“Uh.” Now the tension had even drained the oxygen from his lungs. “Err, no. That’s too much.”
Nick licked his teeth. “Well, we can set a safeword regardless. I can push until I get the sense we’re taking things too far. If I do take it too far, you can safeword.”
“Ehhh.” Spencer regarded him again, top to bottom ( awful pun, his inner voice informed him). “Let’s just stay . . .
the other side of that.”
Nick grinned. “You’re cal ing the shots.”
That sounded quite ironic, too, like Nick was just humouring him. Well. He’d found the one whore in London who specialised in people with a fetish for smartarses. Spencer would never have assumed Nick was his type—it had been his body much more than his personality that had attracted him, but even that cheekiness intrigued him now. Besides, if the guy was going to top him, Nick was allowed to be a bit of a smartarse. That should definitely be more fun and interesting than dating a doormat. How long since he’d had a sufficiently aggressive top? Way too long. Throwing a surreptitious glance at the devil in black leather, Spencer had a feeling he’d be making up for that in spades tonight.
When they finally arrived in Hol and Park, Spencer opened the gate, and then the door to his three-bedroom house. He’d had it gutted and completely rebuilt over the last two years rather than move to somewhere bigger, largely because he liked the area. Apart from knocking down a few walls, he’d had the eighties interieur ripped out, too, as well as some of the awful seventies floors. It was now all clean lines, 21
expensive materials, and . . . well, Spencer thought of it as cosy. It was also all his. Tailored-to-measure.
While he shed his coat and jacket, he let Nick take in his surroundings, but Nick didn’t stand and stare, just kept his attention on Spencer.
“I’ll, uh, add some money for the cab drive home.” He was about to kick himself—as if a prostitute couldn’t cover his own travel expenses—but Nick smiled a bit at him.
“Thanks. What about that safeword?”
“Don’t think I’ll need it.”
Nick lifted an eyebrow. “Humour me.” Delivered so deadpan and no-nonsense that Spencer was taken aback. “Just for when shit goes wrong.”
“Fine.” He glanced at his bookshelf. “Bonaparte.” He’d been reading a biography.
Nick nodded. “Now, to your fantasies. What do you like?
Anything in particular you want to try?”
“Err.” Spencer pulled at his tie. “Just normal sex will be fine. I’m not that interesting. I’ll probably be one of your less weird clients.”
“I’m assuming you don’t want to do this in your kitchen.”
Spencer glanced around. They were still standing in the kitchen, weren’t they? “Right. Of course. This way.”
Down the hal , to the left, and when the hell did he start bringing prostitutes into his bloody bedroom? Tonight, apparently. Oh God.
Once the door clicked shut, Nick straightened like the sound was the boxing ring bell and it was game on. He faced Spencer and gave him the same appraising look, his lips quirking and one eyebrow arching thoughtfully. Then, “Take off my jacket.”
22
Spencer instinctively reached for the button on his own coat, but it wasn’t there. Nick’s words replayed in his head: Take off my jacket.
His hands froze in mid-air. “Pardon me?”
“Take off. My jacket.” Nick’s chin dipped and he looked at Spencer through his blond fringe with don’t make me repeat myself written all over his eyes.
Taking a deep breath, Spencer stepped towards Nick.
Funny how Nick was intimidating when he approached in all his cocky here I fucking am glory, but approaching him was even worse. What the hell? Spencer could make juniors stammer and bend clients to his will. But this blond kid who’d wrapped himself in leather and arrogance turned him into a stuttering, stumbling idiot. It didn’t— Nick cleared his throat.
“Right. Sorry.” Spencer reached for the half-zipped jacket.
The metal was cool, but as he drew down the zip, he could feel the heat radiating off the bare flesh underneath. Earlier tonight, he’d imagined himself groping and pawing at a prostitute just like Percy was likely doing right now, but he carefully kept himself from even grazing Nick’s chest or his smooth, flat abs. Not until Nick told him to.
Wait, what? Who the hell is paying for this? I’m in charge, not—“Clock’s ticking, Spencer.” Nick glanced at the clock on the bedside table. “Go on.”
“Sorry.” How many times was he going to apologise tonight?
The zip caught at the bottom, and he tugged it until it separated. Relieved, he drew back his hands, but a sharp jump of Nick’s eyebrow gave him pause.
23
“I didn’t say to unzip it,” he said. “I said take it off.” He lowered his gaze to his right sleeve, then his left, looked at Spencer again and cocked his head. The Well? wasn’t spoken, but holy fuck, it was there.
Spencer went around behind Nick and pulled the jacket by the shoulders, stepped back and slid it down his arms.