If It Fornicates (A Market Garden Tale) (7 page)

Nick prowled closer, and although the man was clearly aware of his presence, need was superseding that by now. Pushing a man’s buttons was one of Nick’s favourite parts of the job. It was subtle, but potent.

The john was soon panting, and the vicious twists to the head of his cock made Nick’s balls tighten in sympathy. He closed the last bit of distance, then ran a thumb along the man’s open lips.

The john’s attention flashed back to him, just in time for Nick to push two fingers into the man’s mouth and push one leg forward, boot tip sliding past the man’s balls, a cool, hard presence pressing against his perineum. As predicted, the john was thrown off his rhythm again, not sure whether to suck Nick’s fingers, grind against the boot, or focus on coming.

“My fingers,” Nick helped, and was rewarded with the guy taking his fingers deep, nearly face-fucking himself, if Nick hadn’t been so evil as to push down on his tongue with his fingernails as a warning. Then he commanded, “Come.”

The john groaned around his fingers, jerked harder and faster, then his whole body grew taut, face slack. Nick looked down into his face, focused intensely on the man, moving not at all, though tempted to unzip and thrust his dick down the man’s throat. Later. Red Tie had paid for the whole night, he’d get the whole night.

“Fuck,” the john muttered, head rolled back, throat bared.

Nick’s lips twitched with a smirk he kept back. “I bet that feels much better.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Nick glanced down at the drops of semen running along his leather-clad leg and pooling on his boot. “Clean up the mess.”

The john needed a moment to understand, then moved to get to his feet.

Nick grabbed a handful of Red Tie’s short hair, making him wince. “With your tongue.” He twisted the john’s neck to force him to look at him and pushed close enough that their noses were almost touching. “You need to learn how to behave. You don’t want to see me get upset.”

Red Tie gave a minute nod, then bent down until his chest touched his thighs—one nice compact package for restraints and fucking—and traced his tongue along Nick’s boot. Then he cleaned the slim line of semen off Nick’s pant leg, and looked up, eyebrows raised, seeking approval.

“Good.” Nick stroked his hair. “Now stand up.”

The john was still a little shaky from his orgasm, and getting up took some work. He grabbed the edge of the billiards table for balance, paused for a moment while he got his knees under him, then rose completely.

Nick stroked his chin with his thumb and forefinger, alternately looking around the room and looking his sub up and down as he plotted his next step. Then his gaze landed on the rack of billiards cues on the wall. Eight of them, all different lengths and thicknesses, and he couldn’t stop himself from grinning.

“Oh fuck,” the john said under his breath, and Nick realised he’d figured out what Nick was looking at. Quite possibly figured out what he was thinking. Nick barely kept himself from laughing at the half-horrified, half-aroused expression, especially as he imagined Red Tie picturing himself bent over the table with one of the cues rammed up his arse.

He gestured at the rack. “May I?”

The john looked at him, eyebrows up. He knew damn well there was only one right answer. A Dom asking “May I?” wasn’t looking for permission. Moistening his lips, he nodded.

Nick started towards the rack. Over his shoulder, he said, “Bend over the table. Hands flat on the felt.”

The second whispered “Oh fuck” nearly brought a snicker out of him, but he contained it.

He took his sweet time choosing the right cue. He’d played his share of billiards, but didn’t know a damn thing about which length, thickness, weight, or whatever would give him an advantage in that game. He just knew, without even looking, that his john was watching. And probably swearing and wondering what the hell he’d gotten himself into.

Nick finally selected a cue. Holding the thicker end in one hand, he ran his other up the length of it, nearly to the tip, watching his hand slide over the polished wood. “I assume a man like you doesn’t buy cheap equipment.”

“What?”

He looked at the john, who’d obediently bent over the table and placed his hands palms-down on the felt. He’d lifted his head and was eyeing Nick, looking deliciously confused and nervous.

“Your billiards equipment.” Nick tapped the stick’s shaft emphatically. “You don’t buy anything that’s cheap, do you? Anything that’s . . . flimsy? Brittle?”

