Scars. On his arms, on his chest.
Why so many scars? Is he cutting himself? Why so many bruises? Why did that thug attack him the other day, and why won’t he leave that dangerous, dirty life behind?
He makes another noise, muffled as if he’s biting his lip to keep quiet when I stroke my hands over his firm pecs. The hoop in his right nipple catches between my fingers and he gasps, another muffled sound. It goes straight to my dick that’s definitely stirring again.
Shit, I need him naked all the way. Bared, disarmed, stripped and fucking begging to come. I want that steel slide behind his eyes gone, so that I can see what he feels.
I bend over him, my legs trapping him on either side, and toy with his nipples, with that damn silver hoop. “Do you like this?” I whisper in his ear, pulling on the hoop and listening to his breathing stutter. “Is your cock hard for me?”
His thighs part as his breathing grows faster and ragged, and a glance down shows me a definite bulge in his pants.
His throat clicks as he swallows. “I should get going,” he says, but his voice cracks and he doesn’t move. His dark lashes are casting long shadows on his cheekbones.
“I’d pay,” I whisper, “to touch you, Jason.”
“Don’t,” he rasps. Still not looking at me. “Don’t fucking do this.”
Do what? Touch him? Offer money for the privilege? Talk?
“How much?” I ask, so close my lips brush the skin of his throat, his scent of cinnamon and male spice haunting me.
A breath shudders out of him. “Damn you.” But there’s no heat behind it. “It’s double. Okay?”
Double. I can swing that. I’m not rich by any stretch of the imagination, but tonight I’ll pay for this, and I nod before I can think about it too hard.
About the fact that I’m paying a hooker, not only to get me off, but to get him off, too.
No, not just any hooker: Jason Vega. As if it makes any difference.
“Done,” I say, in case it wasn’t clear, because he hasn’t moved an inch. Hasn’t breathed, as far as I can tell.
Slowly he lifts his gaze to meet mine, and his eyes are so wide they’re mostly white, the pupils like dark moons. “You serious?”
In reply, I grab his forearms and drag him up with me until we’re both standing, my pants barely hanging on my hips. It’s so heady, standing chest to chest with him, our mouths so close I can smell the cinnamon on his breath, and I know it’s the gum he always chews when I see him on the street. I can’t get enough of it.
Damn, I want to kiss him. I want to lick into his mouth until he moans and surrenders. But he shakes my hands fre
e and stumbles backward a few steps before I catch him. His back hits the wall, and he goes still when I stalk after him.
“Whatcha gonna do with me, Raine?” he whispers, his low voice vibrating through me, getting my dick hardening again and my thoughts tumbling. His smirk is faint, transparent. His eyes sparkle, then shimmer, uncertain. The confident light in them blinks, on and off, on and off, like a warning sign.
He’s caught off guard, it’s plain as day, his defenses low, emotions I can’t decipher flickering over his handsome features—and it’s making me so damn hard.
I undo his zipper, shove his pants down, and he flinches, then recovers, his hands coming up between us. He starts shoving at me, then stops, his breathing coming in short gasps. I drag his pants all the way down and take him in, in the yellow light of the lamp.
His legs are like the rest of him: slim but muscular, his calves thick, his hips slim. He’s wearing black briefs, and his semi-hard dick is tenting the front, leaving a wet spot there.
He’s fucking beautiful, and I want to see him get fully hard, painfully so, see him come apart at the seams as I watch.
Freak, a voice whispers in my mind. You’ll burn in hell.
“Touch yourself,” I say.
“I thought you wanted to touch me.” That defiant spark in his gaze is back, and it sends thrills of heat straight to my cock.
“I changed my mind. First you jack off for me.”
“Whatever the customer wants,” he drawls, the spark brightening, and pushes down his briefs.