1)

by Lily Morton

  I shrug, feeling my cheeks flush to my horror. “It was a bit of an impulsive move,” I finally admit.

  He smiles at me kindly. “Well, luckily I excel in those,” he murmurs. “I’ll guide you along.”

  “May God help me.”

  He chuckles. “Listen, that sofa is as uncomfortable of a piece of furniture as I’ve ever sat on. There is no way you’re sleeping on that while we’re here.” He shrugs. “There’s an easy solution to all of this.”

  “Get another room and tell people that you’re saving yourself for marriage?” I say glumly, and he laughs, his whole face lighting up and those warm eyes of his limpid and clear.

  “No, silly. We’ll just share the bed.”

  “Oh my God.” I sigh and lean back, covering my eyes. “I’m your bloody boss. You can’t share a bed with me.”

  Warm fingers cover my hands, and he prises them away from my face. I blink as I see his pretty face close up. “If it makes you feel any better,” he says solemnly, “we’ll put a pillow between us, each keep one foot on the floor at all times, and I promise to hide the key to my chastity belt.”

  I shake my head, only realising that he’s still touching my face when his fingertips slide across my skin. I repress a shiver.

  He smiles and steps back, adjusting the towel around his waist. “Zeb, we’re both adults, and it’s time you realised it. We’re both perfectly capable of sharing a bed without leaping on each other the moment the lights go out.”

  I swallow hard. Speak for yourself, I think. It’s getting increasingly difficult for me to keep my hands off you. Instead of saying the words, I send my face into its customary polite mask. It’s stood me well over the years, covering up my occasional shyness and the resulting awkwardness. I found a long time ago that people largely accept the face you show to the world. I’m not sure it works with him, however, because his eyes sharpen as if he’s looking inside me, and those eyes turn kind and warm.

  “If this is a problem,” he says slowly, all mirth gone, “I’ll get another room. Fuck everyone else’s opinion. You’re the important one in this situation, not any of those probably snotty bastards.”

  I blink. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that before.

  “Oh, there’s no need,” I say softly, incredibly touched by the passion and heat in his voice. It’s odd to have someone so focused on me and my feelings. I’m not entirely sure it’s comfortable though, so I stand up. “Never mind,” I say briskly. “We’ll work it out. Thank you for being so patient.”

  His eyes sharpen as he stares at me, then, after a long second, they soften again. “You don’t need to thank me for being patient. Don’t ever thank me for that.”

  I study him, wondering what he’s thinking, before realising that I probably look like an idiot at the moment. “Never mind,” I say quickly. “I’m going to shower and change for dinner.” I look at his current outfit. “You’ll need to wear your suit.”

  “Never crossed my mind not to,” he says glumly. “I’d probably wear court robes if I had any.”

  I shake my head. “Well, I’m just going to shower,” I say again, slightly awkwardly, compounding my idiocy by pointing at the bathroom door as if he doesn’t know where it is. His mouth twitches, and he stands up and stretches.

  I watch all the muscles move languorously under his skin, sliding like silk, and feel my cock thicken. “You do that,” he says throatily.

  Once I’m inside the bathroom, I lean back against the door and shake my head, groaning silently. Against my will, my hand strays down to my cock which is pushing impudently against my jeans. I suppress a moan but can’t help stroking along its length, the rough denim catching my nerves and making them sparkle.

  Through the door I hear thumping and then the sound of “Fine Time” by New Order starting to play. I shake my head as Bernard Sumner begins to sing about age. I strip off quickly, feeling the cooler air strike against my hot skin. I start the water in the shower and step into the huge enclosure, inhaling the scent of green tea that lies heavy on the damp air.

  The spray cascades over me. He has it set to a harder pressure than I normally do, and I reach out to lower it, but the water strikes my nipples at that point and the pleasure sparkling through me makes me groan low. I stiffen, but I’m pretty sure that the noise of the shower and his music is covering my sounds.

  I reach over and fill my palm with the shower gel in a green bottle. It’s only when the rich scent of green tea fills the shower enclosure that I realise it isn’t mine but his. I bite my lip and consider washing it off, but without any thought my hand lowers to my dick, and I grasp it tightly.

