THE CRAZY PROPOSITION

They stayed on their knees in the snow too long.

Brett's black semi-sheer bodycon dress had ridden up over the tops of his black seamless stockings, showing the black lace tops and the six gold clips of his garter belt biting into his soft golden thighs. His 140 mm patent Mary Jane platforms were sideways on the marble, his ankles trembling. His long honey blonde hair was a mess from Lance's hands, his perfect smoky makeup was ruined, black mascara tears cutting through his contour, his full nude lips were swollen and bitten.

And on his left hand, catching the porch light every time he shook, was a three-carat diamond that weighed more than his entire old life.

Lance finally stood, his overcoat dusted with snow, his dark hair damp, his blue eyes still wet, and pulled Brett up with him like he weighed nothing, which at one hundred and twenty-nine pounds, he practically did.

"You're freezing," Lance murmured, his big warm hands rubbing up and down Brett's bare arms where the semi-sheer sleeves clung.

Brett laughed, a watery, wrecked sound that showed all his perfect white veneers with their slightly sharpened canines. "I'm fine," he whispered in his low alto, and held up his left hand between them, watching the diamond throw fire. "I'm more than fine."

Lance took that hand and kissed the diamond, then kissed the palm, then folded Brett's fingers closed around it like he was afraid it would disappear. He led Brett inside the Cocoon, kicking the front door shut behind them with his foot, locking out the Montana night.

The foyer was warm and golden and quiet. Mara had disappeared. The house was theirs.

Lance shrugged out of his overcoat, letting it fall to the floor, and stood there in his dark suit from the plane, his tie loosened, his shirt open at the throat, looking at Brett like he'd never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

Music was playing low from somewhere, Julian must have left the Sonos on, an old slow jazz song with a piano and a woman's smoky voice.

Lance held out his hand, palm up, his eyes never leaving Brett's face.

"Dance with me, baby," he said softly.

Brett's breath caught. He was still in his towering platforms, still in his tight dress, still shaking from hormones and crying and wanting, his D cup breasts rising and falling fast under the high neck.

"I don't know how," Brett whispered, suddenly shy, suddenly twenty-one again, suddenly the boy from Whitefish who'd never slow-danced with anyone in his life. "Matteo didn't teach me that."

Lance smiled, that slow, unshaken smile that was finally coming back, and stepped closer, sliding one big hand around Brett's tiny corseted waist, the other taking Brett's diamond hand and lifting it to his shoulder.

"I'll lead," Lance murmured, pulling Brett's body flush against his, chest to chest, hip to hip.

Brett gasped as their bodies met again, as he felt the hard, obvious length of Lance still straining against his suit pants, pressing into Brett's lower belly through the thin black dress. And Lance felt Brett too, still hard and trapped and aching under the bodycon, pressing back against him.

They both froze for a second, remembering the doorway, remembering the gentle grind, remembering "you'll have to hide it better when you meet my dad."

Then Lance rolled his hips forward, just a fraction, just enough to make Brett whimper, and started to sway.

"Oh," Brett breathed, his eyes fluttering closed, his head falling forward to rest on Lance's shoulder, his long blonde hair spilling down Lance's back.

They danced in the foyer in the golden light, slow and close and imperfect. Lance led, his hand spanning Brett's entire lower back, guiding him in small circles on the marble floor. Brett followed, his towering platforms making him almost as tall as Lance, his body soft and pliant in Lance's arms, his stockinged legs brushing against Lance's suit pants with every step.

The dress clung to every curve, the semi-sheer sleeves whispering against Lance's shirt. Brett could feel the pull of his garter straps with every sway of his hips, could feel the lace of his bra against his sensitive nipples, could feel the heat building low in his belly from the maximum hormones and from being held like this.

"You feel incredible," Lance whispered against Brett's hair, his lips brushing his temple. "Do you have any idea? Your waist... I can almost get my hands all the way around it."

Brett laughed softly, his breath warm against Lance's neck. "Twenty-three inches. Nico would be proud."

