Host Club on the Pleasure Planet (On the Pleasure Planet)

THIRTY-ONE

Play it cool, play it cool.

Benedict wished he could calm his racing heartbeat, slow his breath, stop the trembling in his hands as he slicked back his hair, glancing at his reflection in the mirror once again.

It’s just coffee . It’s just Oz.

And that right there was the crux of the problem—it was never just Oz. It was Oz. It was Oz who was free, Oz who was now his employee, not his slave, and Benedict had to actually work at this whole wooing thing.

It felt like starting all over again, and his stomach twisted with one thought: now that he was free, Oz was going to call it all off, tell him there was nothing between them, leave him.

And … he would have to accept that. Because that was the price of doing the right thing—taking a risk.

What was that old saying? If you loved something, let it go …

He swallowed when he heard the buzzer, indicating Oz had arrived in the building and wanted to be let in. Benedict bustled to the door and pressed the door release button, letting the Vetruvian into the foyer.

It took four agonizing minutes for Oz to traverse the lobby, get in the elevator, and make his way to Benedict’s door.

He practically ripped the door open before Oz had a chance to knock, surprising the Vetruvian, who had his hand raised, ready to tap the wood. His brown eyes were wide. “Uh, hi,” he said, blinking.

Benedict realized he probably looked like a madman. “Hello,” he managed, then stood aside. “Come on in.”

“Thanks,” Oz said, then stepped across the threshold. Benedict could hardly hear him over the thundering of his heart.

“We said coffee,” Oz said, lifting a cardboard tray with two takeout cups, “so I hope you don’t mind …”

“Oh,” Benedict said, glancing to the coffee table, where he’d already set out the good china. “Uh.”

Both of them were blushing. That … that was a good thing, right?

“Oh,” Oz said. “Um.”

“This is great,” Benedict said, taking the tray from him. “We … we can have more than one cup, right?”

“Y-yeah,” Oz agreed, still blushing. “That might be good.”

“We might be here a while,” Benedict added, and Oz nodded.

“We have a lot to talk about,” the Vetruvian agreed, and they drifted toward the couch.

Once they were seated, though, Benedict found his tongue tied up in knots, just like his heart and his stomach. What should he say? What could he say to Oz? Hey, I know I owned you for a bit, but I set you free now and I’d really like it if you stayed with me forever?

Seemed like a bit much, if he was honest. He’d probably scare Oz off if he blurted all that out.

He twisted his coffee cup in his hands, feeling the grooves of the cardboard holder, the heat of it against the pads of his fingers. Just like the heat in his cheeks.

“So, uh,” he ventured finally, and Oz’s cheeks turned a dusty color.

“Uh,” the Vetruvian replied, and the two of them sat there in awkward silence for what felt like an eternity longer.

Ah, fuck it , Benedict thought finally. He’d thrown away his entire life for this—not for his aunt’s empire, her restaurants; not for life on Kateria. No, he’d broken his vows, his oaths, for Oz.

“What are you going to do now?” he asked, and Oz blinked in confusion. “Do you have any plans now that … now that you’re …”

“Now that I’m free?” Oz finished, and Benedict nodded, lifting his cup to his mouth and filling it with burning liquid, which he instantly regretted.

It gave Oz a moment though. The Vetruvian looked thoughtful. Then he said, “No, not really.”

Benedict nearly sighed in relief. He swallowed the coffee, letting it scorch all the way down. “No?” he asked, wincing.

Oz shook his head, then shrugged. “I’m free, sure, but … I don’t really have any money.”

“You’re going to get paid,” Benedict pointed out hotly. He was going to pay his employees, as they deserved.

“Right,” Oz said, “but it will take a bit to … do anything. Like, I gotta save up for a different apartment, right? Need first and last, if not more.”

Benedict made a noise of protest in his throat, but Oz waved him off, continuing, “Some places want, like, eighteen months’ rent right up front. It’s insane.”

“That is insane,” Benedict agreed numbly. He’d never had to think about rent. He’d just lived at the abbey pretty much his whole life, then had this penthouse dumped in his lap, and it was paid for. He just had to keep up with the taxes and maintenance.

“And I gotta eat in the meantime,” Oz said, peering into his coffee cup thoughtfully. “So it will take time. Even if I want to, say, take a vacation or something, I gotta save up a bit.”

Benedict nodded, hating how much sense that made. He’d thought setting Oz and the others free would make things instantly better for them.

And it did , he reminded himself. They were free now. Even if they weren’t sitting in the lap of luxury right this second, they were free. That had to count for something.

He glanced sideways at Oz. “You could … move in with me,” he offered, the words springing unbidden to his tongue and tumbling out before he was even aware he’d thought them.

Oz looked just as surprised as Benedict felt. “Move in with you?”

Benedict nodded, the idea becoming more forceful with each bounce of his head. “Sure,” he said. “I’ve got all this space. I’m not using it, there’s a spare room?—”

Oz’s expression darkened a bit. “Sure,” he said flatly, “I’ll think about it.”

“Or,” Benedict tried, realizing he’d somehow put his foot in it, “maybe …”

Oz quirked an eyebrow. Benedict let his shoulders come up around his ears as he mumbled, “Maybe as … a … boyfriend?”

