Candy Boys

by Raven, Jo

  Shit. Never been so out of balance in my life.

  Goddammit, Riot, get your shit together.

  I lift the bondage rope in my hands, cock my head at her. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

  She nods.

  “I need to hear it, Paxtyn. Say it out loud. Tell me you want it, or I won’t go through with it.”

  Her lips part on a sigh. “I want it. Do it. Tie me up.”

  Nodding, I gather each slender wrist in my hands and tie her against the headboard. Very practical, these old-fashioned beds. Made for bondage. Makes you wonder what our ancestors got up to every night.

  I lean back, survey my work. Fuck, she looks amazing like this, the black rope tied around her wrists, her head thrown back, her gaze meeting mine from hooded eyes. I take my time and look, follow the contours of her body from the creamy tits to her flat belly and lower, her pussy barely covered in thin black lace, and her legs.

  Perfect.

  Small, thin scars at her hips catch my attention, but then she shifts on the mattress, her legs parting a little, distracting me.

  I slowly lift my hand, place it over her heart. It’s racing. Fuck, her nipples are hardening, standing to attention.

  She’s ready. And hell, I’m more than ready. I count backward from twenty inside my head, struggling to get my body under control, to rein in a hard-on that’s trying to burst through my briefs.

  Slow. This is about her, not me.

  Let’s do it.

  ***

  I take my time with her. Women may think they want a guy to fuck them fast and hard, but usually they need foreplay, especially when they are nervous, and especially when they guy is well hung.

  Yeah, I’m well-hung. Why be coy about it? It is what it is, and with enough foreplay, women enjoy my cock a lot.

  I don’t kiss her. I rarely kiss the women who rent me, unless they initiate it. Some of them want to keep it impersonal, and I understand that.

  Instead, I focus on the smooth skin of her neck and shoulders, trailing my lips over her collarbone, licking and nipping.

  She smells delicious, like coconut and cream. Tastes even better, sweet and salty running from my tongue straight to my cock, making it swell and jerk.

  This girl’s dangerous.

  And oddly quiet as I touch her with my mouth. Still nervous, I guess. I clasp her ribcage in my hands, glance up at her face. Her eyes are open to thin slits, but at least she’s looking at me.

  I hide a grin against her skin, trailing my mouth lower, and slide my hands up to cup her tits. A tremor shakes her when I tease her nipples through the lace with my mouth and thumbs, and fuck, that’s so hot.

  Swear to God, I will wrench sounds and moans out of her if it takes me goddamn hours. I’ll make sure she has a good time with me.

  Tugging down the lace, I clamp my hands on her waist and suck on her pretty nipples, teasing them to hard nubs, cursing silently when my dick throbs more urgently between us.

  Shit. Down, boy.

  Again I start counting inside my head, trying every trick I’ve learned over these past two years to keep myself under control.

  Trouble is, I’ve rarely had this problem. Never so bad. Dammit, she’s too damn sexy.

  Which begs the question what a beautiful, rich girl like her is doing in a hotel room with a paid rent boy like me, and—

  “Stop,” she whispers, and it takes me a moment to process the word. “Stop!”

  Still holding on to her waist, I release her nipple and lick her sweet taste from my lips as I rock back on my heels. I don’t ask if she’s okay. That never tells you much.

  I learned that in the ring, in my old life. Words don’t mean much.

  Instead I study her flushed face, her dilated pupils, her parted lips. I study the way her body is straining toward me even as she arches her back.

  Excited. Aroused. Damn beautiful.

  So I wait for her move. I stopped like she commanded. Maybe this is what this is about—a game of power. It’s okay with me. Whatever she needs.

  She swallows hard, her gaze moving over my body, making me groan. I know the moment it lands on my crotch because of her sudden intake of breath, and I force myself not to blink, not to move.

  Letting her get used to the fact I’m aroused, and yeah, pretty big, and right here, in front of her, close enough to touch.

  Close enough to fuck.

  “I want…” She bites her lip, and damn, it’s distracting. Love how her small teeth sink into the plump flesh. “I want you to rip my panties off.”

