Candy Boys (Hot Candy 1)

“There’s a club.” He shifts uneasily. “An underground fighting club. Hellfire Fighters. That’s their brand.”

“This guy isn’t an illegal fighter.”

“No? Well, I guess not. Some fans like having the symbol inked on them as well.”

All right. Interesting. Crazy. I should ask Riot about it. Doesn’t fit what I believe about him—his rich boy persona.

Is he a rich boy working as an escort to pay for his expensive lifestyle and gambling debts? Not so sure anymore, and I also don’t know what shifted my perspective, made me change my mind. Maybe it’s the fact he’s always wearing that leather jacket and those worn dark jeans, the biker boots and those plain, soft T-shirts. Maybe it’s all the ink he’s sporting, or the fact his hair badly needs a haircut.

Maybe it’s the way he speaks, soft and growly, cussing every other word. Or the way he looks at me. Like he’s never seen anything so fine.

Yeah, Pax. And then the fantasy ends. You keep forgetting. It’s his job to make you fall for him. Like you have.

No, I haven’t. I seriously haven’t. I kick at an imaginary stone as I head back home, leaving Corey to get his aftercare instructions from the handsome Ethan.

One last time. One last meeting and I won’t need Riot anymore. I’ll let him take me, show me I can do this, be with a man, and that’s it. His job will be done, and my life will go back on track like a well-oiled machine.

As if life hasn’t taught me anything. As if things are ever that simple.

Still. I’m getting better, and after tonight...After tonight I can tell myself I did it and can do it again. I’m only using Riot to test myself, because he’s a safe bet. To prove to myself I can do this.

That’s all.

So it makes no sense, really, that I take my time showering and applying scented body cream to every inch of my body, then pass an insane amount of time in front of the mirror in my bedroom, trying on lingerie.

Like I’d do for someone I’m dating. Like I’d do for a hot boyfriend.

Disgusted with myself, I decide on purple bra and panties and put them on.

Then change my mind again.

Ugh.

It’s not important if Riot likes what he sees, I tell myself. If his eyes go a stormy gray when he takes me in, when he pulls the clothes off me and sees me in my sexy undies.

Nope.

I check myself out one last time in the mirror. Lacy black bra and panties. Classic. Tried and true.

And I still don’t care if Riot thinks they’re sexy or not. That I’m sexy.

He’s seen me at my worst, for Christ’s sake. He had his hand on my breast. Slapped me, like I asked him to. Then untied me as I screamed at him to leave.

My hands shaking, I pull on my long black dress and snap my hair back into a ponytail. This is reality. The history between me and my escort.

Jesus.

Maybe I should have selected another escort for today. Break the circle. Problem is, I’m not sure I’d have the courage to go through with it with a guy I’ve never met before. I’ve grown used to Riot. I trust him.

Which makes the whole experiment moot, doesn’t it?

I’m overthinking this again, and besides I don’t have time for this because the doorbell rings and my heart gives a lurch.

He’s here.

***

I peer through the peephole. He’s standing a ways back, hands in his pockets, a thoughtful expression on his handsome face. My mouth goes dry, like every time I see him. His jacket is open, and that T-shirt is like second skin, molding to his powerful chest.