by Raven, Jo
***
He follows me inside, unzipping his jacket but making no move to take it off, although it’s warm in the room. I shrug off my coat, drape it over the back of a chair and twist my hands together.
I feel like I should explain myself—why I made this appointment, why I ran away last time, why I told him this was a mistake.
Instead I find myself staring at him, fascinated. God, he’s beautiful. Not perfect, but beautiful in his imperfection.
“You have a scar,” I whisper, breathless, realizing he’s come nearer, that now I’m standing so close to him I can touch the scar if I lift my hand. “On your jaw.”
It’s long and thin, and it’s the first time I notice it. The scruff he sported before had hidden it.
He blinks, reaches up to touch it. The urge to push his hand away and trace the white line myself is making my fingers twitch.
“It’s just a scar,” he says, his voice rough. His gray eyes darken to slate. “It doesn’t hurt.”
“All scars hurt,” I whisper. “With every change in the weather.”
“Well, it’s warm in here, with you.” He grins, all dimples, and I take a step back. “Relax. I won’t bite, Pax. That costs extra.”
I stare at him in disbelief, but I’m already choking on laughter. “Really?”
He nods solemnly. “Depends where you want me to bite, of course, and if you want a mark. A love bite.”
Shit, I can’t tell if he’s serious or not.
A love bite. And why does the idea make me want to fan myself?
“Everything costs extra with you,” I say, trying to recover, trying to gauge him.
“What can I say? I’m worth every penny.”
I bet he is. And the thought of him with other women, other clients, shouldn’t make me want to slap them and pull out their hair.
Jesus, Pax.
“What’s on your mind?” He takes the step that brings him flush against me—again without touching. “You’re overthinking, aren’t you?”
“How would you know?” His scent is making my dizzy. I want to touch him. It was never a matter of not wanting.
The fear is what stops me.
“Your forehead gets all wrinkly with accumulated thought.” He dips his head and God, his mouth is inches from mine. “It makes your eyeballs bulge.”
“It does not.”
“It does, too.”
I bite my lip, fighting laughter. His eyes dance with mirth and something else, something darker, like before. He’s close enough I can’t look down, but I’m pretty sure he’s hard. In fact, when I turn my hips a little, I feel it, feel his hard cock brush over my side.
Oh God. My breath leaves my lungs in a whoosh. My mouth is dry.
“What do you want to do today?” he whispers, and his broad chest rises and falls, so close I could lay my head on it, on those hard pecs.
“I want you to tell me.”
He frowns down at me, and I replay the words in my mind. I hadn’t planned to say that, but it’s true. That’s what I want.
“You said you can help me,” I mutter. “I want to try again.”
“What changed your mind?”
I shake my head. Hard to tell. But...“It’s easier.”
“What’s easier?”
“Being near you.” I draw a deep breath and slide my hand up his chest, over the soft cotton of his T-shirt, feeling his muscles shift under my palm. “Touching you.”
“Pax.” My name catches in his throat, a quiet exhalation, and under my hand every muscle goes taut and hard like steel.
“Tell me. What else? What next?”
“I don’t get to tell clients what they—”
“Just tell me, Riot, before I lose my nerve.” I’m pleading now, because familiar terror is crowding my thoughts. “Please.”
He swallows. “Okay. Okay, all right? I’ll tell you.” He reaches down, grabs my wrist, his fingers engulfing half my forearm. “Touch me.”
He slides my hand down his chest, a slow drag over his solid abs, over every groove and ridge. Lower, over the dip of his bellybutton, and lower still.
I resist. He gives a tug. I give in.
My hand settles over the bulge in his pants. He hisses between his teeth, but I’m more interested in the sensation of his hard cock under my palm, the scorching heat seeping through the fabric. It moves under my hand, hardening more, and his grip on my wrist tightens.
We stand like that, my hand on his denim-covered crotch, his fingers wrapped around my arm. Both breathing hard. Both rooted to the spot.
“Riot?”
