by Jo Raven
“Christ.” She presses close to me, and hugs me, her hands settling higher up my back, avoiding the welts.
I hug her back, my throat closing.
“You have to tell the agency. You should never meet that woman again. This...Johnson. The one who answers the phones?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“What an asshole.”
I laugh. Never heard her cuss before. “It’s okay. I’ll survive.”
“But you shouldn’t have to fight to survive. It shouldn’t be an issue.”
I hug her tighter. “This is my mess. Forget about it. Let’s go sit down.”
She lets me drag her back to the sofa, but I can almost hear the wheels turning inside her head.
Need to distract her, avoid more questions, because today’s a shitty day and I might just crack and spill. Talk and then not be able to take anything back.
I don’t waste time. Depositing her on her back, I slide down her naked body and bury my face between her thighs. She squeals when I lick her, then moans when I circle her opening with my fingertip.
I never do this. When asked for it, I may do it with protection. It’s not my thing.
But with Pax it’s different. Her scent, her taste...Everything about her turns me on, and I could spend hours with my tongue on her clit and my fingers fucking her, licking up her sweetness and getting so turned on I’m about to come in my pants.
Distracting her. Distracting me. Whenever I think how that guy tied me up and whipped me with his belt, I have red crossing my vision. I hated every second of it. That feeling of helplessness and frustration and fear.
Is that how Pax felt in that biker club? What scarred her so deeply she was too scared to be with a guy for years?
Fuckers. Getting off on others’ fear and pain. If I had them now in front of me, I’d punch them to pulp.
Pax shakes underneath me and I focus on her. She’s about to come, I sense it, and I work her faster, my own body trembling with need, the pressure in my gut painful.
“Riot, I…” Her voice breaks on a keening cry, and I gasp, feeling her pussy contract around my fingers.
Fuck, so close. My dick twitches, leaking inside my briefs.
I pull back, rubbing my fingers back and forth, prolonging her pleasure, and I press with my other hand on my cock, to ease some of the pressure.
She’s coming down from it, her eyes glazed, her lips parted, her breath coming in short, harsh pants. “Riot.”
“Right here.” I draw my fingers out, slowly, and she shudders and moans. “God, I want you.”
“Do it. Want to feel you.” She licks her lips. “Inside me.”
I should ask again if she’s sure, if it’s not too soon after coming, but it’s as if I’ll come apart if I don’t get inside her soon. Like I’m held together by a wish and a prayer, and only she can put me back together.
So I shuck off my boots, socks and pants, and crawl up over her, my hard-on dragging over her naked body, leaving shiny trails. Grabbing a condom from my jacket, I tug it on quickly.
I’m so hot my blood burns under my skin, inside my cock. I’m burning for her. Need her so much. Her hot body, her dark eyes, her past and her pain, her sweetness and her concern.
Fucked-up.
“Look at me,” I whisper, and she puts her hands on my shoulders as I push into her. “God, look at me.”
See me. Not a random escort. Not someone you pay for. Not a thing. Me.
Her dark eyes lock with mine, and I thrust inside her all the way, groaning deep in my chest at the way she clenches around my cock.
God, I wish I could ditch the condom and spill inside her, feel her around my dick as she convulses and cries out my name.
Skin to skin. No barriers. No lies and half-truths.
But that’s not gonna happen. She’s concerned now, but she won’t like it. Won’t like my truth. My past.
So I start moving, to drown out the looping thoughts driving me crazy. Drown them out in need and pleasure. I capture her mouth in a long kiss as I move faster, my balls drawing up, my cock swelling until I think it’ll burst through the condom.
Need her to come. I won’t last. I reach with one hand between us, find her clit, press.
“Come for me, baby,” I gasp as she tightens around me and mewls her pleasure. “Fuck. Come with me. Now.”
“Oh God,” she moans into my mouth and squeezes around my dick. “God, Riot.”
“I’m gonna come,” I warn her, because even if she tells me no I can’t stop it. “Gonna come with you.”