"I'm proud," Lance said, his voice thick with emotion, his hand sliding lower, cupping the curve of Brett's ass through the tight black dress, pulling their hips tighter together. "I'm so fucking proud of you, Brielle. Look what you did."

Brett lifted his head then, his big blue eyes wet and shining, his ruined makeup making him look even more beautiful, more vulnerable. He looked down at their bodies pressed together, at the way his dress was stretched over his arousal, at the way Lance's pants were tented against him, and he smiled his dangerous, toothy, perfect smile.

"We're a mess," he whispered.

"We're perfect," Lance corrected, and spun him slowly, making Brett's dress flare just enough to show the tops of his stockings, making Brett gasp and clutch at his shoulders to keep his balance in the impossible heels.

The song swelled, the woman singing about love and staying, and Lance pulled Brett impossibly close, one hand tangled in his hair, the other locked on his waist, their foreheads touching as they swayed.

"Dance with me forever, baby," Lance murmured, his blue eyes locked on Brett's, his voice breaking with eleven weeks of missing him. "Just like this. Every night at nine pm."

Brett's tears spilled over again, hot and fast, and he nodded, his sharp canines catching his swollen lower lip. "Forever," he promised in his soft girl voice, his diamond hand clutching Lance's shoulder, his other hand sliding up into Lance's dark hair. "I'll dance with you forever, Lance."

And they kept dancing, hip to hip, heart to heart, hard and wanting and completely in love, in the golden foyer of the house where a boy became a goddess, while the snow fell soft outside and a three-carat diamond caught the light every time Brett moved.…

They never made it past the foyer.

After the dance, after the slow sway to the jazz song that ended too soon, Lance just sank down onto the bottom step of the grand staircase and pulled Brett down with him, right into his lap.

Brett landed sideways across Lance's thighs in a tangle of long legs and black semi-sheer fabric and 140 mm patent Mary Jane platforms, his tight bodycon dress riding up dangerously high over the lace tops of his black seamless stockings. He gasped, clutching at Lance's shoulders for balance, his D cup breasts bouncing soft and heavy under the high neck, his long honey blonde hair falling everywhere.

Lance's big hands instantly found Brett's tiny twenty-three inch waist, holding him steady, his blue eyes dark and hot as they traveled down Brett's body, taking in the mess he'd made of him.

"Look at you," Lance murmured, his thumb stroking over the three-carat diamond now flashing on Brett's left hand. "My fiancée. In my lap. Ruining that perfect makeup for me."

Brett smiled, slow and dangerous and toothy, his perfect white veneers with their slightly sharpened canines flashing, his big blue eyes still wet with tears. "Your fiancée is a mess, handsome," he purred in his low alto, deliberately shifting his hips on Lance's lap.

Lance sucked in a sharp breath as Brett's weight settled, as he felt exactly what Brett was still hiding under that tight black dress press against his thigh through the fabric.

And Brett felt Lance answer, hard and thick and obvious, straining against his suit pants right underneath him.

They both looked down at the same time, at the way Lance's pants were tented obscenely, at the way Brett's dress was tented right back, two hard outlines pressing together through layers of expensive fabric.

"Oh my god," Brett whispered, then giggled, a bright, musical, completely female sound that made Lance groan. "We're still..."

"Tenting," Lance finished for him, his voice wrecked and amused and full of wonder. He rolled his hips up just a fraction, grinding against Brett through their clothes, and Brett whimpered, his head falling back, his throat exposed. "Just like in the doorway."

Brett's hands fisted in Lance's shirt, his pink nails digging in. "It's your fault," he accused breathlessly, grinding back down against Lance, making them both gasp. "You show up after eleven weeks looking like that, proposing with a rock the size of Montana... what do you expect?"

"I expect you to behave," Lance teased, his hands sliding up from Brett's waist to cup his breasts through the dress, his thumbs brushing over Brett's peaked nipples through the lace bra, making Brett arch and cry out. "At least until we get on the plane."