He felt like an idiot teenager when he said it, and his cheeks burned with embarrassment. He wasn’t going to be surprised if Oz rejected him, not after that .

Oz blinked a few times, then looked down at his coffee. His cheeks turned that burnished color again, but it might have just been the steam.

“I mean,” Benedict started, “it’s just an idea, you don’t have to, but you could think about it, I guess?—”

“I’d like that,” Oz said quietly, and Benedict dropped his paws into his lap as the awkward silence took over the room again.

“Yeah?” he asked finally, his heart beating a mile a minute. Oz liked the idea of moving in with him? Of being his boyfriend?

Oz ducked his head once, an affirmative. His eyes were screwed shut. “I’d … really, really like that, Benedict.”

Benedict shifted in his chair, leaning toward the Vetruvian, who was perched on the sofa. “Call me Benny,” he said, aware his voice was pitching lower, like a purr.

He didn’t miss the way Oz shuddered. The shapeshifter opened his eyes, locking gazes with Benedict. “I’d like that a lot, Benny.”

Benedict covered his hand, and Oz twined their fingers together tightly. “Let’s do it then,” Benedict said, his voice still that low rumble. “I’ll call a moving company?—”

“No need,” Oz said breathlessly, “I don’t have much stuff.”

“Move in today then?” Benedict felt impulsive, impatient saying it, but he needed to lock this in, to get Oz back into his orbit.

“Tomorrow,” Oz said, shuffling over, knocking their knees together. He set his cup down, then grabbed Benedict’s other hand, squeezing them both tight. “First …”

He leaned forward, bumping Benedict’s knees again, then bumping their noses together as he dove in for a kiss. Benedict tried to angle his head, but they were at odds, out of sync, as they fumbled their way into an overeager lip lock, finally finding purchase against each other. Oz released his hands, dragged him in, and Benedict wrapped his arms around Oz, trying to rise out of his chair and accidentally toppling both of them to the floor in a heap. They banged into the coffee table, and Benedict was pretty sure something spilled, but all he could think about was Oz—Oz, hot underneath him, Oz’s mouth on his, Oz’s taste on his tongue.

God, it was so good. Why had he waited so long?

He pulled away long enough to breathe. “Should we take this to the bedroom?” he asked, taking in the way Oz’s eyes were bright and his cheeks high with color.

“No,” the Vetruvian replied, tugging at the collar of Benedict’s shirt. “Right here, right now.”

“Yes,” Benedict agreed instantly, seeing the wisdom in this. They’d both pussy-footed around this for too long. He slid his hands under the hem of Oz’s shirt, rucking it up, exposing inch after inch of purple-tinged skin, sliding his hands up, listening to Oz suck in a breath. Oz’s hands were shaking as he fumbled with the buttons on Benedict’s shirt.

He yanked Oz’s tee off, pitching it into the abyss of the living room. They’d find it later; right now, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting Oz naked, having him pressed tight against his own skin.

This, this was exactly what Benedict had given up his old life for—to have Oz, to hold him, to call him his , not as property, but as a lover, a partner.

“When we’re done here,” he growled, leaning down to whisper in Oz’s ear, “I’m going to take you on the dining room table. Then we’ll have a shower and?—”

“Go to work,” Oz huffed with a laugh, pushing Benedict’s shirt off his shoulders.

“Why would we do that?” Benedict asked, nipping at the Vetruvian’s jawline, watching him shiver. “We don’t need to.”

Oz pushed back enough to grin up at him, even as his hands slid down Benedict’s back, nails raking across sensitive skin. “We don’t need to, but maybe I want to?”

“Why?” Benedict almost felt crushed—Oz would rather go to work than stay here and get fucked six ways from Sunday?

Oz unthreaded his belt, letting it clank to the floor, before unbuttoning his slacks. “Maybe I like working.” His smirk turned mischievous. “Or maybe I like seeing you in that skimpy little host costume of yours.”

Benedict flushed, then growled. “I’ll wear it anytime you want.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Oz asked, his voice light with teasing. “Maybe I want to torture myself—have to look at you for eight hours while you flirt with all the customers, counting down the minutes until I can have you again?—”

Benedict groaned, both at the idea and at Oz’s hand slipping under his waistband and palming his cock. “You’re a masochist,” he told Oz.

“You like it,” Oz fired back, giving him a squeeze, and Benedict rocked his hips into the Vetruvian’s firm grip.

“Damn right I do,” he replied, his breath already coming short. If they kept this up, he wasn’t going to last.

His eyes fluttered shut as Oz squeezed him again, and he decided it didn’t matter—they had all day, all night, the rest of their lives to enjoy each other, over and over.

He came with a low moan, splattering all over Oz and the carpet. That was fine; he’d never liked the carpet in here anyway. He’d been meaning to redecorate, remove the last vestiges of his aunt from this place, make it his own.

Oz could help. Together, they’d make this place theirs .

He opened his eyes slowly, trying to regain his breath, and he nearly came again when he looked down at Oz, the Vetruvian flushed, eyes bright, mouth open just slightly.