  The shaft is engorged, the skin tight, and just the touch of my fingers makes me jerk.

  “Fuck,” I gasp, and tighten my grip and shuttle my cock through it. I shouldn’t be doing this here, but I’m too far gone to pay attention to the active part of my brain. It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. Everyone does it. But even as I think that, an image comes into my head of Jesse on his knees in front of me, all that shiny hair wet and clinging to the sharp bones of his face. He has his mouth open and I grab his hair and push his head back, shoving my cock into his mouth. His lips are swollen and tight around the shiny length of my cock, and despite my brain screaming at me to stop this, lightning pools in my balls and I come with a heavy grunt all over the glass doors of the shower.

  I lean back against the wall, panting and feeling its coldness against my hot skin as the water rushes over me, washing away the come clinging to my cockhead. I scrub my head against the unforgiving glass. What the fuck is wrong with me? I am a forty-four-year-old man stuck in a hotel room sharing a bed with my twenty-four-year-old employee. And with only a door separating us, I just wanked over the image of forcing my cock down his throat. I wonder wildly whether this is some sort of midlife crisis.

  Jesse

  I’m standing on the balcony, looking out over the lake glowing with the last threads of sunshine, when the bedroom door opens behind me. I turn and nearly swallow my tongue. I don’t know which I prefer more, Zeb in a suit, or in the jeans and T-shirts I’ve been seeing lately.

  But I have to admit that he fills out a suit like no one else. Tonight’s offering is a dark grey one with a white shirt and purple tie. His skin is sun-kissed after the afternoon in the pub garden, giving him a golden glow that makes his blue eyes seem even more vivid. His grey-flecked dark hair tumbles around his face. He looks healthy. My mouth twitches. Healthy and ready to organise.

  I lean back against the railing. “Okay, give it to me.”

  He blinks. “Pardon?”

  I smile. “The lecture. I’m ready.” I stretch my neck and jaw and bounce on my feet before gesturing at him. “Come on.”

  He shakes his head. “I never realised a man-child could be so funny.”

  “You think I’m funny?”

  His mouth twitches. “I said I never realised it. I still haven’t.”

  I laugh. “Come on, Zeb,” I coach. “Lecture me, baby.”

  He sighs. “I have no intention of lecturing. That’s wasted on someone with the attention span of a tree branch.”

  “Ouch, I am actually wounded,” I try to say solemnly but spoil it by laughing. I love sparring with him. It feels like it lights me up inside. I’m never bored with him. Instead I feel alive. The times in his office when he snipes at me are something I’ve actually grown to look forward to over the last few years, to the extent that sometimes when I’m about to get into trouble I’ve actually thought, Will this make Zeb mad? If the answer was yes, I’ve swung into doing it. I will, of course, never tell him this.

  He sits down on one of the chairs. “I just want to warn you that this probably isn’t going to be the pleasantest evening you’ve ever spent.” I nod encouragingly. “Both sets of parents dislike me, one to a greater extent than the others. I’m not sure who else is here out of his friends.”

  “Were any of them your friends too?”

  He shakes his
head. “No. Patrick didn’t like my friends. Said they were judging him.”

  “Were they?”

  He considers that. “Probably.” He pauses before honesty obviously compels him to add, “Definitely.”

  “What are his friends like?”

  “Like him,” he says slowly, and I wince.

  “Ouch. Shall we get room service?” I wink at him. “Stay in and break the bed.”

  I regret the last statement because a mask falls immediately over his face. “We won’t be doing that,” he says stiffly, and I hold my hand up.

  “I’m sorry. I was joking.” I wasn’t, but it won’t improve the situation if he knows that. I’d like nothing better than to stretch out in that huge bed and see that tanned, hair-roughened body against the blue sheets. A horrible thought occurs to me. “Are you worried that I’ll embarrass you?”

  I’m gratified by the confused look that crosses his face. “No. Why?”

  “Because I wound up Patrick earlier.”

  He shakes his head. “I think that was probably justified.” He pauses. “Just don’t do it tonight,” he adds hurriedly.

