Candy Boys

by Raven, Jo

  “Yeah, I’ll do that,” he drawls quietly. “So you can make up your mind on what comes next. What you want to do with me, and what you want me to do with you.”

  Sounds a little dangerous. A little exciting.

  Which is bullshit. He’s just spinning his tale, trying to sell me more, get more money. He offers services. I’ll pay for the ones I want.

  Simple as that. End of story.

  “I’m waiting.” I nod at the bartender who arrives to take our order. I ask for a Strawberry Daiquiri because I can’t pass up anything with strawberries in it, and he asks for a fruit juice. “You don’t drink? Watching your weight?”

  It’d make sense, in his line of work.

  He blinks at me, brows drawing together. Then he relaxes. “No, it’s not that. I don’t drink when I work.”

  “Part of the code?”

  “My code, yeah.”

  We sit in silence as our drinks are prepared, then placed in front of us. I wait until the bartender moves on to the next customer, then I take a sip from my cocktail.

  “You do get paid for sex, right?” I want this out of the way as quickly as possible. “The agency said this is something I need to negotiate with you in person.”

  He puts his glass down hard, and liquid sloshes over the top. “Damn.” He ducks his head, then smirks. He looks at me sideways with a twinkle in his eye and very deliberately licks the juice off his fingers. “That’s right. Let’s negotiate.”

  My breath goes out in a whoosh. That’s...sexy. It should be gross and off-putting. I mean he’s being lewd on purpose, but damn, those gray eyes, and the dimples, and the smirk...not to mention his scent that’s filling my senses, spice and salt, it all shoots straight to my core, bypassing my rational mind.

  And that’s his job, right? He’s playing his gigolo part, and I’m falling for it like an idiot.

  Which is...Fine, right? After all, I’m asking for it. Asking to hire him for sex. Even if it’s to cure myself of my affliction, something he doesn’t know. Something he doesn’t need to know about, not if it all goes according to my plan.

  And it will. I feel it deep in my gut that this is the only way. Swim or drown. Jump or get eaten by the wolves of the past.

  “Hey. Paxtyn.” He’s waving a hand in front of my face. “You with me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You sort of spaced out on me. Anything I should know about?”

  I shake my head. “Sorry. I just remembered something I need to do later.” There. Smooth. “You were saying?”

  He watches my face as if trying to read it. As if suspecting I’m lying.

  “I don’t do guys,” he says finally. “Or children. Or animals.”

  I gape at him. “Sure,” I manage. “I wasn’t going to—”

  “No drugs. No photos or videos. No hardcore BDSM. If we stay in a hotel, you pay the room and all related expenses. If we go to a bar or restaurant, you pay.”

  “Like now?” I gesture at his juice.

  “No.” He flashes me a quick grin, dimples and all. God. “I’ve got this one.”

  “And the extras?”

  “That’s for sex.”

  His words hang between us as if carved in the air with fire.

  I swallow hard. “So the hourly rate the agency told me about is for…?”

  “This.” He waves again at the bar. “Spending time together, talking, holding hands. I can go to parties with you, concerts, the movies, the theater, to restaurants. You can tell your friends I’m your boyfriend, or your fiancé, or whatever you want. This is the game.”

  The game?

  “How much for sex, then?”

  “Extra fifty bucks per hour.” He says it quickly and without inflection, his face blank. “That’s my price.”

  Here is the catch, then. Still, the price is overall low enough that it’s affordable to me. I have enough to spend, and if it means I get to lead a more normal life afterward, then this is worth it.

  “I’ll make it worth your while,” he says, obviously thinking I’m about to change my mind. “I’m good at this. I can hold back from coming until you’re satisfied, and—”

  “It’s a deal.” I lift my glass, take a long gulp of sweet daiquiri. “You think two hours are enough?”

  His mouth opens, then closes. He’s trying to control his expression, but can’t help the widening of his eyes.

  “Yeah. Sure,” he says after a moment, recovering. “I take it you agree with my conditions?”

  “I think they make sense.” My palms are sweating. God, am I really going through with this?

  Guess so.

