The john stopped stroking his own cock. He reached for
his wallet, and every muscle in Jared’s body trembled, ready for that release that wasn’t far off now. He almost never came this way, from penetration alone, not unless he was really aroused, but an orgasm was inevitable now. And close. So close. God, just a few thrusts and a hundred quid away.
But that devilish grin, that smirk, said the john was still in control. So was the way he slowly withdrew the crisp notes from the fold. And he held them. Didn’t set them down, didn’t put them back, just held them a few inches above the table, a finger sliding back and forth across the unwrinkled surface. A chess player unsure of his move? Hardly. He held Jared’s gaze, watching him while Tristan fucked him right to the brink, and Jared held his breath, held himself back, willed 28
himself not to come. Not until that money was down and the order was given. Or until Tristan let him. Or made him.
Tristan held Jared’s hips tighter. He swore under his
breath, his voice as taut as the tension building inside Jared, which pushed Jared that much closer to losing it.
And still, the notes weren’t on the table.
The john’s hand lowered a little, and Jared whimpered.
Grinning, the john raised his hand, and in the same moment, Tristan moved faster, and Jared was so close, so fucking close, but he couldn’t . . . he wouldn’t . . .
“Fuck,” he growled. The need to come was well past
bearable now. His knuckles were white as he gripped handfuls of the duvet. His body ached, every muscle painfully wound with that shaky, cable-tight tension, and Tristan kept hitting that sweet spot, kept pushing him closer and closer.
“You are so goddamned hot when you’re on the edge like
that,” the john said. “Jesus.”
Jared bit back a frustrated “fuck you” and just moaned,
letting his head fall forward so his sweaty forehead brushed the rumpled duvet.
“You going to torture him all night?” Tristan’s voice was
all playful now. And evil. Fucker. “Don’t you want to see him come?” His fingertips trailed up the centre of Jared’s spine, transforming each vertebra in turn to molten electricity. “He has a spectacular come-face, you know.”
“Does he?” Rolex’s voice was just as evil-playful. “But I
can’t see his face.”
“Hmm, no, I suppose you can’t.”
Jared tried to lift his head. Couldn’t. He couldn’t move.
When Tristan’s hand slid higher, Jared knew what was
about to happen, and his balls were already tightening because 29
he was nearly to the point of no return, and there’d be no holding back, no turning back, and— Tristan seized Jared’s hair.
Jerked his head back.
The money hit the table.
And Jared lost it.
His orgasm was like a snapping rope twisted too taut for
too long, ends whipping through his whole body, the tension releasing in what was nearly mind-bending pain and then a huge wave of release. It felt like he couldn’t stop coming, and he wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d shouted. He’d never come like that, no way; nobody had ever got him off like that, stars, explosions, very nearly blackout.
All strength and focus simply drained from him with
every spurt of cum, and Tristan was still fucking him, smal , harsh movements, shuddering more than thrusting, and Jared was almost sure Tristan was coming with him. Part of him was surprised as hell, but another just couldn’t care at all what anybody else felt or was going through.
He barely managed to look at the john, whose hands
were digging hard into the armrests, teeth bared, body tight and taut, face flushed and sweaty. The man was almost there himself, but somehow he held back, tapping into some level of restraint Jared couldn’t even begin to imagine. Waiting out the money shot, maybe?
Jared col apsed when Tristan pulled free—too exhausted
and sore to stay up, panting into the damp bedclothes. He
shook his head, summoned a reserve from God knew where,
and looked up at the customer. Behind him, Tristan ran a
hand along his spine.
“Got some cash left in the budget?” Tristan teased.
30
The john nodded, breathless, speechless. He made an I
don’t give a fuck circular motion with his hand at the wallet.
“Take the rest,” he muttered eventually. “Get me off. Both.”
Tristan slapped Jared’s arse sharply enough to rouse him
from his stupor, and then slinked out of the bed and onto his feet. Jared felt a lot less in control and a lot less graceful as he crawled after Tristan to the chair, like a clumsy dog following the more graceful feline.
Tristan knelt down next to the guy’s legs, motioned Jared
to kneel between them, and kissed Jared—another one of
those deep, open-mouthed kisses, just more tender now, less heated. As if Tristan was kissing him just because he wanted to, and Jared hoped that was the case. That Tristan wasn’t just performing now. That he really wanted Jared.
Please, God, don’t let me be reading too much into this.