Chapter 3 #2
Not that I felt tired anymore. On the contrary, all my senses were on high alert.
I was aware of the boy in front of me on every single level…
as proven by my cock’s insistence on staying relentlessly hard.
One part of me, at least, that seemed to have escaped the aching disappointment that had hit me once I’d come to my senses and realized what a complete fool I’d started to act.
And the boy noticed my arousal. Of course he did. It was his job.
“Do you, um, do you want me to—” he started to ask, one of his hands twitching toward my erection.
“No,” I snapped, not up to hearing whatever kind of relief that sweet, trembling voice had been about to offer me. Because he wasn’t mine, and even if it wasn’t fair to him to suddenly feel so enraged about that fact, I absolutely couldn’t let myself forget what he was.
A “party favor” from my brother. A male prostitute. A… what was the term?
A rent boy.
He opened his mouth again, beautiful eyes wide and clearly frightened by my harsh denial… or by the potential loss of income, more likely.
I put my hand up before he could say anything, shaking my head to stop him from offering again.
“Don’t,” I bit out, even though I knew my own disappointment was making me far too harsh. I tried to temper it. “Just… wait. Please.”
He nodded, closing his mouth and folding his hands in his lap.
Not taking his eyes off me for even a second.
And fuck if I wasn’t still being a fool, because.
.. “wait”? For what? I already knew I needed to send him away, so why couldn’t I make myself do it already?
Marcus may have thought he was doing me a favor, but—
“Marcus got it wrong,” I muttered, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“You could… could request someone else?” the boy said, his voice wobbling and his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.
“I don’t want anyone else,” I snapped, which goddammit, was suddenly true. Irrational, but irrevocably true. I hadn’t wanted anyone at all, but now, only this boy would do.
His shoulders slumped, a look of utter defeat on his face. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, looking down… but not before I saw the glitter of tears again.
“It’s not your fault,” I gritted out, spinning on my heel and stalking away from him. Heading for the welcome basket as a distraction from pulling him into my arms and comforting him the way I suddenly needed to.
Needed to.
Jesus.
I didn’t even recognize myself.
Normally, I wasn’t the comforting type. Normally, I held everyone at arm’s length, everyone except Marcus, precisely because I’d always known I couldn’t be the comforting type, not to the kind of partner I truly wanted…
and fuck if all that repression hadn’t worn on me.
Honestly, it had been exhausting, even before the ordeal I’d just gone through to rid myself of my unwanted marriage.
My brother must have picked up on that. His “party favor” had been well-intentioned.
He’d just been trying to give me a taste of what I’d never let myself have before.
But what Marcus didn’t know—and how would he, since it was a topic I’d made a point never to discuss?
—was that even now, free and finally unencumbered after decades of self-denial, I simply wasn’t wired for casual sex.
Hell, I wasn’t wired for casual anything.
A lifetime of denying my sexuality didn’t mean I wasn’t aware of it, but it went further than my attraction to men.
I wanted a very specific type of man… or maybe I should say, I wanted a man who would thrive in a very specific type of relationship.
A man who would be my boy.
I may never have expected to have the chance for that, but even now that I was free, I had no interest in “exploring my sexuality.” I wasn’t “curious.” I had no desire to “experiment.” I knew what I wanted, and if I were ever to let myself go there—something I’d had no intention of doing, Marcus had been right about that—I’d want to find my boy and claim him for good.
Care for him forever. Keep him and make him mine, in every possible way.
That was how I was wired.
But this beautiful boy wasn’t here to be mine forever.
He was only offering himself to me for tonight.
And when he looked at me, no matter how well he hid it behind an expression of sweet yearning, behind the appearance of shy confusion and the trappings of insecure vulnerability, I couldn’t let myself forget that all he was truly seeing was a job.
Or a… mark?
A john?
I’d never paid for sex, so I didn’t have the terminology down, but I did know how businesses were run.
While the boy may have looked young and innocent, I had no doubt that everything about him I’d already started to fall for was nothing more than practiced, strategic tricks of the trade.
… the same way, I suspected, that the devastation still on his face, when I made the mistake of looking back at him, was.
