“How much would that cost me?”
Jason’s arm moved faster as he worked at his own cock. “It’s . . . negotiable. Fuck . . .”
Blake grinned. He thrust harder, knocking a groan out of Jason. Another thrust threw him off-balance, and his arm collapsed under him, sending him down onto the mattress. And the sound he made . . . good God. Helpless. Turned on. Somewhere between a cry and a curse. There was no way this was an act now. And hell, if it was, then the man deserved an Oscar.
As Blake’s own orgasm closed in, he gritted his teeth. “I can see . . . I can see why a guy like you can charge so much for sex.”
Jason turned his head slightly. “Yeah? W-why’s that?”
“Because you’re”—Blake punctuated each word with a thrust—“worth . . . every . . . fucking . . . penny.”
Instantly, Jason was over the edge—he tightened around Blake to the point Blake almost couldn’t move, and slurred “don’t stop, don’t stop” as Blake kept right on fucking him until his own orgasm took over. Then Blake’s eyes rolled back, and he lost awareness of anything that wasn’t his climax, or Jason’s, or holy fuck this is incredible.
Blake had never struggled this hard to concentrate on a meeting marathon. While Tristan and Jared’s skills had always provided a nice relaxed morning-after buzz, Jason was of a different caliber. The best Blake could do today was feign interest, make notes, and keep his face straight. Staring dreamily into space was a thing he couldn’t do at his paygrade. Just as well that nearly two decades in the corporate space had given him an immunity to and a decent command of bullshit buzzwords, not to mention a tolerance for PowerPoint presentations that verged on the masochistic. Those weren’t skills he included on his CV, but they sure made life easier.
Having sex into the gray hours of the morning wasn’t something he was used to, though, and even so, he’d left Jason this morning with considerable regret that they hadn’t had time to go another round. A shower, a kiss, some more playful snark, and then he’d handed over the cuff links—as well as a sizeable check for Jason’s trouble—before heading to his first meeting.
Back in his provisionary office, Blake found himself staring at his cell phone. He wished they’d exchanged numbers, but hadn’t been sure about the etiquette of this. Jason likely had to pay Market Garden a cut, so exchanging numbers with clients to attract repeat business might be against the rules. That might also shield him from customers who got too into him—there were probably more than a few of those. If this had been a normal date involving only wining and dining in terms of transactions, he’d know what to do—send a friendly text and prepare the ground for another date. But he was too smart and quite possibly too cynical to delude himself it had been a date.
Of course it hadn’t been a date. That was why Blake preferred rentboys in the first place. It was the best way to avoid gold diggers, simple as that. And while Jason had mastered the art of financially filleting him, it had been a much more enjoyable game than the ones nonpaid gold diggers played. It had been just a game, after all. Right?
He shook himself. Whatever it’d been, it was done, and every time he glanced at his private cell phone, he really regretted that he didn’t have Jason’s number. Then maybe they could’ve played again. They could’ve set up another hot, expensive meeting for tonight.
He went through some reports, all of which were decidedly lacking in that they weren’t about deliciously switchy British rentboys, and called it a day at seven.
While he gathered his briefcase and jacket to head downstairs, he debated his options, and it came down to two. One, go back to his hotel, take a shower, and sleep so he could function like a responsible adult for tomorrow’s meeting. Two, go back to his hotel, take a shower, and have the driver find the shortest possible route to Market Garden.
So really, he only had one option. Tomorrow’s meeting was an important one, and the guys he’d be talking to didn’t play games. Plus they all had that reserved British stiff upper lip thing going on, and Blake had to be absolutely sharp when he worked with them. Otherwise, he’d be liable to mistake a sniff of amusement for a subtle snort of derision or a huff of annoyance. With millions of dollars on the table, those weren’t mistakes he could afford to make.
But as he waited for the elevator, shifting his weight to get the blood flowing, a few lingering aches in his legs made him wonder if a rematch with Jason would be worth possibly making some costly faux pas tomorrow. He did like to live dangerously, after all. Maybe playing “super subtle emotional cue” roulette with a client wasn’t as crazy as skydiving or bull riding, but a fuckup could be expensive. On the other hand, the risk of an expensive fuckup would be a small price to pay for a long night with Jason.