I DIDN’T like lying to my friends, but it was necessary. When Hutch and Kelly asked me about the restraining order Britton Lassiter, the new attorney in town, served me with, I said I didn’t care. I told them that since it didn’t affect me or my business in Mangrove, Florida, he could leave it in place, for all I cared.
The problem, though, was that I really did care. I cared quite a bit.
As a rent boy in Manhattan, I had hundreds of clients, all different, all with different sorts of kinks. But the straight-laced attorney had distinguished himself because of the trust he’d placed in me from our initial meeting. We’d met as equals, just two guys, and because of that, ours had never become a relationship in which he paid me. Britton knew what I was, but he was excluded from having to know anything about my business. When we met, he put himself in my hands, did everything I asked, and was truly submissive in bed. It was the missing component from all of my other encounters. I had never been entirely trusted before. He was the only one I truly ever saw.
People thought the yearly masquerade shindig was really just a big orgy, but it wasn’t. The Halloween party I met Britton at—it was a far more upscale event than that. There was wait staff, alcohol, and whatever the hell kind of drugs you were into. The warehouse in Tribeca had been all done in a gothic theme, which I myself found ridiculously cheesy but apparently got people in a certain mood. There were black birdcages everywhere—with candles burning inside them as well as inside the faux fireplaces in the rooms set up with moveable red-painted walls. The furniture was all black: a Belle de Fleur sofa, a carved Mahogany Louis XV Beregere armchair, an Absolom Roche chair, as well as the chandeliers, sconces, antique lanterns, and the many bookcases. The place was draped in black velvet, damask, and red satin. I felt like I was going to a party at Tim Burton’s house—or Dracula’s—but more upscale and Hollywood, less 7th grade Halloween dance.
I was invited as a party favor, paid to be there as one of the pretty people who lured others deeper into the maze, fucked them, and then moved on to the next. It was all for bragging rights, having the party everyone wanted an invitation to year after year.
It started out as billionaire Aaron Sutter’s New York Masquerade Ball, and he flew in from Chicago to host it. The jet set and the glitterati would have died to be seen at that ball. Now it was run by Geneva Grace, a socialite whose father built casinos all over the world.
It was a sordid affair, the masks given to everyone only adding to the illusion of fun without consequences. Obviously some people at the event would not be fucking in private rooms—two at a time, three, maybe four—if they weren’t hopped up on something or didn’t have their faces covered. So with the masks, no one would be able to pick out anyone in a lineup later, even if a life depended on it.
I was prowling around when I spotted him: tall, built like a swimmer, broad shoulders, a wide chest, the whole V-shape, long legs, and a perfect tight, round ass. Even through the black lace mask, I could tell his eyes were a stunning shade of brilliant ocean blue. I was immediately drawn across the room, and the closer I got, the more I realized how ridiculously uncomfortable he looked. In the middle of all the debauchery going on around him, he had a tightness to the set of his mouth, an obvious hesitancy, and most of all, more than anything, he was intimidated. It made no sense; he was the focus of three stunning men and they were all pawing at him and letting him know in no uncertain terms that any of their asses were his for the taking. As I reached them, I heard the dry sound of his laughter and realized it was forced. He was trying to scramble free of their hands, push the one guy off his lap and slip away, get out as fast as he could.
I didn’t want him to go.
“Move,” I commanded the long, leggy twink in the assless red leather chaps wiggling around in his lap. It was obvious he was hoping to grind over a cock straining to get free of dress pants, but the man in question was not hard in the least.
“Oh, sweetie, I’m not going anywhere.”
“You will if you want your nose to stay as perfect as it is now,” I warned, my voice going low and scary.
He climbed off, and I removed my mask and waited.
“Oh,” the twink purred, hands on my black Armani suit jacket and then under it to the black dress shirt seconds later. “Maybe you want to play?”
“Not now. Maybe later,” I said, dismissing them all with a wave of my hand before flopping down beside the beautiful man.
“Thank you,” he said after a moment, his sharp exhale not lost on me. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone, but they needed to get off me.”
I nodded and did a slow pan to him. “Can I get you a drink?”
His eyes were shiny, and he licked his lips. “I already had a few, thank you.”
“We should move so no one else comes along and attacks you.”
He scoffed. “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem now that you’re here.”
“No?” I fished.
He cleared his throat. “No. You’re, uhm, clearly the pretty one between the two of us.”
“That’s very flattering.”
He caught his breath, and I felt the nervous tension rolling off him before I leaned sideways into his personal space so my lips hovered close to his.
The whimper was sweet, and I turned into him and took what I wanted.
He tasted like champagne and strawberries, and faintly of chocolate, but more than anything, more than the part that was him alone… he tasted like desire.