  Okay. A thrill goes through my body, because damn, that’s what I want, too. But somehow I hesitate, something on her face keeping me still.

  Maybe it’s because she’s not looking at my face, into my eyes, when she speaks the words, her voice flat and a little empty.

  Like she doesn’t really mean it. Like she practiced what to say before we even met.

  But that’s crazy thinking, and she just said she wants it. Who am I to argue?

  Slipping my hands down to her hips, I grab the tiny bows, the thin lace, and rip it at the seams, then toss the ruined panties aside.

  And stifle a groan, because now she’s fully exposed, her shaved pussy open to me—rosy, flushed, wet—and it’s the most erotic thing ever.

  Jesus. I love my job tonight.

  I reach for her, stroke my thumb over her swollen clit, and she whimpers.

  Ah. A sound. Yeah, baby. Grinning, I stroke her again, sliding my thumb down her seam, pushing a little inside, feeling her ripple.

  Fuck. God.

  She presses her legs together, trapping my hand for a second, gasping. Then she parts them again. “Put your hand on my breast,” she says, her voice breathless.

  I’m breathing hard, too, my body aching with need.

  “Whatever you want, babe,” I mutter, stroking my hand upward, brushing over her clit, making her flinch and tremble, over her belly, leaving a shiny trail of her essence, all the way up to her tits. I cup one in my hand. “Like this? Tell me what you want.”

  “Yeah, like that.” Her voice hitches. “Now slap me. Slap my face.”

  What the fuck? “Paxtyn…”

  “Do it.” She turns her face away, bites her lip again. “Hard.”

  Yeah, no fucking way am I hitting her hard. I know some women like to be overpowered, maybe even hurt a little, but breaking her jaw probably isn’t what she has in mind.

  And I hesitate because she didn’t strike me like the kind to like pain.

  As if I can tell by looking. Her gaze flicks to me when I don’t move, and her brows draw together.

  Breathing out, I lift my hand and slap her face.

  She shudders. “Harder.”

  I lean closer, my hand on her breast clenching. “What are you trying to do, dammit?”

  And then she starts to scream.

  Startled, I jerk back, releasing her. “Paxtyn?”

  “Stop!” she’s screaming. “Stop!”

  “The fuck? I’m not doing anything.” My hands shaking, I reach for her wrists, to untie them, and she kicks at me. She knees me in the groin, and I roll back with a gasp.

  Fucking ow. Thank God she didn’t break my dick. My balls, though, are another matter.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I hiss. “Let me untie you.”

  “Stop!” she’s still screaming.

  Fuck.

  Careful of her legs, I scoot to the side and untie one wrist. I expect her to punch me, or slap me, but she only curls her arm over her belly. Tears are running down her cheeks, her mascara leaving black tracks. I untie her other wrist, lower her hand into her lap.

  “Paxtyn…” The urge to protect her from whatever is hurting her is overwhelming. I put an arm around her. “What is it?”

  “Stop,” she says, her voice low and hard. “Damn you. Stop.”

  I release her. “What have I—?”

  “I told you to stop. Get out.”

  Jesus Christ on a stick
. This girl’s nuts. Fucking lunatic. “Come on. I didn’t do anything you didn’t tell me to. And I stopped every time you asked me to.”

  “Get out!”

  Goddammit. I swear, if she calls the agency and complains about me…

  I jump off the bed and gather up the bondage rope and the condoms, stuff everything back into the boxes, then grab my clothes and pull them on, so pissed off I almost rip my shirt.

  Yeah, then what? What will you do, huh? Say she’s lying? Why should they believe you? So you’ve worked with them for two years, and that should count for something, but not with the new boss of the agency who doesn’t know you and doesn’t much like you, either.

  And what about payment? What the hell...I doubt I’ll see a single cent.

  Just your rotten luck this should happen now. With payments due. With ghosts from your past waiting right around the corner to have your ass.

  Christ. What a clusterfuck.

  I shove the boxes into my pockets and try one last time. “Paxtyn…”

  She’s hunched over on the bed, her shoulders shaking. Jesus. I take a step toward her. “Hey, let me try again, okay? I’ll do whatever the fuck you want, I swear. I’ll stop whenever you want.”

