Quid Pro Quo (Market Garden, #1)(10)

26


“Always hot watching a man get f*cked.” And then he

grabbed Jared’s hair and jerked his head back. “But even hotter watching him beg for it, isn’t it?”

Jared met the john’s eyes. The john’s lips parted. He

shifted, stroked his own cock through his trousers.

“You like this?” Tristan asked. “Or you want me to just

f*ck him hard and fast?”

The john started pul ing down his own zipper. “Just like

that.”Jared tightened involuntarily, worried for a moment the john would whip his cock out and stuff it down his throat. It would be more than he could cope with if he had any hope of not coming until the john paid him to.

But the john didn’t do anything but sit there and, after

freeing himself, stroke with more control than Jared would have had. And seeing him so turned on, Jared’s professional pride flared up. This was not about him or even Tristan. They were providing a service—a very specialised service—and they were being paid very, very well for it. Poor bastard was probably stressed out of his head, and this helped him to come down.

Those thoughts vanished though when Tristan began

to f*ck him just a little faster, his speed clearly designed to drive Jared up the wal , and while he would have been less vocal if he’d been doing it just for fun, he reminded himself to perform. And hell, it didn’t take much for him to groan and moan and beg for more, eyes closed, throat bared or head hanging, lips open, or biting down on them. The porn face, as he called it. Show what he was feeling, but exaggerate it. Make it more believable just by dial ing down his pride or any sense of reserve.





27


And hell, but Tristan made it easy. At a sharp twist of

Tristan’s hips, Jared’s eyes opened again, and he noticed the john was really struggling to not get himself off. His hand moved slowly, unsteadily, and he jumped now and then as if he were on the edge, a squeeze or a sharp downstroke away from losing it. He looked as turned on as Jared was, and

allowed himself to show it.

“What next?” Tristan asked, his tone just this side of

mocking. And maybe, just maybe, a little out of breath.

“I think he wants to come,” the john said with a grin, but his heavy-lidded eyes said Jared wasn’t the only one.

“Mmm, yeah, I think he does,” Tristan purred, running a

hand up Jared’s side. “Well, that’s entirely”—he f*cked Jared a little faster—“up to you. Because he’s not going to come until you pay for it.” Faster still. “Are you, Jared?”

Oh, you bastard. You f*cking bastard.

Jared licked his lips. “Not until . . . not until he pays.”

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 f*cked 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 f*cking 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 “f*ck 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