Hazard and Somerset, Gregory Ashe [ebook reader with internet browser TXT] 📗

an electric charge. And seeing all those men staring at Somers, lusting after Somers, turned Hazard’s world to fire. It was all he could do to close his hands into fists, clench them at his sides, and stand there while Somers climbed the stage.

The underwear was, Hazard had to admit, a loose interpretation of the idea. It was kind of like the platonic ideal of underwear. The essence of underwear, what made it underwear, was that it covered your junk. And that was what Hazard had done with a double layer of duct tape—smooth side in, so it didn’t stick to Somers’s skin. He’d used a few careful strips to make a pouch for Somers’s junk. He’d run another strip up the back. The end. Voila. Like the sluttiest thong in existence designed by a home improvement company.

And Jesus, Somers looked good in a thong. His shoulders, his arms, his chest. Those fucking tattoos. His abs. The deep vees that ran down toward his crotch. Even the hint of blond bush that Somers had insisted Hazard leave visible. And legs like a fucking god.

Hazard’s pulse had taken up residence in his head again. He was dimly aware of the other men watching Somers. He was aware of the way it made his heart beat. Aware of the sudden urge to skin his knuckles on the closest set of teeth.

He made himself count up to a hundred. Then back down. It didn’t really help.

“Gentlemen,” Will boomed over the speakers. “Tonight has been a lot of fun. But as the queen said to his trick, it’s almost time to pay up. We’ve got one last round to stimulate your—” Will broke off just long enough for a laugh to ripple through the crowd. “—wallets, and then we’ll close out the bidding. Remember: not only are you helping a local kid, but the bachelor who brings in the most money will leave tonight in a limo courtesy of Wahredua Family Rentals. You’ll get to use that same limo on your date with the bachelor.” Will cleared his throat. “Now for the part all you perverts came to see: the underwear competition. Nico Flores, come on down.”

The erotic charge snapped and sparked through the crowd with enough voltage to turn a Ferris wheel. Nico moved with the confidence and assurance born on a runway. He wore a pair of designer briefs that were shockingly plain: white that was almost blue, or maybe purple, in the lights, with a single rainbow band running through the elastic. They fit him like a glove; Hazard had slept with the man for months, and even he found himself blushing slightly at the way the fabric cupped and hugged Nico. His coppery skin sparkled where he had applied more glitter; his long, coltish legs carried him back and forth in front of guys dying to touch.

From the bar came the sound of cracking glass, and Hazard grinned. Poor Barrett was getting the show of a lifetime.

None of the other contestants was real competition; this was Hazard’s first chance to observe them, and he could see that straight away. They were cute. A couple were even hot. But none of them was in the same league as Nico.

Except, of course, Somers.

And when Somers stood up in nothing but the duct tape confection that Hazard had jerry-rigged, it was like a lightning storm. Somers didn’t move like Nico. He wasn’t a runway kid who knew the poses, the stops, the turns. He wasn’t a kid at all, in fact; where Nico was boyishly slim, Somers was a man. Slender, yes. With a swimmer’s build, yes. But muscled and developed in a way that Nico wasn’t.

And stunning, fuckably hot.

Even through the blitz of jealousy that was making it hard to think, Hazard could appreciate Somers’s performance. He knew Somers. Knew him better, maybe, than anyone. And he knew Somers was playing it up. Somers was adding a little more swagger. Somers was adding a little more bro. A little more frat boy. He moved like what he was: a man who had been a star athlete, confidence bred in the bone.

It was like catnip.

It was like heroin.

It was like sex.

The crowd went insane.

The roaring demands, the screams, the catcalls, the shouts of what they would do—or what they wanted done. It continued long after Somers had returned to his seat, and it all poured over Hazard like somebody sloshing gasoline on an open flame. He dug his nails into his palms. He could keep his shit. He could. He could keep it for another five minutes or ten. Any longer, and he’d start knocking the hell out of any guy who looked twice at Somers.

“All right,” Will said, trying to regain the mob’s attention. “Let’s start the bidding.”

Nico was first, and the auction was a madhouse. It ended at just under five hundred dollars, and the winner was, of course, the asshole in the deconstructed blazer. He kept grinning at Nico, giving him double thumbs up and then checking his bedhead. Nico grinned back, but Hazard recognized the fake smile.

The next eight didn’t come anywhere close. One guy, a cute little blond with an eight pack, got $201. The rest were lucky to break eighty bucks.

And then it was Somers.

He cleared a hundred dollars on the second bid.

Then it was two hundred.

Then four.

Hazard could barely hear the numbers. He could just hear his pulse. He could just hear the feral, wordless growl building inside his brain, an animal sound. Primitive. Somers was his.

“A thousand dollars.”

Hazard didn’t recognize the voice. Didn’t even realize he’d spoken until every head in the room turned toward him.

On stage, Somers covered a smile, and Hazard flipped him the bird.

Will stared at Hazard for a moment and then said, “One thousand dollars from Emery Hazard. Going once, going twice—”

“A thousand and one.”

The asshole with the deconstructed blazer checked his bedhead and gave Hazard a smirk.

“Eleven hundred,” Hazard said. They couldn’t afford eleven hundred dollars. Hell, they couldn’t afford