At that, Spencer laughed. Well, that was something: he was breathing now. “No. Not quite. But I’ve, um, never done . . . this.”
“What? Had an awkward conversation with a prostitute in a whorehouse?” No smile cracked his lips, but Spencer could tell Nick was enjoying this. Immensely.
“Something like that,” Spencer muttered. “So, how does this work, exactly?”
“Well.” Nick tossed his head to get that blond fringe out of his eyes. “You buy me a drink, it’s a fiver. You want to lick it off me? It’s a hundred.”
Holy. Fuck.
Nick brought up a hand—long, fine fingers—and arranged his unruly fringe as he casually added, “And it just goes up from there.”
“Based on the number of drinks?”
“Based on the number of licks.”
Spencer blinked. This kid really knew how to catch a man off-guard, didn’t he? Getting his wits about him, he said, “And if I want you to lick it off me?”
Nick sniffed derisively and smirked. “Then you’re talking to the wrong whore.”
Spencer looked around, but his gaze returned to Nick’s nipple piercings, light sparking off them, making them shine like diamonds. Maybe Nick was the right guy, though he’d always assumed prostitutes were more—accommodating.
He’d never hired a prostitute. He could have one-night stands; until a few months ago, he’d even had a relationship, of sorts, if fal ing asleep together over paperwork was a relationship.
Normally, these days he expended his last bit of energy on porn.
11
The thing that tipped him over the edge was—Nick wasn’t selling. He didn’t try to influence the decision one way or the other. Spencer couldn’t possibly put into words how refreshing it was to not be sold to or pressured. In a world of BUY THIS NEW PHONE and YOU’RE NOTHING
WITHOUT THIS WATCH, encountering a guy who didn’t bend over backwards to close a deal felt like stepping into a calm spot he hadn’t known existed.
“All right,” he said, eventually.
Nick nodded. “Get me a drink.”
He turned and headed to the bar, then, remembering Percy had gone to get him a drink, glanced around.
Percy had apparently forgotten about Spencer’s drink. He was sitting at a table with two prostitutes around him, one in each arm. From behind their backs, he gave him a double thumbs-up.
Spencer pushed through to the bar and bought two drinks. He tried for beers, but the bartender shook his head and handed him a beer and a cola, “For Nick.”
When he returned to Nick, he said, “Maybe we should sit down.”
Nick nodded and led the way to a somewhat more secluded booth at the far end. “I figure you’ll have less performance anxiety if your friend can’t see you.”
“Uh, yeah. Good idea.”
Nick glanced back in Percy’s direction, and said, “I’m sure he’ll keep them busy for at least . . . a couple minutes.” Then he turned away and slid into the booth, and Spencer couldn’t tell if he’d heard that little snicker or if he’d imagined it.
Nick moved far enough into the booth to leave space for Spencer, and in spite of his pounding heart and the “what the ever-loving fuck are you doing?” in the back of his brain, 12
Spencer joined him. He wasn’t sure what the protocol was here. Treat it like a date? Arm around the shoulders leads to hand on the thigh leads to— Oh, God, apparently we’re going straight to the hand on the crotch.
Spencer tensed, pressing back against the leather upholstery. “Oh. Wow.”
Nick snickered for real this time, and his breath tickled the side of Spencer’s neck. Spencer pulled in a gasp, but a firm-and-not-so-gentle squeeze below the belt knocked that air right back out.
“Fuck.” He put up a hand. “I . . . whoa. This is . . .”
Nick’s hand retreated to Spencer’s thigh. “You really are new at this, aren’t you?”
“Just . . . just a bit. Yeah.” He grabbed his drink and swallowed as much as it took to cool him off. Which was better than half the damned glass. Here we go again. “Sorry, I’m . . .”
“Relax.” Nick grinned. “I don’t bite.”
Spencer eyed him, waiting for the inevitable “. . . hard” or “. . . unless you want me to.” It didn’t come, though. In fact, Nick took his hand off Spencer’s leg and reached for his own drink.
It was quickly becoming apparent there wasn’t a thing Nick did that he couldn’t make sexy. Not overtly sexual, but sexy. Right down to the way his hand was arranged on the glass, like it was deliberate, even artful, every finger placed just so to make the simple gesture of picking up a drink look . . . elegant? Maybe it was just the fine bones of his wrist and hand. The black nail varnish didn’t hurt the effect, like staccato marks at the end of each finger.
13