by Jo Raven
He may pretend all he wants that talking is what he brought me here for, but his dick tells a different story. Dicks don’t lie.
Oh shit. Condom.
I almost forgot, and that right there tells you how out of sorts I am. I whip one out of my back pocket and tear it open with my teeth. The taste of latex is familiar, and not all that unpleasant. I roll it carefully over Raine’s dick—a big dick, veined and thick and long and damn hot…
And there can’t be a repeat of tonight. Not with the way I get so distracted by him.
Not that he’s trying to distract me, not anymore. He keeps his hands lax at his sides and his eyes on me as I make sure the condom is rolled all the way, hissing a little when I pull at the tip. His thighs are trembling, and his mouth has gone a bit slack.
Good.
I wink at him, then sink low on my knees, grip his cock with one hand and deep-throat him.
“Oh fuck.” His back arches, and he writhes on the sofa, his legs splaying wider, his boots kicking at nothing. “Slow… slow down.”
Again with that? Goddammit. I’m proud of my skills. Weren’t easy to learn and perfect, and I give damn good head, so what’s his problem?
I ease back anyway, until only the tip of his cock is in my mouth, and lift a questioning brow at him.
He’s still arched, his head thrown back, eyes closed, his throat exposed. His broad chest is rising and falling rapidly, and I’m hit with a devastating need to push up his shirt and lick my way up that flat stomach to his pecs and then to his throat, to bite until I leave a mark, to press my chest to his and rock against him.
Taste him.
I wish I could chuck this condom away and suck on his bare dick, taste his salty flavor, suck him until he comes down my throat, until he howls with pleasure and loses all control.
My breathing is choppy, my pants suddenly too tight and my head too light, but instead of drawing back, I take him deep once more, tonguing the underside of his cock, sucking on him as if my life depends on it. As if I can taste him through the latex.
“Oh God.” He arches again, straining, his hands scrabbling to grab hold of something and failing. “You’re trying to kill me.”
I hum, chuckling inwardly at his desperation, and aching. Aching with the pressure behind my balls, in my cock. In my chest. My groin throbs in time with my racing heart. I put my free hand between my legs and find my dick half-hard.
The hell. This never happens. I almost choke on his cock, unsettled, and graze the head with my teeth as I come up for air. That has him moaning, long and loud, and reaching for me.
“If you do that again,” he wheezes after a moment, during which I struggle to gather my wits, “I’ll come.”
“Well then,” I pant, sweat drenching my back, my dick getting heavier with every sound and movement he makes. “That’s the idea.”
My dick twitches, arousal making my balls heavy, and I dunno what the fuck to do with that. Not with the hard-on—fuck knows I’m an expert in that—but with the realization I’m hard for Raine. No, for a customer.
Never happened before.
So I take his hard-on back into my mouth and finish him off with my lips and tongue and fingers, dragging, stroking, massaging, until he’s crying out from between clenched teeth and pulsing in my mouth, a hot spill inside the condom.
I groan around his cock, the pressure in my balls too fucking much, a fine line between pleasure and pain.
What I want is to take my cock in hand and jack off until I come.
What I want is to run away from here, to deal with this new shit.
Fact is, I dunno what to do with myself right now.
And it only gets more confusing when he lifts his head, his eyes glazed with pleasure, and says in that rough post-sex voice of his, “I wanna touch you.”
Chapter Eleven
Raine
My thoughts are floating on a sparkling cloud. My body is heavy, but my head is light. Pleasure is still singing through my blood, my nerve endings, my limbs, but I want more.
I want him. I have from the moment I saw him. Right now I can’t think of one good reason not to have him.
“Jase,” I say and my voice slurs. Christ, this is funny. It’s like I’m drunk off my ass. On him. “Jase.”
“Jason,” he mutters and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, scowling at me.
He’s still hot when he scowls.
Hotter, even.
I wish I’d thought to turn on the overhead lights, get a better look at him. Kneeling there, between my legs, bare-chested, with his dark hair and the dark lines of this tats winding around his chest and arms, he’s so damn fuckable my cock makes a valiant effort to regroup and harden.
Too soon after an orgasm that wrung my balls dry. Still… I manage to sit up, and take his chin in my hand. He jerks his head to the side, and arousal flares in my belly. I trace the line of his long throat, his rough jaw, caress the silver hoops in his ear, and then tangle my fingers in his silky short hair and tug.
He gasps, but doesn’t jerk away like before. When I tug again, he moans, eyes fluttering closed.
Fascinating. Mesmerizing. So fucking sexy.
I let go of his hair and trail both my hands down his taut arms, over hard, ropey muscle and all that ink. Bruises, too, I think dimly. And then my fingertips find raised skin.
Scars. On his arms, on his chest.
Why so many scars? Is he cutting himself? Why so many bruises? Why did that thug attack him the other day, and why won’t he leave that dangerous, dirty life behind?
He makes another noise, muffled as if he’s biting his lip to keep quiet when I stroke my hands over his firm pecs. The hoop in his right nipple catches between my fingers and he gasps, another muffled sound. It goes straight to my dick that’s definitely stirring again.