“Sorry.” He licks his lips, his eyes dark. “You feel so good.”
Something inside me relaxes at his words. He likes my hand on him. And I like my hand on him, the effect I have on his body.
Experimentally I shift my hand to cup his balls, and he groans. It’s faint, but comes deep from within his chest, like a rumble of thunder.
Heat washes through my chest, down my belly, settling between my legs.
“Are you okay?” he asks, husky and low, and the heat turns into a throb, an ache that I need to satisfy.
I need him to touch me. But I can’t. That would be like that night—and right now things are so different that I’m holding it together. I think I am, at least, but there’s no telling if that might change at any moment.
“Hey. Pax.” He releases my wrist. “Earth to Pax. Shit, did I scare you?”
“No. No, I’m fine.” And I am, I realize. As I lift my hand off him, I poke around in my mind, but I sense no panic.
I grin.
“What?” He shifts his weight from one leg to the other and helplessly I glance back down at his hard-on. He looks—and felt—really big.
No idea why that makes me lick my lips. “Nothing.”
“You’re grinning.”
I shrug. “I haven’t freaked out yet. That’s a win.”
“Yeah, it sure is.” He grins, too, and oh God, those dimples. Can’t get enough of them.
“And now?”
His grin fades. He rocks back on his heels, and he gives me a serious look. “Now, Pax, I want you to undress me.”
***
He’s waiting for me to react. To reply, to refuse or obey. I did say he was to tell me what to do. Easier that way. Not letting myself overthink, question my every move.
But now I have to follow through.
His gaze is grave and calm. He hooks his thumbs in the pockets of his dark jeans and widens his stance, not saying a word or showing any impatience.
The message is clear. The decision has to be mine, even if he guides and directs me.
Get on with it, Pax. Don’t you want to see him naked? To see how far up his arm the tattoos go, if his chest is inked? If he has scars you haven’t seen yet?
If he’s as big down there as it felt like? Don’t you want to know?
Christ. The mixture of curiosity and excitement is making me light-headed. Wiping my palms on my dress, I put them on the lapels of his leather jacket. Even in my heels, he’s towering over me, so I don’t really know how I’m supposed to undress him.
He takes a step back, and another, and without conscious thought I follow him until he sits down on the edge of the bed. He spreads his legs, lets his hands hang between his knees and smiles at me, a faint curve of his lips, his eyes bright.
“You know, I was hoping you’d undress me sooner or later,” he drawls, and his smile turns wicked. “See what you paid for.”
I guess he’s trying to put me at ease, remind me I’m in charge. That he can’t hurt me or he’ll get fired.
Taking a fortifying breath, I kneel on the mattress and scoot behind him to tug on the sleeves of his jacket. He shifts, lifting his arms, allowing me to pull on the soft black leather with its scent of motor oil and fumes.
Sexy scent, barely overlaying his own spice, and I resist the urge to press my face to his broad back and inhale.
The jacket comes off easily, sliding off him like oil, an
d drops heavy in my lap. It has embossed designs on the back, faded symbols. Flames. A skull. I run my fingertips over worn letters.
Hellfire? What does that mean?
“So what did you learn in class this week?” He’s looking at me over one muscular shoulder, his gray eyes hooded.
I let the jacket drop on the mattress. “Mainly statistics.”
His dark brows arch. “I thought you were studying psychology, not math.”
“So did I.”
He chuckles, and I find myself smiling again. He keeps doing that to me. Making me smile.
“Arms up,” I instruct him, because he’s just sitting there, his T-shirt stretched tight over his back. “Come on.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He lifts his arms and I grab the hem, pulling it up. Inch by inch of muscled back is revealed—and a different tattoo.
It startles me. I expected the flame tattoo on his arm to spread there, but…
A skull. A clock. More flames. Similar to the half-faded, embossed design on his jacket.
“What’s the meaning of it?” I pull the T-shirt over his shoulders and he grabs it and throws it down to the floor. “The tattoo.”