  “Okay then. Where would you like to go?” He swallows down his juice, and I watch his throat work. He sure is pretty, in a rugged sort of way, with his dark hair, bright eyes and soft mouth.

  “I’ve booked a room here.” I push away my glass, too nervous to swallow another drop. Digging into my purse, I take out enough money to cover the bill and place it on the bar, waving off his objection. Need to do this before I lose my nerve. “Ready when you are.”

  ***

  “Nice place.” Riot closes the room door behind him and gives me his wolfish grin again. The dimples make it less intimidating, and I should stop staring at him.

  I won’t be seeing him again after tonight, so drooling over his handsome face isn’t a good idea. He has the right look, the right attitude to pull this off. He has to. It’s what the agency advertises, what I’m paying for.

  Bad. Arrogant. Rough. Violent. Just enough to remind me.

  Just enough to see if I can get over it. I haven’t been able to get close to a man since that fateful night, not even to hold hands or randomly touch, let alone have sex.

  But I figure if I’m going to do it, then I’m all in. Rip the Band-Aid off. Get it over with.

  Vaguely I think this can’t be right. I wasn’t attracted to the man who held me, not in the least, and Riot is eye candy, but hey.

  Can’t complain about that, now, can I?

  Shrugging off my coat, I drop it with my purse on a chair and smooth down my dress, trying to calm my nerves.

  This is my confidence outfit. Short black dress, black high-heeled pumps, silver necklace and large silver hoops in my ears. This is my I’m-sexy-and-I-know-it outfit. My I-hook-my-little-finger-and-men-drop-at-my-feet costume. My Sex Goddess disguise.

  Who I want to be. Who I am. The new me.

  Silence spreads. He’s making no sound, so I turn to see.

  His jacket is carelessly thrown on the bed. Leaning against the wall, arms folded over his chest, he’s staring at me, that same lopsided grin from earlier on his lips. He looks somehow predatory, and my heart stammers.

  Yes, this is what I need. That fear. I need to get back into the memories of that night, and this time react. Fight back. Make it right.

  Make him stop.

  “Do you want me to strip first?” he asks, breaking through my thoughts, his voice low and raspy. “You want me completely naked from the start, or shall I leave my briefs on?”

  The questions—the images my brain helpfully provides of him naked—jolt me like lightning.

  “Um. Not…” Not sure about anything.

  “Do you have a scenario in mind? How you want this to play out?” He’s still leaning against the wall, cool and relaxed, while my pulse thumps in my throat.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like, do you want me to tie you up, pretend I kidnapped you or something? Some women like that. That’s why they come to our agency. That bad boy vibe.”

  “Kidnapped.” It comes out breathy with remembered fear.

  “If that’s what you want.” He shrugs and pushes off the wall, his smile gone. “Anything you like.”

  “No, wait.” Deep breaths. All in, right? Crap, my hands are shaking. “No...no kidnapping scenario. Just tie me. Tie me up.”

  Because that’s what happened that night, with the added bonus that I won’t be able to run away if the memories ge
t too much.

  “Sure thing.” He winks at me and starts unbuttoning his blue shirt. “I’ll tie you up.”

  There’s something else I should be telling him right about now, but when he shrugs off his shirt, my brain shuts down.

  Oh boy.

  His chest is beautifully sculpted into hard planes and dark hollows. Muscular and lean, from his ripped stomach to his defined pecs and higher, to his big shoulders and biceps that bulge when he lifts his shirt and lets it drop on top of his jacket.

  Colors swirl on his arm and pec. A tattoo unlike any I’ve ever seen—yellow and red and golden, in the shape of flames.

  I watch as he reaches for his zipper, his abs contracting. Gah. Talk about a six-pack. Then he pops the button, pulls down the zipper, and my mouth goes dry.

  His briefs are black and soft, hugging his package, and as his jeans slide down his muscular thighs, I can see he’s semi-hard. And big. Yeah, this is one big, bad boy.

  God.

  He steps out of his pants and takes off his shoes and socks. I feel...jeez, I feel hot all over, inside and out, just by looking at him. He straightens, dressed in his black briefs that look almost too small to contain him, and gives me a slow smirk.