Shit, I need him naked all the way. Bared, disarmed, stripped and fucking begging to come. I want that steel slide behind his eyes gone, so that I can see what he feels.
I bend over him, my legs trapping him on either side, and toy with his nipples, with that damn silver hoop. “Do you like this?” I whisper in his ear, pulling on the hoop and listening to his breathing stutter. “Is your cock hard for me?”
His thighs part as his breathing grows faster and ragged, and a glance down shows me a definite bulge in his pants.
His throat clicks as he swallows. “I should get going,” he says, but his voice cracks and he doesn’t move. His dark lashes are casting long shadows on his cheekbones.
“I’d pay,” I whisper, “to touch you, Jason.”
“Don’t,” he rasps. Still not looking at me. “Don’t fucking do this.”
Do what? Touch him? Offer money for the privilege? Talk?
“How much?” I ask, so close my lips brush the skin of his throat, his scent of cinnamon and male spice haunting me.
A breath shudders out of him. “Damn you.” But there’s no heat behind it. “It’s double. Okay?”
Double. I can swing that. I’m not rich by any stretch of the imagination, but tonight I’ll pay for this, and I nod before I can think about it too hard.
About the fact that I’m paying a hooker, not only to get me off, but to get him off, too.
No, not just any hooker: Jason Vega. As if it makes any difference.
“Done,” I say, in case it wasn’t clear, because he hasn’t moved an inch. Hasn’t breathed, as far as I can tell.
Slowly he lifts his gaze to meet mine, and his eyes are so wide they’re mostly white, the pupils like dark moons. “You serious?”
In reply, I grab his forearms and drag him up with me until we’re both standing, my pants barely hanging on my hips. It’s so heady, standing chest to chest with him, our mouths so close I can smell the cinnamon on his breath, and I know it’s the gum he always chews when I see him on the street. I can’t get enough of it.
Damn, I want to kiss him. I want to lick into his mouth until he moans and surrenders. But he shakes my hands fre
e and stumbles backward a few steps before I catch him. His back hits the wall, and he goes still when I stalk after him.
“Whatcha gonna do with me, Raine?” he whispers, his low voice vibrating through me, getting my dick hardening again and my thoughts tumbling. His smirk is faint, transparent. His eyes sparkle, then shimmer, uncertain. The confident light in them blinks, on and off, on and off, like a warning sign.
He’s caught off guard, it’s plain as day, his defenses low, emotions I can’t decipher flickering over his handsome features—and it’s making me so damn hard.
I undo his zipper, shove his pants down, and he flinches, then recovers, his hands coming up between us. He starts shoving at me, then stops, his breathing coming in short gasps. I drag his pants all the way down and take him in, in the yellow light of the lamp.
His legs are like the rest of him: slim but muscular, his calves thick, his hips slim. He’s wearing black briefs, and his semi-hard dick is tenting the front, leaving a wet spot there.
He’s fucking beautiful, and I want to see him get fully hard, painfully so, see him come apart at the seams as I watch.
Freak, a voice whispers in my mind. You’ll burn in hell.
“Touch yourself,” I say.
“I thought you wanted to touch me.” That defiant spark in his gaze is back, and it sends thrills of heat straight to my cock.
“I changed my mind. First you jack off for me.”
“Whatever the customer wants,” he drawls, the spark brightening, and pushes down his briefs.
I grunt, not sure I can manage words, and brace one hand on the wall by his head, looking down as he curls his fine-boned, roughened hand around his semi. His dick is long and thick and pale, the wet head flushed with a glint of metal—a piercing. I feel heat spread inside me at the sight of it, gathering in my balls.
His fingers tighten around his cock, and he drags his fist up once. Then again. A sound escapes him, a choked moan, and I look up into his face. His mouth has slackened, his eyes gone heavy-lidded.
Smoking hot.
I close my hand over his, so we’re jacking him off together. Slow. Hard. His breath hitches. His eyes dip to my mouth.
“This good?” I ask, before I forget my own uncertainty and lack of experience when it comes to this, and he groans, turning his head away.
“So…” His voice rasps over my nerve endings, making me ache with want. “You wanna fuck me?”
My turn to be caught off guard, and my hold on his hand—on his dick—goes slack.
Hell, damn right I do. The thought of sinking inside him is turning my mind inside out. But somehow his question feels like a trap.
“Not sure you’re up to it,” I deflect. “You’re bruised all over.”
He smirks. Lifts his free hand to his pierced nipple, plays with the metal there, and my mouth goes dry. “Worried? That’s touching, but I’m used to it.”
“To bruises?” I frown, and release him so that I can step back, take a good look at his face. “Tell me how you got them. Got caught in a fight? Did another thug come after you?”
I don’t mention the scars, but I have a feeling that if I do, he’ll clam up all the way. As it is, he’s closing off, pulling up his shiny armor, and only glimmers of the real Jason show through.
