If It Fornicates (Market Garden, #4)(35)

Not really, but Raoul was generally not to be messed with—all six five of him, built like a porn star on steroids. As far as leather daddies went, he was hot. Too bad that Nick didn’t think Raoul had one submissive bone in his body, and it would take a lot of chains to keep him tied down. He’d once amused himself with the image—a strictly academic pursuit, of course. He definitely didn’t f*ck Market Garden staff.

The door opened behind him, and Nick glanced over his shoulder.

Not a potential client this time, though. Frank, the owner of Market Garden. Máximo Líder himself. Nick turned back and saw Raoul watch Frank closely, still and silent for a few moments before he shook his head and busied himself behind the bar. Nick suppressed a smile. Getting between these two was a bad idea. Frank was just as built and ripped as Raoul, though ten years older. Gentle giants, both of them, but Nick liked having them around in case a drunken john got out of control.

The door opened again, and this time, a gaggle of bankers spilled in. Three of them, young, moderately hot, and clearly with money burning holes in their pockets.

Nick sized them up one at a time, looking for the timid one in the bunch. There was always one. Sure, the loud, arrogant alpha could be the subbiest sub within a ten-mile radius, and the timid one could rival Nick for dominance and sadism. But Nick wasn’t in the mood to tangle with an alpha, and if the quiet one turned out to be a Dom, that would show through before too long.

The loud alpha made himself known in short order, smacking the bar with an open palm and barking an order for drinks while he waved his wallet around. The diamond in his ear was huge and gaudy. Easily the monetary equivalent to three or four rides on Nick’s cock.

Behind the alpha was the sleaze. Probably worked in sales, by the looks of him. He sized everyone up like Nick was sizing him up, but at least Nick had the decency to keep his assessments off his face. No wrinkled nose, no eye-rolling, no twist of the lips, and most definitely no phony, shit-eating grin when he saw something he liked.

Oh, don’t even look at me like that, Slick. Nick arched his eyebrow as they held eye contact from across the room. Much to his satisfaction, the sleaze quickly looked away, shifting his attention to the drinks that were appearing in front of the money-waving alpha. He chanced another glance at Nick, and Nick smirked. Think you can handle this?

Didn’t think so.

One in every crowd.

Which left . . .

The third guy hung back in the shadows, eyes darting around the room. Probably his first time in a place like this. Most guys didn’t look quite so scared out of their minds if they’d been here before.

Sleazeball handed the timid guy two drinks, and made a sharp gesture towards the thinly crowded lounge. Timid Guy nodded, and started towards the booths and tables.

Well. Someone was accustomed to being told what to do.

Nick waited until the guy had found a seat at a booth, and then he made his move. He slid in next to the guy, who willingly moved in further without a hint of protest. He even quickly scooted his drink along. Only then did he really look at Nick, and Nick raised an eyebrow in invitation.

The guy lifted a hand off the table. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Nick fixed him with a long stare. “First time here?”

“Uh, yeah. I guess it shows.”

Just a little. “Love that tie.” Nick reached over, bored already, and he didn’t even know why. Too easy. Too timid. Maybe not even his type. But no. He’d f*cked dozens of this type. They were uncomplicated. Easy money. Not too hard on the eyes. Usually easy enough to blow their minds, take their cash, and walk before midnight. He took the tie, pretending he was feeling the fabric, but grabbed it high up, pulling the man a bit forward. No protest. That pretty much sealed it.

“We could sort out a quick escape before your friends show up.” Not unlikely the alpha would raise some issues when he tried to separate the weakest from the herd, as it were. That type of guy liked having an audience, and testosterone tended to demand he score first.

“You . . . work here? I mean, you do, right? What . . . are you offering?”

Nick grinned. “Pain, if you want it. Either from f*cking you hard, or I could bring some toys to play with.”

The guy cleared his throat. “Should I, um . . .” He looked at Nick’s glass, which was nearly empty. “Should I get you a drink?”

“If you’d like,” Nick said, still grinning.

“Uh, what are you drinking?”

“Cola. Nothing alcoholic.”

“Okay. I’ll be right back.”

Nick stood to let the guy get up, and chuckled to himself as the church mouse hurried back to the bar. He sat back down while he waited, and kept half an eye on the other two guys at the bar. Looked like they were arguing with Raoul over the preparation of a cocktail. Not a pair Nick wanted to deal with tonight. Especially if they brought their chest-puffing crap over here and tried to elbow their way in. Maybe pry him away from their friend, or talk him into some kind of ménage situation.

That thought exhausted him. He could barely muster the enthusiasm to face an evening of entertaining the church mouse. As he turned back to watch said church mouse, who was still at the bar, Nick couldn’t help feeling downright tired. Not even a little into this.

He looked around, keenly thrown off his game. He was bored. He didn’t feel the electric current, that buzz that fuelled him when he needed it. And f*cking a guy in that sort of ennui wasn’t going to happen. Dominating him—especially with pain involved—was a bad idea when Nick couldn’t focus, and he wasn’t even sure he could muster the enthusiasm to f*ck him well enough to earn his pay.