And Jesus, even knowing that, the urge to go to him and comfort him, to let myself believe that he actually needed that from me, was almost overwhelming.
I scowled, then forced myself to turn my back on him again. It wasn’t real, and I rifled through the welcome basket to keep my hands busy, trying to convince myself of that. There were almost enough cheeses, chocolates, crackers, and meats to make up an entire meal.
I picked out some kind of chocolate-dipped artisan shortbread bullshit, smacking the package against my palm. I wasn’t even remotely interested... but maybe the boy was hungry? He was beautiful, but slender. Almost too slender. Did he eat enough? I should really—
I froze. No. I really shouldn’t.
Fucking hell.
I dropped the package of cookies like it was on fire and squeezed my eyes closed for a moment, shaking my head at the further evidence of my own foolishness.
He wasn’t here to be fed, he was here to be fucked, and he certainly didn’t need me to coddle, comfort, or take care of him.
And what I needed was to stop torturing myself and just tell him to leave already.
While I had no problem with the ethics of legalized sex work—
My train of thought suddenly screeched to a halt as I suddenly remembered my very first reaction to the boy.
Well, my second reaction, if you wanted to split hairs.
Right after the first one where he’d blinked those innocent-looking eyes up at me and a wave of pure lust and longing had slammed through me, stealing my breath, my sanity, and all good sense.
But… was the boy legal? Prostitution may have been, here in Nevada, but while I trusted my impulsive little brother’s good intentions, I had no faith whatsoever in his commitment to due diligence.
“How old are you?” I demanded, whirling back around to face the boy... and then crossing my arms over my chest and planting my feet, just to keep from going back to him. Reaching for him the way I suddenly—almost desperately—needed to as he tried to hold my gaze.
Because his chin trembled.
Because those pale, ethereal eyes of his were growing suspiciously shiny again.
Because when he swallowed, clearly working up the courage to answer me, his Adam’s apple bobbed in the slim column of his throat, and I couldn’t take my eyes off it.
I wanted to taste it. Lick it. Suck it and soothe it. Mark him as mine, then wrap him up in my arms and make everything all better… and if I could do all that naked, with him on my lap and my cock buried in his—
He cleared his throat, jolting me back to my senses again. “Um, I’m twenty?”
I clenched my jaw, feeling a muscle start to tick. Twenty? I didn’t buy it. Only if he’d never hit a growth spurt. The boy was tiny, and when I’d touched his face, his chin had been as smooth as silk. Did he even have to shave?
“Try again,” I bit out, knowing he had to be lying and disgusted with myself for wanting so desperately to believe him anyway. Half my age would still be outrageously young, but at least not criminally so.
Which shouldn’t matter. Didn’t matter. Because I was about to tell him to go.
A wave of color rose in his cheeks, and he sat up straighter, twisting his hands together in his lap. “How old do you want me to be?”
I almost laughed, a defensive reaction to the deep disappointment that slammed into me at his all-too-revealing response.
Of course he’d be… accommodating, and my answer was easy.
I wanted him to be old enough to ride my cock without putting me in jail.
I wanted him to be old enough that I could touch him without worrying about committing sexual misconduct with a minor.
I wanted him to tell me that he actually wanted to be here, that he’d felt the same electric pull between us that I had, that he consented to every damn thing I longed to do to him, everything he’d offered me, and be old enough to mean it. I wanted him—
I scrubbed a hand over my face.
That was the problem. Despite every argument I made to myself, I wanted him, full stop.
I still fucking wanted him, and I shouldn’t.
I wanted him, but even if I took him, I could already tell that I’d never be content to give him up in the morning.
To know he’d offer the same to other men after me.
To live with the knowledge that it had all just been an act.
Not. How. I. Was. Wired.
I’d never felt possessive with a woman, not even the one I’d been married to, but this already felt light years different.
The boy peeked up at me through feather-fine lashes, his voice trembling. “Were you hoping I’d be younger, or… or older?”
“That’s not how this works,” I said sharply.
.. although hell, it probably was how this sort of thing worked.
Hadn’t the boy said it himself? He’d do—and, it would seem, be—anything I wanted.
But snapping at him, all because I couldn’t get over myself enough to just accept what was on offer or tell him to go, was. .. uncalled for.