  I hide a smile. At that second, a long mournful sound echoes through the room, making me jump. “What the fuck was that?” I gasp.

  He bites his lip, but mirth dances in his eyes. “The dinner gong.”

  “Thank fuck for that. I thought it was the call for Judgement Day.”

  “I doubt your soul is entirely ready for that,” he says primly.

  He turns and walks away, and this time I don’t bother to hide my smile. I follow him down the palatial staircase, through the reception area, and into a cavernous dining room. Accepting a glass of champagne with a smile from the waiter at the door, I look around curiously.

  A huge mahogany table is set in the middle of the room on which glasses and china gleam. Four floral arrangements set along the table give off a pretty scent that clashes with the aftershaves and perfumes of the guests.

  There are a group of people milling around in front of the stone fireplace, glasses in hand, and the low hum of slightly forced chatter reaches me. Zeb points out the prospective bride, Frances, who appears to be having a hissed conversation with an older lady who must be her mother. Frances is beautiful, with jet-black hair and a heart-shaped face. I can’t see the blushing groom yet, but a man walks towards us who is the spitting image of Frances, so I presume this is her dad. He’s wearing a very expensive-looking suit and his cheeks are florid. He looks like he enjoys a drink, or twenty.

  “Zeb,” he says expansively, offering his hand to shake as soon as he gets near. “Good to see you.”

  I hope his career as a financial tycoon is secure because it’s a safe bet that the stage will never be an option for him.

  My boss smiles calmly. “Lovely to see you too, Charles. How is Oona?”

  “Oh, fine, fine. Sequestered in a corner gabbing away with Frances about wedding stuff. You know how women are.”

  “Not really,” my boss says serenely. “Not my area of expertise, I’m afraid.”

  I repress a snort of laughter at Charles’s nonplussed face, but Zeb must feel my vibration because he turns to me. “Charles, this is Jesse. He’s my …” He pauses. It’s hardly noticeable, but to punish him I step into his body and wind one arm around his waist. His body is hot beneath my hand and for a second I almost forget why I’m doing this. Then I smile happily at the red-faced banker who is stoically trying to ignore all the gayness flying around the room. Hope it doesn’t hit him.

  “I’m Jesse, his boyfriend,” I say, pinching Zeb, who’s gone immobile and stiff beneath my hand. He instantly relaxes and slides his arm round my waist. And now I start to lose sight of the game because his arm feels so warm and just somehow right. I mentally shake my head at myself. Get a grip, you twat.

  Charles’s eyes narrow. “Is this a recent thing?”

  Zeb pastes on a slightly confused expression. “Jesse?” he asks. When Charles nods his head, Zeb smiles and looks at me. “Not really. We’ve been going out for about …”

  “Seven months,” I say, smiling limpidly at him. “The best seven months of my life,” I continue in a dreamy voice and jerk slightly when Zeb pinches me.

  Charles looks slightly revolted. I can’t blame him this time. I’m not a fan of soppiness myself. “Well, how … er, lovely,” he says heartily. “Came as a surprise,” he adds in a confiding tone. “Patrick said you were coming alone. Oona was a bit …” He hesitates and waves his hand about. “Well, you know.”

  “Drunk?” I say helpfully and Zeb clears his throat loudly over me.

  “I think they’re about to serve dinner,” he says slightly desperately.

  Even Charles looks relieved, and with a final, almost desperate smile, he beetles off towards Frances and the stick-thin older lady whose pinched expression seems to indicate that she might be married to him.

  Zeb clears his throat, and I turn with slight trepidation. He looks at me and sighs wearily. “Do you think you could possibly behave?” he finally says.

  I bite my lip. “I don’t think it would be entirely honest of me to promise that,” I say slowly. “Especially if people keep treating you like you’re some sort of desperate stalker. It’s not fair.” I frown. “You’re doing bloody Patrick a favour. They should be thanking you, not treating you like an unexploded bomb from the war that might go off in suburbia and wreck someone’s lavender bush.”

  He blinks. “Where the hell did that come from?” He pauses. “And why am I the unexploded relic from the war?”