She arches off the sofa and I tumble headfirst into a shattering orgasm. I long moan rises up my throat, lost against her lips, as my dick jerks and my balls clench and my whole goddamn body pulses with it.
Fire. Pain. Pleasure. Release.
Pax, it’s Pax, all around me, holding me close, holding me inside of her, and I don’t ever want to leave.
Dammit. I want to stay like this, with her forever.
Why is it that the first girl I’ve ever fallen for in my life had to be one I can’t have?
***
She’s making tea and I’m slumped on her sofa, an arm over my eyes. I’ll have to confront Johnson, I know it, and it’ll be a fucking mess. He could kick me out of the agency.
Motherfucker.
And if it was only that...The feeling I’m being watched has grown worse. I don’t know what the hell that’s about, but it makes my scalp prickle.
Maybe I’m losing it. The stress of this past week is getting to me.
“How are the boys?” Pax asks, returning to the living room and depositing two steaming mugs on the table. “Dexter and Batman?”
I sit up, take my mug. I’d much rather drink some more whisky, but that’s not a good idea right now. “They’re okay. Batman’s opening up. Not so jumpy anymore.”
“Like me,” she says with a mischievous grin, and I gulp down hot tea, not trusting my face.
Pretending I don’t care is wearing me down, wearing down my mask of indifference and polite smiles. My face has lost its rigidity, and no matter how I try, I can’t hide.
Not from her.
“And Dexter?” She settles down beside me, naked, and my dick is hardening already, just because she’s close. “How big is he now?”
I show her with my hand—he’s tiny, really—and she squeals, her eyes filling with stars.
“Oh my God. So über-cute!” She beams. “Can I meet them?”
“If you can—?” I snap my mouth closed. That would mean coming to my rough neighborhood, my trashy apartment. Seeing. Knowing. “Pax—”
She sighs, puts her mug down. “Why do you always say my name like you’re mad at me? It was only a question.”
“Mad at you? Is that what you think?”
Jesus.
“I don’t know what to think. You won’t tell me much.” She reaches for her dress that’s in a pile on the carpet. Pulls it on without bothering with underwear.
And despite my fears and worries, I’m fully hard now, because that’s so hot. She’s sexy in everything she does, even when she’s upset and wary of me.
“What do you want to know? And why?”
“Why? Because…” She bites her lip and I reach for her, grip her hand. “Because I think maybe I was wrong about a lot of things.”
“What sort of things?”
She glances at me sideways, then looks down, long lashes brushing her cheeks. “About you.”
Shit. “What did you think of me?”
“Nothing bad,” she reassures me, and I relax a little. “But I thought you were some debauched rich boy with a gambling debt.”
“And that’s not bad?” I huff, torn between righteous anger and laughter, but what right do I have to righteousness anyway? “Hell.”
“Well, not very bad.” She gives me a faint smile. “Is it?”
I guess not. “A rich boy, huh?”
“I know the agency says you’re the real thing,” she rushes to say,
a little breathless. “But I was a little leery of the whole bad boy thing.”
“So I’m not a bad boy.”
“I don’t know what you are.”
So honest. Fearless. She’s coming out of her shell in colors and flashing lights.
“Does it matter what I am?”
She smacks my arm. “Yes, it does.”
“Why?” Why, why? I hold my breath, not even sure what I expect her to say, why my heart is booming in my chest. “Tell me.”
Why is it important to you? Why do you insist on knowing? Why do you act concerned?
“Nothing. I’m just…” She lets her hair fall over her face. Guess she likes hiding, too. “Just curious.”
Strange how my chest constricts with disappointment.
“And if you find out I’m a bad boy for real?” I look down at her hand in my hand, so small and fragile and beautiful. “That I’ve done bad things in my past? That the agency was telling the truth?”
She chews on this, her eyes darting from our joined hands to my face. “No way. What the agency says is just marketing, to attract women. We like the idea of a bad boy. Well, most women do.”
