Quid Pro Quo (Market Garden, #1)(9)

he’d managed to forget that even for a moment.

At least it was plenty of lube, slicking him up, though he gritted his teeth when the man added a third finger, pumping in and out of him, seemingly keen on making this unpleasant.

And yet, Jared wasn’t even a little tempted to throw out his safeword because something up his arse was exactly what he needed now.

“You’ll be grateful, you little whore,” the john said, almost affectionately. “This”—he separated his fingers slightly, making Jared groan again at the stretching sensation—“is so you can handle him.”

“Oh,” Tristan said, gently grasping Jared’s hair. “I don’t think . . . I don’t think he’ll have trouble handling me.”

Jared lifted his head and looked up at Tristan. There were only so many things that could be faked, and those huge pupils weren’t one of them. Nor was the way his hazel eyes were very distinctly dilated now. Tristan was undeniably, genuinely turned the f*ck on at the deepest and most primal level. Between those eyes, the cock Jared was eagerly sucking, and the fingers invading his arse, so was Jared.

Tristan closed his eyes and let his head fall back to the

pillow. His hips rose, pushing his cock deeper into Jared’s mouth, so Jared stroked him a little faster and ran the tip of his tongue around the head. Tristan groaned. Or maybe Jared did. Hell, maybe it was the john. Jared couldn’t keep track anymore.

The fingers slid free, and goose bumps prickled along

the length of Jared’s spine. The john got up off the bed, the mattress shifting slightly beneath Jared’s knees. He listened for that sound, that distinct sound, please, please, please . . .

Rustle.





24


Fuck, yes.

Then another sound, similar but still distinct, and a square of foil landed beside them.

“Fuck him,” the john ordered. “He’s all ready for you.”

Oh, God, yes, I am . . .

Jared rose up off Tristan and handed him the condom. As

Tristan took it, he said, “Orgasms cost extra.”

“Fine. Fine. Just . . . just f*ck him. Now.”

Tristan tore the foil and rolled the condom down. As he

put on some lube—the john had left the bottle nearby—he

said, “Which way do you want us? Facing, I mean?”

Jared looked over his shoulder. The john was back in his

chair, looking a lot less together, calm, and relaxed than he had earlier. His trousers were much tighter, his shirt decidedly less buttoned. He swallowed. “Facing me. You”—he gestured at Jared—“on your hands and knees.”

Jared turned around, facing him completely. Normally,

he’d lose his erection while he was getting f*cked, but judging by the way his balls tightened as Tristan put a hand on his hip and got into position behind him, that wouldn’t be the case this time. And while he’d not been sure how to deal with the john’s manual “stimulation,” he was grateful for it now because there was no need to wait. He could take everything Tristan gave him. Every inch.

Or, he could if Tristan actually gave it to him. But Tristan teased him with only the head of his cock, pressing in just enough to blur Jared’s vision. He tried to rock back. Tried to take more. A firm hand on his hip didn’t allow that, though.

“Fuck him,” the john ordered, his voice taut with the same frustration that had Jared digging his teeth into his lower lip.

“I’ve paid. Come on.”





25


“I am f*cking him,” Tristan said. Jared didn’t have to look in the mirror to know Tristan had that grin on his damned lips. He didn’t have to, but he did anyway, and . . . f*ck. His whole body shuddered, and he tried again to get more of Tristan inside him.

“Damn you,” he muttered, letting his head fall forward.

The chair creaked. The john’s foot rubbed back and forth

on the carpet. Tristan gave Jared a little more, but very little.

“He said f*ck me,” Jared said through his teeth. “God,

what are—”

“You like watching him like this, don’t you?” Tristan ran

his hand up the middle of Jared’s back before slowly returning to his hip. “Watching him get frustrated?”

Confusion furrowed Jared’s brow for a moment, but then

he realised Tristan wasn’t speaking to him.

“I want to see you f*ck him,” the john said. “Holy shit.”

“Mm-hmm.” Tristan held onto Jared’s hips with both

hands and slowly—so bloody slowly—pushed his cock all the

way in.

Jared’s elbows buckled. He went down onto his

forearms with a helpless whimper, grabbing handfuls of

the duvet for . . . for . . . support? An anchor?

Something. Tristan made sure he felt every single inch

sliding in, stretching him even after the john’s fingers had done their work, sliding across that sweet spot as if it were put there just for him.

Just as slowly, he withdrew. One long, slow stroke,

followed by another, before he stopped, buried all the way inside Jared, groin pressed to arse. His hand drifted up Jared’s spine and into his hair. For a moment, he just stroked Jared’s scalp, the movements slow, almost tender.