On the Clock (Market Garden, #8)

But as all his London business trips eventually did, this one had to end. Not quite yet, though. Tomorrow morning, he’d be in a limo en route to Heathrow, sucking down coffee and praying for short lines through security. Tonight, Jason was lying beside him, catching his breath and letting Blake do the same.

Blake had always been a little disappointed to leave London after he’d found someone particularly compatible at Market Garden. The turnover in that place was understandably high, and more than once, the guy in his bed during one trip had moved on by the next. He’d been sure Jared and Tristan would be gone, and had been surprised every time he came back and found them at the Garden, ready and waiting to relieve his bank account of a few grand. He was still disappointed as hell that they really were gone now.

Letting his gaze slide over Jason’s lean, naked body on top of those luxury seven-billion-thread-count sheets, he had to admit that the disappointment had lessened considerably over the past week. But damn, what if Jason was gone when he came back?

Well, such was the life of a prostitute, he supposed. But as long as he had him here, Blake was admittedly curious about more than just “how the hell does he bend that far?”

He shifted onto his side and propped himself up on one arm. “I’ve got a question for you.”

“I charge for answers.”

Blake raised his eyebrow. “From anyone else, I would think that’s a joke . . .”

Jason laughed. “It is. Go ahead.”

Blake trailed a finger down Jason’s arm because he couldn’t resist touching him. “You’re a bright guy. I’ve got guys working for me for six figures who can’t negotiate like you can. So—”

“So why do I whore myself out instead of getting a respectable job?”

“Basically, yeah.”

Jason sat up and fussed with the pillow, propping it behind his back on the headboard before he settled against it. “You’re not the first to ask me that, believe me.”

“I’m sure.” Blake studied him. “If I could hazard a guess—you’d rather have sex than sit through meetings, you’d rather cut your wrists than be in a cubicle forty hours a week, and dressing hot is better than business casual?”

Jason laughed again and shrugged. “Well, I would rather have sex than sit through meetings, and I’m pretty sure I’m not alone with that. Sitting in a cubicle all day sounds about as enticing as licking the gutters outside a bar in Piccadilly on a Friday night.”

Blake wrinkled his nose. “It’s not that bad.”

“Yes, it is.” Jason chuckled, but then turned serious. “You want to know the real reason I’m a prostitute instead of working a respectable job?”

Blake nodded.

Jason slid a little closer to him and draped his arm over Blake’s waist. “You mean you haven’t figured it out?”

“I . . .” Blake swallowed, wondering if Jason’s proximity had always been this intense, or if he was just off guard this time. “Spell it out for me.”

Jason gestured past him, indicating the nightstand where Blake had stacked the agreed-upon cash for tonight. Not quite five grand, but only because they were both pretty fucking exhausted after the last few days. “I like getting paid for sex.”

“That’s obvious.” Blake half shrugged. “Who wouldn’t?”

“I don’t think you understand.” Jason seemed almost bashful for a second, lowering his gaze as a tiny bit of color bloomed in his cheeks, but then he shook himself and met Blake’s eyes. “I get off on it. Getting paid for sex turns me on more than anything else.”

Well, that explained a lot.

“I think that’s the first time I’ve heard of someone with a money kink.” Blake frowned. “Then again, I know quite a few finance people who’d bathe in cash if it weren’t so unhygienic.”

“It’s the getting paid part. A slight variation to the common prostitute fantasy. Some people enjoy when it’s cheap because it’s humiliating to sell your arse for a tenner. In my case, it’s the other way round. I really like getting paid substantial amounts of money.”

“And after? I mean, what do you do with the cash?”

“After paying the Garden their share? It depends.”

“On what?”

Jason sighed. “If it’s an item, I might keep it around. If I get tired of it, I might sell it or give it away. If it’s cash, I pay my taxes on it, pay whatever costs I have, and put the rest in an account. It’s . . . no longer that erotic at that stage. My trophies are. If they stop being that, I turn them to cash and I’m done with it.”

That explained the cuff links that first night.

“How do you decide on the trophies? I mean, what to charge whom?”

“If it’s a worthwhile conquest. I take cash from clients I’m not that into, but them paying me helps me get into them, if that makes sense. So in your case, you started somewhat higher up the ladder, but then, Tristan and Jared recommended you and they’re rarely wrong about things like this. Does that make sense?”

“That’s quite flattering, actually.”

Jason grinned. “Well, and I try not to bankrupt a client. If I get the sense they’ll have to sell their house or lie to their wife to explain where the money went, I’m out.”