But not her. Because she’s seen the real deal and still hurts from that encounter.
“I thought you said you didn’t believe I was a rich guy with gambling problems.”
“Maybe not that. Maybe you’re saving money for something. A house? A car?” She’s staring at me, expecting an answer, and I chew on the inside of my cheek to keep silent. “Why can’t you tell me?”
“Because maybe you were right after all.” I shrug. “Maybe I spent my rich dad’s money on fast cars and lost it. I’m not a good guy.”
“Yes, you are. I know it.” She sounds so convinced, and hell, it makes me want to grab her, cling to her. Believe her.
Problem is, like she said, she doesn’t know shit, not about me. Better that way.
“Maybe,” I finally say, and it’s a lie, lying bitter on my tongue. I’m not saving anything, not a penny, and I’m not a good guy. I’m a selfish bastard and deserve any welt, any whipping I get.
Any pain life decides to deal me.
***
In the next few days, I don’t hear from Pax. That is, the agency doesn’t call me with any new appointments with her, and although I’ve grilled Johnson as much as I dared, he insisted she didn’t ask for one.
Didn’t call, he said. Swore on his mother’s life.
His mother’s dead, so that means fuck-all, but still. No way I can verify any of this, is there? Johnson is king of the reception desk and string master of all us escorts, controlling our movements and lives.
There was a time I thought I could be a free man. Break free of all the bad, find a decent job somewhere and live a normal life. Even when I worked with the Hellfire Fighters I thought I could one day leave. Gather enough money to reboot my life.
And look what it brought me. Where it led me. Kyle’s medical expenses seem to be growing by the month, and the debt for his surgeries is a black hole, siphoning dollars.
I doubt I’ll ever be free. Not before I’m eighty and use a walking stick to move around. Or before Johnson, out of spite, sends me to a client who’ll break my bones for fun and put me out of business for good.
At least since I told Johnson about the whipping and the welts, he hasn’t made me any more appointments with the two fuckers who tried it. Waiting for the welts to fade, I guess, before he sends me back.
Which is another way to end my career as escort, because I might just snap and punch the man until he can’t get up, and tie the woman, leave her tied up for the cleaning maid to find.
I shiver as I finish up my treadmill at the gym and grab my towel to wipe at my face. Gale is not here today, but Zeke is using the punching bag like it fucked his puppy, snarling and cursing, sweat streaming down his face and back.
Whoa.
Mopping up the back of my neck, I head over to him, careful not to step in the way of his punches.
“Hey, man. What’s up?”
He cuts me a sharp glance, curls his lip and goes back to beating the shit out of the bag. “Riot.”
I prop my hip against the wall and fold my arms over my chest. “The bag insult your mom or what?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
I snort. “Leave something for me, will ya? I need to beat something up, too, and I wouldn’t want that to be you.”
“Yeah?” He tsks, delivers a roundhouse kick to the bag. It groans, its chain rattling. “That right? Suck my dick, asshole.”
“Just spill, Zeke. What the hell happened?”
“What, you Dr. Freud now or something?”
“Why, because I’m fucking asking why you look ready to murder the damn bag?”
“Fuck you.” He punches the bag one last time, making it swing back and forth, and turns away. “Piss off.”
Yeah, no way. “Zeke. Come on.”
He rubs his gloved hands through his short hair. “It’s nothing.”
That makes my hackles rise. It’s exactly what I’d have said if things were going to hell. Come to think of it, it’s exactly what I did say to Pax the other day.
“Spill. Don’t make me beat the truth out of you.”
“In your dreams. Bastard.” But it’s half-hearted.
“Let me buy you a beer. I know a nice place.”
He finally nods and together we head toward the locker room to shower and change. He’s quiet, which isn’t strange for Zeke, but he’s quieter than usual.
Like, stone silent.