His hands clenched in my suit jacket, holding me close, tight, and when he opened for me and I ravaged his mouth, all hot and wet, the tremor that immediately tore through him told me everything I needed to know. The man was not about to fuck anyone; he would be the one spread out and begging for me.
Slithering out of his grip, I rolled into his lap, straddling his hips, and took his face in my hands, nibbling along his jaw as he let his head fall back against the loveseat, giving himself completely over to my care.
It was surprising; men didn’t normally let themselves go in my presence. I’d been watched while I performed, been asked to keep kinky secrets, dressed up in costumes, tied people down, and had been given cash and drugs and even jewelry to carry, but not once, not ever, had anyone just let out a deep, languorous, lion stretching in the sun sigh and put themselves in my hands. It turned me on big time.
I sucked and licked my way up to his mouth and then recaptured his lips, parted them, and began my assault anew. My hands were everywhere, tugging on his shirt, yanking it free, burrowing until I hit skin.
“Oh, you’re gorgeous under these clothes,” I whispered as I smiled, taking in the sight of the washboard abs and smooth, muscular chest before pinching his nipple with one hand as I worked open his belt with the other.
My tongue shut him up, shoving into his mouth, tasting, pushing his around, showing him who was boss, the kiss savage without a hint of tenderness and easily, obviously, what he craved. He was hard under my ass, moaning as his hips jerked involuntarily, his dick straining to reach me through two layers of cloth.
“You want me to suck your cock?”
“I—no, I—I could… you.”
The man was in desperate need of direction. “Get up and come with me,” I commanded, climbing off his lap to stand.
He complied quickly and I took his hand, lifted it to my lips, kissed his knuckles, and then tugged him after me.
I led him down a short corridor and found an actual functioning maintenance closet, opened the door, ordered the people making out against the metal shelving to get out, and then slammed and locked up behind them.
“I thought I was going to be on display somewhere,” he whispered.
I knew all the encounters in the main area were recorded; some of the beds in the makeshift rooms were either for many to enjoy or for people to mill around and watch a performance.
“Would you have preferred that?” I asked as I spun him around and shoved him up against the door so that he had to catch himself with his hands or go face first into it. Maybe he was an exhibitionist.
“No,” he murmured, gasping as I kicked his feet apart, forcing him to widen his stance. “Just… alone is better.”
“Good,” I husked, leaning in, kissing up the side of his neck to his ear, pulling the condom from the pocket of my dress pants at the same time.
“No,” I told him, putting the condom between my teeth while I pressed my chest to his back and went to work on his pants.
“But I should know your—oh!” He gasped as I shucked his pants and briefs to the floor in one tug. They pooled around his ankles, limiting his movement or escape, and I instantly took his already leaking cock in hand.
I stroked fast from balls to head as I used my other hand to rip open the lubed condom and slip it on. I’d been hustling since I was sixteen, I could multitask with the best of them.
“My name’s Britton,” he croaked, pushing back into me, hands splayed on the door in front of him, head dropping forward, ready for whatever I was going to do.
“It’s a nice name,” I murmured, distracted, glancing around and seeing what I needed. “C’mere,” I instructed.
He moved fast, obeying, again putting himself in my hands, asking no questions as I shoved him to his knees on a short bench against the wall next to the door. I was shorter than him, but now with us close to the same level, the curve of his ass nestled right against my groin, we’d line up perfectly.
“You can just—”
“No,” I quieted him, reaching back into my dress pants for a lube packet. I was always prepared with travel-size supplies.
“I don’t need—”
“I know what you need,” I said, clenching the packet between my teeth, then ripping it open so I could squeeze it all into my palm and slather it on my cock.
Spreading his cheeks, I angled myself to his entrance and pushed into him ever so slightly, the lube allowing me to open him a bit easier. But there would be no smooth, seamless slide.
“Oh… damn,” he groaned, his voice guttural and low. “I haven’t been—” He shuddered under me. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been filled and taken.”
“Why?” I asked, distracted, admiring his gorgeous firm, round ass.
“I don’t— It’s not something I let anyone see.”
“So you normally do the fucking.”
“Yes.” He huffed out the word.
If there had been a sufficient amount of lube to shove past the tight muscles and breach him in one thrust, I would have, but there wasn’t, and no matter what, I would not be the cause of any kind of pain. I knew what it was like, to be the one on the receiving end of that.
So I worked slowly, pressing, stretching him, screwing myself into his tight heat, all the while gentling him—my words, I’d found over the years, were as important as my actions.
“You feel good.”
I knew I did, I was paid to do this, after all. “You’re beautiful,” I whispered, and when he lifted his head and turned his chin to look at me over his shoulder, I saw the blown pupils, heard the sharp catches of breath, and felt him shudder again.
“Just please fuck me.”
“Oh, I intend to,” I promised, leaning in to ravish his mouth, to suck and nibble on his delectable lips.