Brett's eyes flew open. "Plane?"

Lance smiled, that slow billionaire smile that had always made Brett's stomach flip, even when they were just broke boys in Whitefish. "Join me in Singapore, baby," he said softly, his hands still on Brett's breasts, his blue eyes serious and shining. "Tomorrow. My jet. Fourteen hours. Just you and me."

Brett stared at him, his heart hammering against his ribs, against Lance's palms. "Singapore?"

"Non-stop," Lance purred, leaning in to brush his lips against Brett's swollen mouth, not quite kissing. "First class. Private suite. Big bed."

Brett's breath hitched, his hormones surging so hard he felt dizzy. "Lance... I can't... my appointments, my hormones, my..."

"I already talked to Dr. Ellison," Lance interrupted, his voice low and confident, his hands sliding down to grip Brett's hips, holding him still as Brett squirmed on his lap, grinding against him again without meaning to. "She's packing a three-month supply of the maximum dose. Nico is packing your entire closet. Every corset, every pair of stockings, every one of those insane heels."

Brett whimpered, his big blue eyes fluttering closed as Lance's hardness pressed up into him through the dress. "You thought of everything."

"I thought of you," Lance corrected, and kissed the corner of Brett's mouth, then his jaw, then down his throat. "In Singapore. In my penthouse. In my bed. Wearing nothing but that diamond and those stockings."

"Oh my god," Brett breathed, his hands sliding up into Lance's dark hair, holding him close. "What will we do for fourteen hours on a plane?"

Lance lifted his head, his blue eyes dropping deliberately down to where their bodies were joined, where both of them were still painfully, obviously tenting their clothes.

"Flirt," Lance whispered, his voice dark with promise. "Tease. I'll order champagne and you'll sit in my lap just like this in that little stewardess outfit Nico packed for you, and you'll drive me crazy the whole way across the Pacific."

Brett laughed, delighted and scandalized, his sharp canines flashing. "You're terrible."

"I'm in love," Lance said simply, and ground up against him again, slow and deliberate, making Brett gasp and clutch at him. "And I'm hard as a rock for my beautiful fiancée who can't hide a damn thing in a dress."

"Hey!" Brett protested, but he was giggling, grinding back down, the friction making his eyes roll back. "It's not my fault! You told me to keep it! You said—"

"I said keep it," Lance growled, his hands tightening on Brett's hips, holding him still, "so I could do this. So I could feel you want me as much as I want you."

Brett stared down at him, at this man who'd known him since he was sixteen, who was now looking up at him like he was a goddess, like he was everything, and felt tears prick his eyes again from the sheer overload of hormones and love.

"Singapore," Brett whispered, and leaned down to kiss Lance softly, sweetly, his perfect lips brushing Lance's. "Will your dad be there?"

Lance groaned and dropped his head back against the stair, laughing. "God help us. Yes. And you're going to have to figure out how to hide that tent when you meet him, baby."

Brett sat up straight on Lance's lap, smoothing his tight black dress down over his hips with both hands, trying and failing to hide the obvious outline, the diamond flashing. He looked down at Lance's lap, at the matching problem straining against his suit pants, and grinned his dangerous, toothy grin.

"Maybe we won't hide it," Brett purred, his voice dripping with confidence, with the power of being wanted exactly as he was. "Maybe we'll just tell him the truth. That his son is marrying the sexiest woman in Montana, and she comes with a little extra."

Lance stared up at him, at his ruined makeup and his mussed hair and his D cup breasts heaving and his dress tented and his three-carat diamond, and fell in love all over again, harder than before.

"Singapore," Lance whispered, pulling Brett down for another deep, claiming kiss. "Tomorrow. Pack your tent."

Brett laughed into his mouth, grinding down against him one more time, both of them moaning at the friction, at the heat, at the perfect, impossible fit of them.

"Yes, sir," Brett breathed against Lance's lips, his soft girl voice full of promise and tease. "I'll pack everything."