Oz looked fucked out, and he hadn’t even come yet. Benedict inhaled through his nose and dipped down to curl his tongue up the other alien’s jawline, purring, “My turn,” enjoying the full-body shudder Oz gave him as a reward.

He pinned the Vetruvian to the floor—a difficult thing to do, given that Oz could have simply shifted shapes and escaped any time he wanted to. He didn’t, though, which was testament enough to his desires. Even if Benedict hadn’t known that, he could see want burning in Oz’s gaze, and that set him on fire too.

He hadn’t known it felt so good to burn together. If he had, he maybe never would have become a monk.

He kissed Oz again, feeling the last vestiges of his old life turning to cinders under the heat of their bodies. He shifted to hold Oz captive with just one hand, and he pushed his knee between the Vetruvian’s legs. Oz offered no resistance, spreading easily, and Benedict trailed his free hand down the shapeshifter’s torso, reveling in the expanse of smooth skin bared to him.

He circled Oz’s hole, then slipped a finger inside; there was no resistance even here—Oz was shifting to accommodate him, reacting to his every move.

Even still, Benedict had to push, and he gritted out, “You’re tight.”

“Sorry,” Oz said, which was followed by an immediate slackening.

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” Benedict said swiftly, already pushing a second finger in, hoping to recapture the squeeze he’d felt before.

Oz tightened instantly, and Benedict barely suppressed a groan at the thought of being tightly sheathed inside the Vetruvian, and Oz tensing all around him, squeezing more.

“Benny,” Oz said breathlessly.

“Yes,” Benedict replied, hastily pulling his fingers out and lining himself up. They were both primed and ready to go; there was no need to mess around.

They could save that for another time. Right now, Benedict wanted to be as close to Oz as physically possible, wanted to be so close as to be one with him.

It was … divine. It felt profane to think that way, but he didn’t know how else to describe it. The union of two separate bodies, coming together, working in unison to heighten each other’s pleasure …

There was no descriptor that suited better, he thought as he gripped Oz’s shoulder, pressing the Vetruvian’s legs back as he slid inside Oz’s welcoming body.

They sighed together, breath mingling. Oz’s fingers threaded through Benedict’s hair, tugging, and Benedict nipped at Oz’s neck, drawing a groan from his shapeshifting lover as he rocked his hips, seeking a rhythm.

Oz rocked back against him, insistent, demanding, and Benedict’s hesitancy fell away. He raked his claws down Oz’s sides, revelling in the moan that erupted from the Vetruvian.

It didn’t take long. Between Oz’s shapeshifting and Benedict’s oversensitivity, they scaled the peak in mere minutes, both of them breathing raggedly, Benedict biting down on Oz’s shoulder as they ascended, Oz shouting as blood and come alike burst from him, and Benedict screwed his eyes shut as he slammed home, then stilled, finding his own release.

He released Oz’s shoulder, licking blood from his lips, shuddering at the taste. Oz didn’t seem to notice; his gaze had gone glassy as he stared up at the ceiling, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

Slowly, Benedict withdrew, and just as slowly, Oz blinked, his gaze clearing as it landed on Benedict. The Vetruvian sat up, still heaving, and said, “Another round?”

Hours later, Sassa raised an eyebrow at them when they walked in the kitchen door. She crossed her arms, putting on her best frown. “You’re late,” she admonished, gaze darting back and forth between the two of them, like she was trying to puzzle out some complex equation.

Oz shrugged, and Benedict reached for the uniform he’d stowed under the bar. “I’m the boss,” he said nonchalantly, buttoning the cuff around his left wrist. Oz was watching him surreptitiously.

Sassa studied them both for a moment longer, then sighed and shook her head. “Just don’t let the clients figure you out, yeah? You know they’ll never stop asking for a threesome, right, Ozzie?”

Benedict knew he turned purple, and Oz choked on the breath he’d been inhaling as Sassa walked away.

“How did she …”

Oz shook his head and clapped Benedict on the shoulder. “Let’s try to keep a lid on it then.” He curled a finger under Benedict’s chin, and Benedict had to suppress a shudder. Despite their very active afternoon, he was still riled—every touch sent electric sparks down his spine. “I don’t want to share you.”

Oz tugged at his bow tie, straightening it, and this time, Benedict did shudder, the note of possession in Oz’s voice setting him on fire all over again.

Oz grinned at him. “Get out there, boss-man.”

Benedict gritted his teeth. “I expect something stiff when I’m done,” he said, then sauntered around the bar, picking up his tablet and heading to the first table of the night, turning his focus to the crowded tables of cheery aliens—a different set from who had been in here scant weeks ago. A lot of wealthy widows, he observed as he stepped up to his first table, plastering his customer service smile on, noting the giggles and smiles at the table as he purred, “Good evening, ladies. I’m Benedict, and I’ll be your host tonight.”

More tittering. “Can we get you started with some drinks?”

“What do you recommend?” one of the women asked, leaning over the table, curling a hand through her hair.

He thought of Oz at the bar and leaned over the table, letting his hand brush over hers as he pointed to the menu.

Seven hours and forty-five minutes to go.