“Nothing.”
“But you have flames on your arm and on your back and jacket and—”
He turns around on the bed, and the words die on my tongue. Shit, he’s beautiful. His chest is as ripped as it’d felt like under the T-shirt, and yeah, the bright flames spread up from his arm to his shoulder and spill down his pec.
Smooth, lightly tanned skin, small brown nipples, and that mouth-watering six-pack you only see on guys in magazines.
Good God.
“I like flames,” he says. “I like it hot. Don’t you?”
It takes me a moment to understand what he’s saying—that he’s replying to my question. Can’t remember what I was asking.
“Hot,” I repeat faintly, and wonder if I should run away just in case. He’s hands down the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. He could be a model. He could be a sex god.
“You’re not done yet,” he says, and I blink.
Huh?
“Not done. With undressing me.” He looks pointedly down at his pants. He’s already kicked off his boots, and now he stretches out his long legs on the mattress. “Time’s ticking, Pax.”
Crap, he probably has another appointment after this, although I thought the agency guy said on the phone that he was free all night. Unless someone called last minute and booked him...like me.
Another flare of anger, and I honestly need to stop it. He’s not mine, not by a long shot.
Not mine at all.
“You wanna stop?” He leans back, props himself on his hands, looking at me from under his lashes. “You’ve come this far.”
He’s right, I have, and why can’t I stop looking at his mouth, his chest, the fine dark trail of hairs leading down into his jeans? Or the still very evident tent there.
My face is warm, my neck burning, my breasts tingling. I honestly can’t remember the last time I lusted after a boy so much.
I only have to undress him. Unwrap him.
Okay, then.
His gaze follows my hands as they reach for his zipper. His abs contract when I touch them as I work to unbutton his jeans. I pull down the zipper. He’s wearing white briefs, and my mind’s stuck on this little fact while my hands rest on top of his hard-on.
Like before.
Only now the barrier is thinner, and I can actually see the outline of his cock—long, thick, the flared head large, caught under the elastic. And the piercings. Barbells, poking through the stretched fabric.
Hot is correct. I need air.
“Hey.” He sits up a little, giving me a concerned look. “Are you okay with this? You have to tell me what you need, Pax.”
What he doesn’t know is that it’s not fear making me stop this time. It’s desire. So strong it’s causing my hands to shake. I’ve never wanted to touch someone so much.
I nod then, and yank on his jeans. His brow smooths out and he lifts his hips to help me take them off. A small tug of war, and the pants come off, together with his socks, and he’s left in his underwear.
Okay, I’m totally staring. Damn. He’s real eye-candy, this guy with his muscles and long limbs, those beautiful proportions—thick thighs, narrow hips, broad chest and muscled, inked arms.
And my eyes keep returning to his crotch. Crap.
“What now?” I whisper.
“Touch,” he says and winks. He doesn’t move from where he’s sitting, his hands firmly planted on the mattress, but he leans back a little bit more.
An invitation.
God, some girls I know would pay good money to run their hands over his body.
Scratch that—I am paying good money for this.
Come on, Pax. You can do this.
I lean forward, touch his flame tattoos, tracing them over his arm, up his shoulder, down his firm pec. His eyes are half-closed as I trail my fingertips over his other pec, up his other shoulder.
Warm, velvety skin stretched over hard muscle. His abs ripple when I touch them and his head falls forward. He peers at me under his hair, his eyes slits of gray.
It’s like petting a big cat—beautiful, strong, predatory. Dangerous, but too pretty to resist, especially when he shifts, lifts a hand and puts it on top of mine where it’s resting on his stomach.
“This okay?” he rumbles.
“Yes.”
He’s watching me. “You sure?”
I start to nod, then change my mind and bend over him. His lips part and I brush my mouth over them.
“I’m sure,” I say.
Chapter Eight
Riot
She kissed me.
Hot damn. I lick my lips, hunting for her taste. It was too quick, too soft, but a hint of sweetness lingers.
