Quid Pro Quo (Market Garden, #1)(5)

“This way,” the john said, gesturing at the car.

“Help me, I’m trapped in a Harlequin novel titled The

Billionaire and His Rentboys,” Jared muttered under his breath.

Tristan grinned and shot him a glance. In the back of his

mind, Jared heard Tristan whispering again, “I’m curious to find out if everything I’ve heard about you through the grapevine is true. ”

Rolex’s driver opened the door and they slid in. Tristan

first, then Jared, then the john.

The car was unsurprisingly amazing. Leather seats. Leg

room. Everything breathed the relaxed luxury some old

brands were just so damn good at. The john’s watch was flashy and vulgar by comparison.

As they rode from Market Garden to Mayfair, the john

leaned into a corner, studying them both, a twist to his lips betraying that his imagination was very much alive. The mental porno must have been intense, especially since he

couldn’t quite sit still. Jared wondered how long it had been for the man. Was this a habit of his, indulging in the local cuisine? He seemed to know the game, and wasn’t nervous like a first-timer. There was no tan line on his left ring finger like so many of the American businessmen had, so maybe this wasn’t an indulgence behind a wife’s back. Maybe he was just one of those corporate types for whom everything was strictly business, including—perhaps especially—sex.

At the hotel, a concierge ushered them to the lift that

took them up to the penthouse, and the john ordered a bottle of Bol inger up to the room, but no food. Liquid popcorn for 12

the audience—at a hundred or two hundred quid a bottle;

likely there was a nice mark-up involved here as well.

Between the high-class room and the top-shelf

champagne, Rolex had definitely paid a lot more already

for his evening than he’d be paying for Tristan and Jared’s company, regardless of how much he ultimately asked them to do. But the john had been clever enough to negotiate the price beforehand. Just the surroundings would make every rentboy worth his salt want to hike up the price in order to fully empty that thick wallet.

The john poured himself some of the expensive

champagne, and then, glass in hand, sank into the chair across from the foot of the bed. Loosened his tie. Unbuttoned the top of his shirt. Crossed one leg over the other. Looked them both up and down.

“All right, boys.” He gestured with his glass towards the

huge bed. “Let’s see what the two hundred I paid gets me, and I’ll decide if I want more.”

Tristan took Jared by the elbow and led him to the foot

of the bed. They sat on the end, and though there was a broad expanse of carpet between them and the relaxed, champagne-sipping john, he could probably see them just fine. Especially since the mirror right behind him sent Jared a mouth-watering reflection.

Sitting on a bed? Beside Tristan? His trousers already far tighter than they needed to be with what the john had paid for so far? This night could either turn out to be hotter than hell, or an exercise in excruciating frustration.

The reflected Tristan reached for the reflected Jared’s face, slender fingertips hooking under his jaw, and the real Jared couldn’t help shivering at the soft touch. It was one thing 13

to fantasise about Tristan—but no fantasy had ever gotten

realistic enough to even come close to this.

Tristan turned Jared’s head towards him. He moistened

his lips. “I think we ought to give the man what he’s paid for.”

Jared didn’t have a chance to speak before Tristan’s lips

were against his. Tristan’s kiss was far more insistent than it had been earlier, as if that had been a preview for Jared’s benefit as well as the john’s. His breath rushed across Jared’s cheek, and he nudged Jared’s lips apart with his own. As soon as he had access, he slipped his tongue into Jared’s mouth, under his tongue, and Jared wrapped his arms around him.

His hands slid across that smooth, slick shirt, the material cool but not enough to temper Tristan’s body heat, and Jared closed his fingers around handfuls of the fabric. Any other night with any other man, he’d have yanked it off, but no clothes off, nothing below the belt—that was the rule until more money was on the table.

Someone released a slow, heavy breath. Glass clinked on

something solid. Jared imagined Rolex getting comfortable

as he watched them, but Jared didn’t look. He kept his eyes closed. It was so much easier to get wrapped up and lost in Tristan’s kiss like this, with precious little to distract him.

Not that much could distract him from a man who kissed

like this. Aggressive, deep, but focused. As if he wasn’t out to get his tongue down Jared’s throat or just crush their lips together. Everything he did was deliberate and calculated, from the way he teased the corner of Jared’s lip with the tip of his tongue to the way he cupped the side of his neck and ran his thumb back and forth along Jared’s jaw. Or the way his other hand drifted down the front of Jared’s shirt and found his nipple and teased it, making little circles with his thumb that were so subtle the john couldn’t possibly have seen. Oh, 14

yes, Tristan was performing for their wealthy voyeur, but he was enjoying this, and he was making sure Jared did too. It was more than giving a coworker a hand, it was almost like Tristan was doing it for his benefit. And that thought was hotter than hell. Wow, he’s into me?