  Damn. He knows he looks good. How can he not? He’s all hard muscle and sinuous lines—broad chest, narrow hips, long, strong legs, and that smirk…

  “Take your time,” he says, and even his voice has dropped to a sexy growl. “Unless you want me to take things in my own hands?”

  I don’t know what to say, nervousness returning ten-fold, followed closely by fear.

  “Do you want me to undress you before I tie you up? Do you…” He gestures at me. “Do you feel attached to that dress?”

  “What?”

  “Is it okay if I rip it?”

  Rip it. I draw a breath and almost choke on it. “Don’t.” I turn my face away. “Don’t rip anything.”

  “Okay. No ripping. Good to know.” He steps closer, his bare feet making no sound on the carpet, and reaches for me. “Come.”

  “Wait.” I take a step back. Distance is definitely needed if I’m going to be able to use my brain. “One more thing.”

  “I have condoms,” he says easily. “They’re covered in the price.”

  “Oh.” Crap, I hadn’t even thought about condoms. “That’s not what I was going to say.”

  “Okay.” He folds his arms again over his chest—his bare, muscular, tattooed chest, and really, I should stop staring—and waits.

  The bulge in his briefs has gotten bigger. Much, much bigger. I can see the outline of his hard cock, caught sideways in the elastic cloth, and his balls...Oh God.

  Need to think. Remember what I was going to say.

  “A safe word,” I blurt, before I forget, before my brain does that blackout thing again. “We need a safe word.”

  His eyes narrow, his dark brows draw together. “What for? I told you, I don’t do hardcore BDSM. There’s no—”

  “I need one. I need…” I fist my hands at my sides, struggle to breathe. “Need to know you will stop.”

  His frown deepens. “What do you mean? Of course I’ll stop if you want me to.”

  “At any moment. No questions asked, no delay.” My fists are shaking badly now. Is it a solution? Will it work? Will I need it?

  “Just tell me to stop, and I will,” he says slowly, still frowning. “I swear I will. No delays. No questions asked. Paxtyn…” He closes the distance between us, lifts a hand to my cheek. “I won’t do anything to hurt you.”

  I jerk away before he touches my face. “The agency would fire you if you did, right?” I need that reassurance that he can’t do anything he likes to me, that there’s a leash on him, ready to jerk him back.

  His hand drops, and his jaw clenches. “You really think that’s why I wouldn’t hurt you? Because I fear for my job? Do you think I wouldn’t stop otherwise?”

  “Will they fire you?”

  He swallows. “Yeah. Yeah, they will. Happy now?”

  I don’t know if happiness has anything to do with what I’m feeling. “Good. Then if I say stop, you stop. If you don’t stop immediately, I will call the agency and complain.”

  “You won’t need to do that.” He rubs a hand over his mouth, grimaces. “Listen...how about going slow? Talk first, take half an hour to relax. I won’t charge you for it. First half hour is on me. We could—”

  “No need.” I have to do this fast, before I lose my nerve. Get it over with. “Seriously.”

  He watches me for a long moment, his mouth downturned. He doesn’t like this. Maybe he has a feeling this isn’t all what it seems.

  But in the end, he shrugs, a light roll of his big shoulders. He even manages a tiny smile.

  “Fine by me.” He gestures at the bed and takes a funny little bow. “After you, miss. Let the games begin.”

  Chapter Two

  Riot

  Games.

  That’s how I try to picture my profession in my head, how I frame it so I don’t react when clients ask about my price and what I can or can’t do, when they look me over like I’m a racehorse they wanna buy, or when they act like I’m gonna grab their money and run.

  I’m a professional. I take this seriously. Not exactly what I imagined myself doing when I grew up, but what the hell. Not like I had any big dreams when I was a kid, and besides. Payments are due, the pay is good, and it’s an honest gig, at least.

  And she’s pretty. Not so common in my line of work. I mean, sure, sometimes I get attractive women, but young and pretty like this one? Not in a million years.

