He must have been here on a business trip. The hotel was
in the West End, and an impressive five stars. Somebody had serious money to spend, even in this shitty economy. But what did Jared know? He glanced at Tristan, impressed that he’d pegged the guy’s pay grade just right. Hell, Rolex might even turn into repeat business. If the guy stayed for a couple of days, and if they impressed him, they could both be drinking top shelf for a while.
11
They slid out of the booth, Tristan first, and the john
brought up the rear. As they stepped out into the night, a gleaming silver Jag on the other side of the street came to life.
“This way,” the john said, gesturing at the car.
“Help me, I’m trapped in a Harlequin novel titled The
Billionaire and His Rentboys,” Jared muttered under his breath.
Tristan grinned and shot him a glance. In the back of his
mind, Jared heard Tristan whispering again, “I’m curious to find out if everything I’ve heard about you through the grapevine is true. ”
Rolex’s driver opened the door and they slid in. Tristan
first, then Jared, then the john.
The car was unsurprisingly amazing. Leather seats. Leg
room. Everything breathed the relaxed luxury some old
brands were just so damn good at. The john’s watch was flashy and vulgar by comparison.
As they rode from Market Garden to Mayfair, the john
leaned into a corner, studying them both, a twist to his lips betraying that his imagination was very much alive. The mental porno must have been intense, especially since he
couldn’t quite sit still. Jared wondered how long it had been for the man. Was this a habit of his, indulging in the local cuisine? He seemed to know the game, and wasn’t nervous like a first-timer. There was no tan line on his left ring finger like so many of the American businessmen had, so maybe this wasn’t an indulgence behind a wife’s back. Maybe he was just one of those corporate types for whom everything was strictly business, including—perhaps especially—sex.
At the hotel, a concierge ushered them to the lift that
took them up to the penthouse, and the john ordered a bottle of Bol inger up to the room, but no food. Liquid popcorn for 12
the audience—at a hundred or two hundred quid a bottle;
likely there was a nice mark-up involved here as well.
Between the high-class room and the top-shelf
champagne, Rolex had definitely paid a lot more already
for his evening than he’d be paying for Tristan and Jared’s company, regardless of how much he ultimately asked them to do. But the john had been clever enough to negotiate the price beforehand. Just the surroundings would make every rentboy worth his salt want to hike up the price in order to fully empty that thick wallet.
The john poured himself some of the expensive
champagne, and then, glass in hand, sank into the chair across from the foot of the bed. Loosened his tie. Unbuttoned the top of his shirt. Crossed one leg over the other. Looked them both up and down.
“All right, boys.” He gestured with his glass towards the
huge bed. “Let’s see what the two hundred I paid gets me, and I’ll decide if I want more.”
Tristan took Jared by the elbow and led him to the foot
of the bed. They sat on the end, and though there was a broad expanse of carpet between them and the relaxed, champagne-sipping john, he could probably see them just fine. Especially since the mirror right behind him sent Jared a mouth-watering reflection.
Sitting on a bed? Beside Tristan? His trousers already far tighter than they needed to be with what the john had paid for so far? This night could either turn out to be hotter than hell, or an exercise in excruciating frustration.
The reflected Tristan reached for the reflected Jared’s face, slender fingertips hooking under his jaw, and the real Jared couldn’t help shivering at the soft touch. It was one thing 13
to fantasise about Tristan—but no fantasy had ever gotten
realistic enough to even come close to this.
Tristan turned Jared’s head towards him. He moistened
his lips. “I think we ought to give the man what he’s paid for.”
Jared didn’t have a chance to speak before Tristan’s lips
were against his. Tristan’s kiss was far more insistent than it had been earlier, as if that had been a preview for Jared’s benefit as well as the john’s. His breath rushed across Jared’s cheek, and he nudged Jared’s lips apart with his own. As soon as he had access, he slipped his tongue into Jared’s mouth, under his tongue, and Jared wrapped his arms around him.
His hands slid across that smooth, slick shirt, the material cool but not enough to temper Tristan’s body heat, and Jared closed his fingers around handfuls of the fabric. Any other night with any other man, he’d have yanked it off, but no clothes off, nothing below the belt—that was the rule until more money was on the table.
Someone released a slow, heavy breath. Glass clinked on