  She says nothing, so I forge on. “You know, maybe we could start slow, like I told you. Slower. Go out, have a drink, hang out at the movies or something. So you can relax. So you can see I won’t hurt you.”

  This time she shakes her head, her long hair dancing on her back. “I said get out. Leave me alone.”

  “Fine.” I clench my teeth against the string of curses that want out. “Goodbye then.”

  With one last look at her tear-streaked face, I zip up my jacket and go. Nothing else left to do.

  Chapter Three

  Paxtyn

  Oh God, what a mess. Corey was right, this was as stupid as it could get. Why did I think I could relive that night and change it? Fix it?

  Fix myself?

  Curled up on the bed, I let the tears flow, soak the quilt. I thought I could do it. Thought I’m so much better now at managing the horror of the memories, the panic they bring.

  It was so similar to what happened: my hands tied over my head, his hands on me, the slap, and yet so different.

  I mean, I didn’t ask him to cut me with a blade like it happened in my memory, the small wounds leaving scars on my hips.

  And God, I enjoyed it at first. Riot’s so handsome...I was excited. My body ached to be touched by him. I wanted him.

  Not different enough, though. Not enough to keep the lid on the memory. And that’s how I planned it, that’s how I wanted it. I wanted to relive it so that I could get over it.

  But instead I only sank back into the fear and despair until I thought I was dying.

  God, Riot. I sit up, scrub my hands over my face. Not his fault, all this. Jesus, I treated him like crap. Not so proud of myself right now. Made him do things he didn’t want. He didn’t like slapping me, I could read it on his face, in the way he held himself so stiffly.

  On the surface the scene I recreated was similar to the one I lived through, but below it was the opposite: it was me forcing something on an innocent. And that wasn’t empowering.

  Not at all. It’s left a bad taste in my mouth. Shame washes through me. Not only because I asked him to tie me up and touch me, because I bared myself to him as if I do this often, with random men, no. Not just that.

  I screamed at him, sent him away—let it be understood I’d call his agency and not pay him—when all he did was do as I told him.

  Christ, Pax. When did you turn so cruel, only thinking of yourself?

  Shivering, I throw my legs off the bed and go in search of my clothes. I find my panties and dress on the floor and pull them on with shaky hands. I should go after him, see if I catch him before he leaves. Explain.

  I stop in the process of zipping up my dress. What am I thinking? I can’t tell him. That’s crazy.

  Shit. I sink down on the bed, put my face in my hands. I swore I wouldn’t talk about it. Took the money. Didn’t realize back then how this would haunt me, how it would ruin my life.

  And besides, why would Riot want to know? He only wants his money. He doesn’t know me, and I don’t know him. He was here for a job, and he upheld his end.

  Okay, then. I’ll call the agency, wire them the money. End of story. End of this disastrous evening.

  Decision made, I feel slightly better. Nobody else has to suffer for my trauma and my decidedly stupid way of trying to deal with it. It will be fine. I’ll pay, he’ll forget about this, and we’ll both go on our way as if this night never happened.

  He’s probably used to dealing with basket cases like me. I bet he has clients lined up to spend a night with him, and that most of them are normal women, happy to please and be pleased, to be fucked into oblivion, without demanding the recreation of a crime scene and then screaming like banshees on acid.

  Shit.

  I wipe my sweaty hands on my dress and grab my bag and my coat. Time to try and fix what I can, and it’s weird how the thought of having Riot hate me—or not ever seeing him again—stings.

  A guy whom I barely know, whom I had tie me up and touch my breast, slap me and then leave. A guy I kicked in the nuts and screamed at to go and leave me alone.

  Yeah, I bet he’s dying to see me again, too…

  ***

  The agency guy I have on the phone sounds a bit confused as to why I am calling them to pay instead of paying Riot in person. He asks if I have any complaints.

  I assure him that I have none. Then he asks me if I want to book another appointment with Riot, or any other of their escorts.