  I smile at him sympathetically. “You have a lot of pent-up aggression,” I inform him.

  He glares at me, and for a second he looks like he’s contemplating chucking me on the fire, but then, to my amazement, he starts to laugh. I smile at the contagious, merry sound and when I look over, a few people are staring and their mouths are turned up. It’s impossible not to smile at Zeb when he’s like this. I catch sight of an older woman with grey hair cut into a severe bob who is glaring at my boss. Okay, not impossible, then.

  At that point there’s a disturbance at the door, and I look up to see a tall, wide-shouldered man with wavy black hair come in. He’s followed by a very beautiful young man with waist-length blond hair and a very sulky expression who has his hand firmly cemented to the dark-haired man’s bum.

  The dark-haired man looks up and, seeing Zeb, his face lights up. “Zeb,” he exclaims, coming forward and drawing my boss into a fierce embrace. I eye him dubiously, feeling something turn in my stomach. Must be hunger pains.

  The two men draw away from each other. “What are you doing here, Max?” my boss says. He lowers his voice. “You hate Patrick.”

  Max shrugs. “Free food,” he says succinctly.

  Zeb shakes his head, a wry look on his face. “You came to see how I was, didn’t you?”

  Max appears to attempt to look guileless. “Of course not. I’m just here out of a desire to see Patrick safely within the bounds of matrimony where he can’t inflict himself on any more unsuspecting men.” I laugh, and he turns to me, his expression kindling into interest. “Well, hello,” he says in a slightly rough but very warm voice.

  I blink. He’s quite potent close up. His wavy black hair showcases a beautiful face with very high cheekbones, lazy-looking dark eyes, and a full mouth which is emphasised by his grey-flecked beard. He’s tall and slim with broad shoulders and very long legs.

  “I’m Max,” he says throatily. The blond man rouses, and, with a glare for me, he plasters himself against Max’s side.

  Zeb stirs. “No,” he says succinctly to Max.

  Max blinks. “I’m not doing anything,” he says innocently. He winks at me. “Yet.”

  Zeb shakes his head. “No, keep away from Jesse. He’s with me this week.”

  I try hard not to pay attention to the surge of pleasure I feel at those words. Max looks delighted. “Excellent,” he says heartily.

  The blond boy huffs. “I’m going
to get a drink,” he says haughtily in well-rounded vowels. We all watch as he saunters away, moving sinuously.

  Zeb looks at Max. “And who’s that?”

  Max shrugs. “Fucked if I know. I picked him up last night at a club in Cheltenham and shagged him. I never got a name, and it’s a teeny bit awkward to ask now.”

  I laugh, and Zeb shakes his head. “What would the etiquette books say?” he says in a disappointed tone.

  Max laughs. He has a raffish sort of charm and an air of being on the verge of doing something either very funny or very inappropriate. Or both. He turns to me. “Zeb and I knew each other when we were kids.”

  Zeb shakes his head. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

  Max looks me up and down slowly. “Wish you’d been around then too.”

  “I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have wanted that,” I say sweetly. “I’ve watched Jurassic Park. Those dinosaurs were no joke.”

  Max breaks into laughter. It’s rough and husky. “I like this one,” he says to Zeb, who shakes his head. “Keep him.”

  “He’s only mine for the week,” Zeb says, and I grimace.

  “I’m not a suit rental.”

  The blond boy comes back holding a glass of champagne in his thin fingers. He slides next to Max, looking at him hungrily. “I’m very bored already,” he pronounces.

  Zeb rolls his eyes. “I wouldn’t feed this one after midnight,” he advises, and Max laughs.

  “Mal is fine, aren’t you?” he says hesitantly.

  The boy shakes his head. “It’s Xavier actually. You should really learn to listen, especially at your age. I mean, how long will you have your full hearing?”

  Max stares at him, and I break into laughter. The blond boy winks at me.

  At that point Patrick comes in, and when he sees Zeb his face lights up. He makes a move as if to come over, and I watch as almost simultaneously Frances grabs his arm and the grey-haired lady who must be Patrick’s mother shoots Zeb a look that suggests if she had a spell to turn him into a potato, she’d use it.