“Tell me, Spencer.”
“Please.” Spencer’s voice was rough as if he’d spent the last twenty minutes screaming. “I . . . Do anything you want with me.” Nick heard the other thing Spencer had almost said. I need you.
Being needed, wanted, surrendered to, was the best drug on the planet. Nick pulled away, then slammed forward, every thrust now hard and fast, brutal, which meant really tender, demanding, wanting, generous. He fucked Spencer like he was the last man on the planet, and then felt him tighten and come, and fucked harder into that tautness, hard enough to hurt, until his senses simply overloaded and he came inside Spencer.
“Good boy, well done,” he murmured near Spencer’s ear. “Imagine, soon I’ll come in you without a condom, and then I’ll plug you up and keep it inside you as long as I damn well please.”
Spencer gave a violent shudder.
“And you’ll try to get hard but you won’t be able to, because I’ll keep you locked up. All day, you’ll try, and it won’t work because I won’t let you. Your pleasure now belongs to me. Your hole, your cock, all mine until I’m done with you.”
He thrust into Spencer just to punctuate, then pulled free.
Three days. Two nights. All with Spencer. The weekend plus Monday. Wouldn’t that be a switch?
Nick still had to go in on Friday night, though. He was one of the in-demand rentboys; like Jared and Tristan, he had his own little fan club. Regular customers, some who’d paid enough over time that they could’ve bought themselves luxury cars in cash instead of blowing their wads on, well, blowing their wads.
And since Tristan and Jared were off tonight, there was no way Nick could also be gone. Couldn’t disappoint the clientele, of course. So here he was.
He leaned against one of the chest-high tables, a Coke beside him that was watered down from the melting ice cubes. Like all the other unoccupied rentboys, he watched the door. The rentboys were like grizzlies in a river tonight, watching and waiting for a salmon to jump right into their mouths. If someone came in who was worth Nick’s time and energy, he’d have to move in fast.
Nothing had piqued his interest yet, though. Earlier, one of those smarmy business types had strolled in here like he owned the place, and Nick had sauntered up to him because he’d liked the idea of being paid to fuck that smirk right off his face. Guys like that inevitably turned out to be Nick’s favourite kind of bottom: the kind who started out cocky but ultimately begged and practically cried for more.
This one? Not so much. He wanted Nick to bend over and take it, for one thing. He wanted him to take it in the wallet too: only one hundred fifty quid? Fuck off, numb nuts.
So Nick was still here, and hadn’t yet earned his keep for the evening. He was patient, though. Biding his time until a thick enough wallet came in attached to a submissive enough guy willing to suck Nick’s cock and pay for the privilege.
“You look bored.”
Nick turned just as Tim, one of the not-so-kinky rentboys, appeared next to him. Nick shrugged. “Just haven’t seen anything I like yet.”
Tim set his glass beside Nick’s. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”
“I don’t consider myself a beggar.”
Tim laughed. Nick managed a quiet chuckle, but didn’t say much. He liked Tim, but wasn’t really in the mood to socialize. Especially since socializing was sometimes indistinguishable from flirting. Even with the black leather trousers every rentboy in the room wore, a client might think they were otherwise occupied and go give his money to someone else.
Right then, the club door opened. Every man-for-hire’s head turned, even some of the ones already occupied with clients. A well-appointed businessman strolled in, looking every bit the rich, fuckable bastard. God, his cufflinks alone probably cost more than most men’s cars, because those were emphatically not Swarovski crystals.
Tim gasped and put a hand to his chest. “Oh, hello.” He elbowed Nick. “Do you see that?”
“Yes, I do.” Nick took a quick drink to cool and moisten his mouth as he sized up the man from a distance.
“Bloody hell.” Tim shook his head. “I would fuck that man so hard, whoever pulled me out would be the new King of England.”
Nick laughed. “You wish.” And he started towards his chosen prey. On the way, he tried to get more of a bead on the man. Flashy as he was, he wasn’t a lawyer. Lawyers wore more subdued suits, for one, at least in Nick’s experience. Early, maybe mid-forties. Red tie. So maybe a CEO? A vice president at one of the big investment banks? The red tie was a stereotype—somebody must have invented the “Alpha males wear red ties” thing twenty years ago in GQ or Esquire. And ever since then, the herd had followed, which in itself was just fucking ironic.
Nick pushed up against the man’s table, regarded him from the side, noticed the man looking at him, gaze trailing over his skin.
The man’s lips quirked into a smile. “And who are you?”