Snow has been falling all afternoon and we tread through it, leaving deep imprints on the sideway heading to the bar—not the student-packed one, although I itch to check if Pax is there—but another, smaller one around the corner. Shaking the snowflakes off our jackets, we settle on our stools and I order us two beers.
It takes quite a lot of prodding, still, until Zeke finally opens up enough to tell me what’s going on. It turns out he just found out his mom died.
Fuck. And me cracking jokes about her.
But that’s not all.
“They found her, at home, alone,” he says, his voice subdued. “Dead for days. Weeks? Fuck if I know. From the smell.”
His voice hitches, and he takes a gulp from his beer.
Shit.
“Didn’t know you were close,” I say.
“We weren’t. That’s the fucking point.”
A point I don’t get. Because I’m stupid. “So why are you so upset?”
“Don’t you fucking get it? It’s my fault. If I hadn’t cut all ties...She died alone, man. I can’t imagine…” He rubs at his eyes. “Can’t imagine it, dying alone. Pneumonia. All the smoking, I guess. Nobody to call a doctor. Nobody by her side. She was still my mom. I thought...Thought we’d have time to somehow work things over, meet again.”
And he missed the chance. Now she’s dead.
Talk about regrets and what ifs. Because deep inside he still loved her, and he never told her, and now it’s too late.
Fucking hell.
“Gotta go.” I slide off my stool, throw some bucks on the bar. “Sorry, Zeke. Catch you some other time.”
I leave him to stare after me, and I feel kinda bad because I dragged him there and forced the sordid story out of him, but there’s someone I need to check on.
Need to make sure she’s okay, and tell her what I want, what I feel, even if it’s the biggest mistake of my life.
Chapter Fifteen
Paxtyn
I have the cold from hell. My nose is red and running, my eyes leak, and my throat feels like someone coated it in sandpaper. The coarse type, too.
Plus my head hurts and I’ve running a low grade fever for the past couple of days. Corey said that, in his professional opinion, I should skip college and stay in bed. So I did, because Corey knows how to wield a thermometer, a skill I lack, and besides, I feel like road kill.
Dressed in a fluffy house robe and bunny slippers, my
hair a messy bun on top of my head, I get up from my spot on the sofa. God, if Riot saw me like this I’d die of embarrassment. Not that I’m in any shape for sex right now—even if the thought of getting naked with him again raises my temperature another degree.
Not today, Pax.
In fact, maybe it’s a good time to stop obsessing about the sexy, handsome escort and focus on someone else. Someone who might want me, and not get paid for it by the hour.
But it won’t be Riot.
My heart hurts at the thought of not seeing him again, of being with someone else.
Or maybe it’s the cold. That’s what it is, I tell myself as I shuffle into the kitchen for my hourly cup of black tea with honey, my nose stuffed with Kleenex to avoid leakage. It’s not that I miss Riot. That I have any feelings for him.
No. No way.
Need to eat something, and drink something warm. I take down the honey from the cupboard, set the mug on the table and grab the kettle—when the doorbell rings.
I freeze. Who can that be? It’s already dark outside. Even the snow has stopped falling. There’s a silence to the world.
Until the doorbell rings again, snapping me out of my daze. It has to be Corey. He’s been checking on me every day, and although he came by this morning, maybe he wants to see if my fever has broken—or to borrow my Friends DVD box set. It’s a toss-up between the two.
Putting down the kettle, I shuffle to the door, pulling out the Kleenex from my nose at the last moment before I open.
“Corey, if you came for the Friends box set, you’re—”
“Hi, Pax.”
I stare. Can’t stop staring.
It’s Riot. At my door. Hands in his jacket pockets, cheeks ruddy from the cold, his gray eyes sparkling like gems.
Maybe my fever has gone up. Hallucinations? I blink, and he’s still there, head cocked to the side, giving me an assessing look.
“Are you okay?” he says.
“Yeah, of course.” I wave my hand, then realize I’m holding the bunched up Kleenex and stop. “Just a bit sick.”