Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 5

one of the photographer's assistants was helpfully spritzing water onto the already thin material. The fabric clung to Aaron's chest and the tops of his thighs. The outline of his cock was clear where it lay quiescent along his thigh, nearly peeking out from under the short and skimpy outfit.
    Aaron's head was tipped down, his hands placed together in an attitude of prayer, and a fan turned on him, causing his hair to blow sexily across the lower half of his face. Wasserstein called out for him to hold his head still but look up. With the tips of his fingers just touching his lips, Aaron looked up. His gaze locked on Wasserstein. The photographer called out several emotions he wanted Aaron to portray. Travis couldn't see any discernible change in the expression on the bass player's face. Then Aaron's gaze shifted beyond Wasserstein, and Travis found himself caught in the hot amber gaze that no contact could recreate. The corner of Aaron's mouth tilted up, and his eyelids dropped down over those burning orbs a fraction. The whole room crackled with suppressed sex. Travis turned to see who had come in behind him, but the area between him and the door was empty.
    Aaron had to be fucking with him.
    He turned back to the front of the room, a grin of disbelief stretching his mouth wide. Aaron dressed as a Renaissance angel? Wrapping his mind around that incongruous sight was more than Travis was capable of right then. Between the migraine meds starting to kick in and the stuck-on-stupid feeling his headaches always left him with, it was no wonder. Hell, anyone who knew Aaron well would laugh themselves sick over the disconnect between his current cherubic appearance and the unholy thoughts doubtless running through his head. Travis glanced up, his eyes locking on Aaron. The absolute stillness of the room nudged its way into his consciousness, and he froze. Aaron was staring intently at Wasserstein, and the photographer's thick neck was turning red.
    Crap.
    The last time Travis had seen the man's neck turn that shade—
    The photographer's head turned, and his intense gaze locked on Travis.
    "What the hell are you doing in my shoot? Who gave you permission to be here?"
    Wasserstein swung around and took two rapid strides toward Travis, his long, thick legs eating up the space between them faster than Travis thought should be possible. The burly artist fell into an attitude of rest like an avalanche which had filled a ravine and stopped just short of eradicating the entire village on the other side.
    Travis shook his head. The meds were making him loopy. He really needed something that could just take the pain away without making him stupider than the headaches did.
    "I said, what are you doing—"
    Aaron interrupted, "For fuck's sake, Carl, lay off. You know damn well Travis is Liquid Sin's shit-hot guitar player. Plus, we live together."
    Carl's head whipped around. Travis's did as well. The way Aaron had caressed that last sentence was—fucking hot. Aaron's gaze burned a line up Travis's legs, hovered like a warm fist pumping up and down the length of his cock, and then slid smooth as silk up to his eyes with only the briefest of hesitations on Travis's lips.
    Wasserstein's voice came from somewhere far away. "Stay. Richard—get a chair for him and set it here."
    The photographer pointed a thick finger imperiously at the floor right next to the tripod his camera rested on. His assistant scurried over with a chair. Travis felt a bit like a shit-heel, considering the guy rushing to bring him a chair was at least four inches shorter than him and so slim he looked as though a stiff breeze would knock him ass over curly brown locks. He stepped forward. "Let me help."
    The assistant darted a nervous glance upward. The pink tip of his tongue swiped across his bottom lip. He gave a half smile, extending his arms toward Travis.
    "Christ, Travis, let the poor fucker do his job before Wasserstein blows a gasket and fires him."
    Travis jerked to a stop. Aaron's tone struck across his skin like the flail of a thousand tiny whips, pinpricks of acid seeping down into him bone deep. Aaron's eyes were narrowed slits, his nostrils flared. Wasserstein grunted, and the shutter of his camera began to click furiously. Travis drowned for a moment in the red wash of anger that filled him from the soles of his feet up. When had Aaron become such a dick? The weight of every thoughtless thing Aaron had subjected him to over the last three—no,