  She’s unzipping her dress. It has one of those funny zippers on the side, and I can’t help but stare at the lush curve of her ass as she turns away from me. The material of the dress is soft and it slides off her body like water, pooling around her ankles. She steps clear of the black material, the high heels she’s wearing making her long legs look endless. Her underwear is black lace with red bows at her hips. It’s not a thong, but it hugs her ass cheeks in a very distracting way.

  She is very distracting. I lick my lips, waiting for her to turn around, and I can’t remember the last time I was so damn excited.

  First she reaches up, pulls a pin and lets her dark hair cascade over her back. Then she turns around, and my breath hitches.

  Holy fucking shit. What a girl.

  Her black lacy bra cups her perfect tits, lifting them just enough so I can imagine how they’ll spill into my hands if I tug down the flimsy lace. Her nipples show through, dark areolae, winking at me. Asking me to touch them, lick them.

  My gaze follows her curves, and damn, I’m so out of my depth here. I should pinch myself to check that I’m not dreaming. She’s gorgeous. With her dark chocolate eyes and that full mouth, that shiny black hair falling past her shoulders, she’s a wet dream.

  Hell, I’m so hard it actually fucking hurts.

  Normally at this stage, I’m not even hard. I’d have to concentrate to get into a sexy mindset, picture myself with a girl I want, picture her going on her knees for me, sucking my dick, before I can even get it up.

  Well, not this time, junior.

  I shove my hand into my briefs and straighten my dick before it breaks, as it’s caught sideways under the elastic. Her eyes dip down, following my movement, and something dark flares in them.

  Jesus, this girl.

  Then she’s climbing on the bed, and I follow as if pulled by a thread, a goddamn rope, after her.

  “Do it,” she says, leaning back against the iron headboard, her chest heaving, her tits threatening to spill over the bra.

  “What?” Can’t think. All the blood’s rushed south. My dick throbs.

  “Tie me up.” She lifts her hands, grips the bars of the headboard. Stretches those long legs in front of her, still with the black high heels on.

  Black seems to be the theme of the evening. Dark. Lace. Ropes.

  Okay, focus, Riot.

  I reach for my jacket
. From the pockets I pull out two small cases I carry with me whenever I’m out on a job. One contains condoms, lube and a vibrator. The other contains some bondage rope, soft cuffs, a foldable suede flogger, and a blindfold.

  You’d be surprised how much use these items have seen. I’ve been told I should add a paddle to the set, but that’s not my scene.

  “Hey, baby,” I whisper as I unroll the Japanese bondage rope and wrap it around my hands. Need to get her more relaxed, she’s vibrating like a taut string right now. “You dressed for the occasion, or do you always dress like this? Don’t get me wrong, I like it.” I wink at her, and she looks away.

  That’s fine. Not all women are comfortable at first in such a situation.

  “I’ll pretend you dressed up for me,” I tell her. “That you went and bought that sexy black lace and those shoes to show off your body to me. Fuck, that’s hot.”

  She makes a small mewling sound that has me looking up from where I’ve been choosing the condom and lube. Was that arousal? Not sure.

  It sounded more like distress.

  I scan her face, searching for clues, but she’s hiding it in the crook of her elbow. Hiding it from me.

  Narrowing my eyes, I walk around the bed, perch on the edge and lay everything in front of me—the condom, the rope, the lube. “Paxtyn. Are you sure you want this?”

  Need to be sure. You never force a client to do anything, even if they originally thought they did. You don’t force a person, ever. Period.

  I can see her wavering. There’s a shine in her bright eyes that looks like tears. That happens sometimes, too, but I have to be sure.

  “It’s okay to be nervous,” I tell her, keeping my voice soft. “Our fantasies are a private thing. It’s not always easy to share them with someone. I swear nothing that takes place between us, nothing we do, nothing you say will ever make it past these walls.” I gesture at the elegant room with its framed mirrors and vases with fresh flowers, the king-sized bed with its white pristine covers and the heavy burgundy drapes. “Just you and me. So relax and tell me what you really want.”

  She’s observing me under her lashes, still gripping the headboard. Her chest heaves, pushing up those round tits, pulling my gaze to them.