“Johns happened. Men happened.” He lets his head drop back, offering me his neck. Or at least it looks like an offering. “They like marking me.”
“Christ.” I have to swallow to get the next question out, and I hate that my dick is iron-hard by now. “Do you like it?”
It’s one of the questions that has been preying on my mind during long, sleepless nights.
He gives a one shoulder shrug. “I’m fine with it. Whatever gets you off.”
He’s still jacking himself, still toying with his nipple, only I realize he’s still not fully hard. Not like I am.
Which kind of irks me. My pride is stung, I guess.
Dammit. Is he just winding me up, trying to get me to fuck him to get more money out of me?
And if he is… what then? This is a job for him. I just wanted to see him. Touch him. Taste him. Get to watch as he comes, as he loses the last defenses he owns, but he’s turned the tables on me.
Better this way. As long as I pay, I won’t care. I won’t look at him and wonder if it’s good for him. If he likes me.
And Christ, why am I thinking of this? How could I even wonder if he likes me when I’m paying him for this?
“Come on, Raine.” His voice is breathy, his cheekbones flushed. Am I misreading this? He looks aroused. Except his dick isn’t hard. Can he fake the way his pupils are so wide, the way his chest is heaving, the tremor in his hand as he beats his meat? “Do me.”
“No. Just keep stroking yourself,” I tell him, my voice rough. “I wanna see you come.”
He bites his lower lip, his gaze sliding away. His hand slows down. “Look…”
I crowd him again, running my hands over his chest, over the hidden scars, over his shoulders. I bend my head, run my mouth over the side of his neck, because I want to, dammit, and inhale his scent. “Come for me.”
He grunts. His hand starts moving faster again, his breathing frantic, but he’s repeating something under his breath, over and over, and I make myself go still to listen.
“I can’t,” he’s grunting with every stroke, “can’t, damn you, can’t. Fuck.”
Cold washes down my back. I step away and fish in my back pocket for my wallet.
“Fine,” I say and feel the ice trickle into my voice. Yeah, that’s good. I’m shaken, by all that happened tonight, and this was the last straw, the last push back into reality. “Here’s forty for the blowjob. You’re free to go.”
“Raine, fuck… Look, I can’t.” His hand clamps around my arm and jerks me around to face him. “Can’t get hard with johns. This is the hardest I’ve ever been, okay?”
Raw honesty and vulnerability, peeking through the veneer of defiance, shadowing his eyes.
Is he telling the truth?
Or is it just that he just wants the money? How can I ever trust what he says, how he acts, when it’s about business?
“You never get hard?” I ask, trying to figure it out. “Not with anyone?”
He shakes his head. “Only when I’m alone. But Raine—”
“Maybe another time, then,” I hear myself say, “you can show me what you like.”
His brows go up, surprise written in every line of his face, and yeah, what’s the matter with me? What am I doing?
But he just gives a jerky nod, eyes a bit round, and takes the bills from my hand, stuffing them in the pocket of the pants he’s just pulled back up. “Sure.”
Neutral. Back to himself.
Or that was him all along, playing me like an instrument. That’s his job.
And before I can dwell on it longer, he’s gone.
Chapter Twelve
Jason
“Haven’t seen you in days, Jay-Bug.” Mayleen snaps her gum—well, my gum technically since she lifted it from my pocket, so that now her tiny room smells of cinnamon. She runs her hand through my wet hair and snips her scissors so close to my ear I flinch. “You only remember me when you need something, huh?”
I close my eyes, drawing a deep breath. “Sorry, May.”
She nudges my back with her knee where I’m sitting on a small ratty stool, and I manage not to grunt in pain as she nails a nasty bruise. “And concealing cream. Got you a tube, almost new. Threw in some glitter, too.”
“You’re the best, girl.” I blink, disconcerted when I find my eyes wet. Fuck, I can’t even dry them without giving myself away, but I’ll be damned if I let my voice show any of it. “I owe ya.”
Mayleen has dark hair and green eyes, a silver stud in her nose and dark red lipstick. Dressed in one of her favorite dresses, a black number with a polka dot ruffled skirt, she’s a pixie of a girl, so short she’s only towering over me because I’m sitting down, and she’s standing.
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She lifts tufts of my hair between her fingers, snipping away, snapping the gum. In another life, she’d have become a famous hairstylist, perhaps.
Hell, she could still make it. She will, if I have anything to say about it.
“What’s wrong, honey? You’re not this quiet normally.” She brandishes the scissors by my head, and I duck. “You can talk to me, you know that, right? That bastard, Simon, still being a pain in the nuts?”
“Nah, just the usual,” I mutter.
She doesn’t know not even half of it. None of my buddies do. They think I talk with Simon. Negotiate. Pay some money and keep them safe.
I’d do anything to keep them safe—and dammit, I do, every day.
“When the chips are down,” she says, resuming the haircut, “we have each other, right? We have each other’s back. All these years working side by side.”
Not for much longer, though. I’ve arranged for her to go, and damn, I’m so relieved that she’ll be out of harm’s way.
But what will I do without her? Without my gang?