  “You can also do it through our website,” he says. “That way you can go through their pictures and know more about them. You click on the pic, and read the info they have listed about themselves: their physique, their interests, their background.”

  I blink and lean back on my sofa. Sounds logical, only I never thought to click on the pictures. I went through them, picked Riot because of his colors that reminded me of the thug who hurt me, and asked for him over the phone.

  “It’s okay to take your time to think,” the man goes on blithely. “We have many to choose from. Some specialize in rougher games, too, if you prefer that, but we also have—”

  “Can I book Riot again?” I hear myself say, before my brain catches up.

  Wait, Pax—what?

  “Of course you can,” the man says, and I hear him typing something, even as my mind is still trying to wrap itself around the fact I’m making another appointment.

  With Riot.

  The guy who probably doesn’t want to see or hear from me ever again.

  “He’s free tomorrow night,” the man says. “Would you like me to book him for you? How many hours?”

  “Listen...Wait.” I toy with a loose thread on my sweater. “Maybe he doesn’t want to meet me. I could just check the website.”

  “Not want to meet you? That’s not possible.” The guy sounds shocked. “Has he made you feel that way? Has he offended you?”

  “No, not at all.” Shit. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Good. We never had any trouble with Riot, but with that name, you never know.” He chuckles. “Perfect then. Is eight o’ clock good for you?”

  “Ah, yes.”

  “Same meeting place?”

  “Um, no.” I rattle off the address of my favorite coffee shop, and hang up, too shaken by my own actions.

  What the hell am I doing?

  It’s guilt, I decide later as I sip my herbal tea standing by my living room window, looking out at the cold winter day. I just want to talk to Riot, tell him it wasn’t his fault, and that I’m sorry we parted ways like that.

  Yeah, that’s it. Now it makes perfect sense. Relaxing, I turn back toward the room and stop.

  The website. Information.

  Curious to see what is there to know about Riot, I put my mug down on the coffee t
able and open my laptop. I have the website bookmarked, and I open the page with the escorts.

  There he is. I lean closer, studying Riot’s pic. Now I’ve seen the man in the flesh, he doesn’t look much like the asshole from my memories. Riot’s taller, more slender, his hair shorter. His eyes are gray, I know that now, and his expression in the picture is hard to decipher.

  Uncomfortable, I’d guess. Torn between cocky and unassuming. Maybe a little pissed.

  For some reason it makes me smile.

  Jesus. What’s wrong with me?

  I click on the pic and find a page of text. It lists his hair and eye color—duh, of course—as well as his height and weight. Then comes a small bio. It reads stilted and I wonder if any of it is true:

  Riot Gallagher. Twenty-five years old. Mechanic. Born and raised in the suburbs of Kansas City, before moving to Chicago to find work. His interests include martial arts, jogging, fishing, movies, and rock music.

  Yeah, right. I bet that, in his real life, he goes golfing and sailing with his harem of women. He makes good money with this gig, that’s for sure.

  Corey told me about escorts when he was trying to change my mind. He’s read up on them. Usually they’re guys who like a certain lifestyle and its comforts—handsome men who found a way to sell their charms. Like the escorts on the Gigolos show. They’re entrepreneurs, with college degrees, actors, and personal trainers. They found an easy way to make the big bucks and then have fun blowing it on casinos, clothes, trips around the world.

  Though when I try to imagine Riot golfing or sunbathing on a yacht, it just doesn’t click. He plays his bad boy role well. He’s just that good an actor.

  The thought stings a little, somehow.

  There’s a note further down on his profile. It’s a small checklist for Riot. The boxes checked include tattoos and piercing, as well as his availability for sex at an added fee.

  Piercing. Huh. I didn’t notice any on his body. The only part of him I didn’t see was…

  Oh. Oh okay. A hot flush rises to my cheeks. I lean back and fan myself. Wow.

  And why should I care if Riot is pierced down there? It’s not like I was ever interested in pierced cocks…

  Oh God.

  I jump up from the sofa and pace my living room. This is crazy. I can’t stand men touching me without getting a panic attack, and I feel hot and bothered because the escort I paid only to yell at him to leave is pierced.