Damn if it doesn’t make me harder. She’s already got me worked up, just by touching my chest, my stomach, her hand stopping an inch away from my aching dick. She’s skittish and I’m careful, not moving, not breathing for fear of scaring her away.
And then she goes and kisses me, tearing down every defense and every goddamn barrier I’ve put up. How can I not kiss her back, roll over her and explore her mouth, and her body?
Fucking hell. Not fair.
I bite back a groan as I struggle to keep still, waiting to see what she’ll do next. Reminding myself I’m her toy to play with as she wishes, to use in order to overcome her fears. This is about her.
Not about you, Riot. Or you, dick. Back the fuck down.
Fuck, I’ll need some alone time with my hand after this.
She’s still bent over me, her dark hair a cascade on my overheated skin, tickling where it touches, leaving shivery trails behind.
“Pax.” My voice is strangled. Every muscle in my body is tense. Why the fuck do I have to lust after the one girl who is too scared to let me fuck her? “I’m gonna—”
“Oh crap, it’s late.” She stares at her thin golden watch like it’s about to bite her, then climbs off the bed.
“—go to the bathroom.” I blink. “What?”
“It’s been almost two hours since we came here. My appointment was for one hour only.”
“Shit.” Fucking goddamn shit. Can’t believe time passed so fast. She obviously has someplace else to be, because she’s gathering her coat and purse from the chair.
Yeah, she’s going. Fully dressed and unruffled, while I’m half-naked on the bed with a hard-on that could drill through walls.
She undressed me, touched me, kissed me and now time’s up.
Fuck my life.
And what did you expect? I sit up and grab my pants, dragging them on. Not her fault your dick got over-excited. It’s a miracle she went that far.
That kiss, though…
“I’ll let you get back to work,” she says, already closing off, not looking at me. She pats her hair, and fuck, I think I’ll jerk off to the memory of it trailing over my skin
today. “Thank you for tonight.”
“Pax, just…” Just what? Dammit. Can’t you wait? Where are you going? Will I see you again? “Take care.”
She shoots me a quick smile, and then she’s hurrying away. The door opens and closes with a soft click.
I throw my legs over the edge, bend them and clutch the back of my neck with both hands.
What in the fucking hell? She left, and there’s a weight on my chest, a pressure behind my eyes I don’t understand.
She’s just a client. That’s all.
Then why the fuck do I feel like the world crashed down on me the moment she walked out?
***
Just season blues, I tell myself as I pull on my boots and T-shirt, as I shrug on my jacket and head out. The woman at the reception desk is trying to catch my eye, but I ignore her and step outside.
Which isn’t like me. She’s a potential client, and I should be friendly and flirty. What the fuck’s wrong with me these days?
I straddle my bike, kick off the stand, rev the engine. Need to work some stress out at the gym—and pass by the agency.
Should start with that. Johnson wants to talk to me. I wonder what the hell for. The agency isn’t very far from the hotel Pax chose.
Pax. Jesus. That girl is driving me up the wall, I swear to God. I want to think she’s getting better, getting used to me, to my body. That she’s overcoming her fear. But what do I know? I’m not a therapist. I’m just a fucking escort with problems of my own.
Besides, with the way she keeps running out of our meetings, I don’t know what to think. Can never tell if she’ll call to make another appointment or not. If that was it, and I’ll never see her again.
The thought really fucking hurts, and that’s a bad sign. Need to set my head straight.
Yeah, the gym is a good idea. Work up some sweat, get rid of some frustration and anger. Do a few rounds with the punching bag. Or with anyone willing to meet my fists on the training mat.
The agency is located on the first floor of an old building. The small brass side outside simply says “Bad Boys Inc.”, leaving the rest to the imagination. I park my bike, lock it and take the steps two at a time.
Yeah, too much excess energy. Too much going on inside my head. Need to burn it out.
Johnson looks up from his place behind the desk. He runs this company in all but name. He nods at me, frowns and types something on his computer.