On the Clock (Market Garden, #8)(5)

“Jared and Tristan weren’t lying,” Jason whispered.

“Yeah?” Blake panted. “What . . . what did they say?”

“They raved about you.” Jason’s lips grazed Blake’s at the same time his fingertips traced the head of Blake’s cock through his fly. “They were certainly”—he squeezed Blake firmly enough to make him gasp—“fans.”

“Any specifics?”

“Oh yes.” Jason’s smile was audible. “So far, it’s all true.”

Blake was too turned on to worry a great deal about whether the prostitutes of Market Garden had their own forum where they rated johns. “Such as?”

“Well, what do you think?”

Blake squirmed. “Good personal hygiene?”

Jason rolled his eyes. “That’s a low bottom line.”

“I was trying for self-deprecating.”

“You must be the only guy out there who can be self-deprecating while he’s this hard.” He grinned at Blake, baring all teeth. “It doesn’t really suit you.”

Yeah. Jason was most definitely rattling his cage, and rattling it thoroughly. But it was hard to care with Jason this close, and them both being this turned on. “G-good taste in music?”

“That was one.” Jason sinuously, fluidly pushed against Blake’s hand. “Any other guesses?”

“Rich.”

Jason grinned and nodded. “But we already ticked that off the list. They mentioned your good taste in watches. Actually, your good taste generally.” Jason kissed him again, as if to drive home every meaning of the word taste, and it made Blake desperate to feel those lips around his cock. But—no clothes off, and no orgasm. He sure as hell hoped he’d last longer than it would take them to reach his hotel.

Blake broke the kiss and kissed Jason’s neck, caught a whiff of aftershave or shower gel—whatever it was exactly, it made Jason smell delicious. He couldn’t wait to get him into bed and get down and dirty with him.

The car pulled up outside the hotel, and Blake separated from Jason, reluctantly. No need to scandalize the driver with particulars. The man had probably seen worse, but Blake didn’t quite know where the lines of sexual harassment in the workplace started in the UK. “Nearly there.”

Jason sat up. At some point, he’d let Blake’s tie go, and Blake pushed a finger into the space between throat and the knot to loosen it again.

“So, how did you like the test drive?” Jason adjusted himself in his pants.

“I think we’d better go in my office and discuss price.”





Jason’s grin was toothy, almost sharky. “You’re already sold, I think.” He touched Blake’s knee. “Pricing seems like a bit of a formality at this point, yes?”

“Mm-hmm. But unless you’re going to let me drive the Lamborghini off the lot for free . . .”

Jason shivered. “Pity you don’t have that car with you. There’s a fantasy or two you could fulfill for me, and I wouldn’t charge you a dime.”

Blake arched an eyebrow, and suddenly wondered if there was a place to rent a Lambo in London. Or, hell, buy one. He’d buy it, fulfill any fantasy Jason wanted, and then sell it at a loss and still come out ahead.

Just thinking about that made his cock harder. Thank God he’d worn a jacket. As if walking across an upper-crust hotel lobby with a rentboy on his arm didn’t scream “I’m going to exchange money for sex” even without the prominent hard-on in his pants.

Some nights, he was a little uncomfortable with that, and carefully avoided eye contact with the employees on his way to the elevator. But though he didn’t look at them tonight as he and Jason made their way across the expansive, ornate lobby, it wasn’t out of embarrassment. No, Blake was simply a man on a mission. A man on his way into a negotiation for something hotter, faster, and quite possibly more dangerous than that candy-apple red sports car parked at home in his garage.

As they waited for the elevator—the same one he’d ridden with Tristan and Jared a few times—his heart shifted into overdrive. He didn’t give a flying f*ck how much this night ended up costing him. The money was there, and the sex was going to be worth it. He could feel it.

The elevator doors opened, and Blake stepped inside with Jason. Pulse pounding, he silently begged the doors to shut quickly. Someone needed to be pinned to the wall with a hand over their dick. Blake didn’t care if that meant him or Jason, as long as it happened soon. Like within the next few seconds. Like f*cking now. His fingers curled at his sides.

Come on, come on . . .

“I assume you have plenty of lube,” Jason said quietly.

Blake’s mind suddenly lit up with every possible way the two of them could use lube—f*cking, being f*cked, handjobs, crazy arrangements ripped right from the director’s cut of the Kama Sutra—and he shivered. Jason laughed softly. Bastard.

Finally, the f*cking doors started to close. Blake breathed slowly, evenly. Waiting. Ready to grab Jason and—

A hand shot between the closing doors.

“Bloody hell.” A man in a suit chuckled as he stepped in with them. “Nearly missed that one, didn’t I?”

“We held it just for you,” Jason said so cheerfully the man probably didn’t detect the sarcasm.