Red Tie’s Adam’s apple jumped. “No. No, I don’t.”

“Good.” Nick strolled around behind the john. Muscles in the john’s back and hips tensed, relaxed, tensed again. He looked like he was bracing himself but didn’t know exactly what he was bracing himself
for
. Perfect.

Nick turned the cue so it was horizontal. He touched the tip to the inside of the john’s ankle, prompting a hiss of breath and a full-body shudder. He slid the tip up to the back of the john’s knee, and paused there. Then tapped it. “Farther apart.”

Red Tie looked over his shoulder. For a moment, Nick was sure they were about to have another little power struggle, but then the john touched his forehead to the felt and spread his legs farther apart.

“Good,” Nick said, and slid the cue higher. He stopped when it was almost touching Red Tie’s balls, and just ran it back and forth over an inch or so of skin, letting the john wonder for a moment what was going to happen next.

Then he pulled the cue away, breaking contact with Red Tie.

Muscles twitched again. Weight shifted from left to right, then from front to back, like he wasn’t sure if his centre of gravity was safer over his hips or his torso.

Nick touched the cue to the john’s side, just below his ribcage. Red Tie jumped, drawing away from it just a little. Goose bumps materialized across his tense back and shoulders.

“You know,” Nick said, “a man could leave some serious marks with something like this.”

The john shuddered again. As Nick drew little loops and circles all over the blank—
too pale
—canvas of skin; Red Tie flinched and shivered as if the cue’s tip were electrified.

“You like pain?” Nick asked.

“I . . . y-yes. Sometimes.” Red Tie pulled in a deep breath. “Within reason.”

Nick laughed. “You’ll have to be more specific. One man’s too much is another man’s foreplay.”

More profanity. More flinching and shuddering.

And once again, another sub was on Nick’s mind. Another man was in his mind’s eye, leaning over this very table with the pool cue—its pale surface contrasting beautifully with his dark skin—taunting nerve endings in all the places Nick could hit if he wanted to. He pictured Spencer arching, not away from the cue, but towards it. Pressing into its tip or even the side of the shaft, as if with enough pressure he could convince the inert stick to produce the sting or thud it would create if Nick swung it.

Nick was rock hard now, genuinely aroused and aching for his own release, but his erection wasn’t for the man bent over in front of him now. Not for the apprehensive john who fought him every step of the way even though he’d paid for this, but for the man who fully trusted him and was eager for the pain and the dominance and anything else Nick would give him.

Nick swallowed. He was still tracing those invisible loops and circles on the john’s skin, but the vague ache of fatigue in his arm was like a physical manifestation of the reluctance in his mind. No, not reluctance. Lack of enthusiasm. He’d get pleasure out of this—he always did—but knowing how much better it was with Spencer turned this into work. Something he had to do.

Here he was, in a rich man’s house, with that rich man bent over a billiards table, a naked, paying customer who’d take whatever Nick dished out, and all Nick could think was how much he wanted to get in a cab and get himself to Holland Park.

Fuck.
Fuck
. This was not going to work.

Stay professional.

He couldn’t just bail. Too much was riding on it. His reputation. Market Garden’s. A thick wad of cash.

Later. He’d figure out all this shit in his head later. But right now, with a paying customer gagging for it, was not the time. He needed to focus, and that shouldn’t have been such a damned struggle. Thank God Red Tie was a new customer with no previous performance to compare to, so he had no reason to believe Nick wasn’t at his best tonight. One of his regulars wouldn’t be fooled.

Nick dragged his mind back from wanting to go home—home being rather loosely defined as any place where he could either be with Spencer or brood in peace—and delivered a quick slap with the cue. It was unwieldy and unbalanced, but the shock of impact after the teasing was a fitting payoff.

And once he’d reduced the man to a sweating, whimpering mess with the cue, he even managed to fuck him.

After Nick had exhausted Red Tie, they moved to his bed, and the john was out cold before too long. Lying awake beside him, Nick stared up at the ceiling, his stomach all tied in knots. Likely nobody could tell the difference, and Red Tie certainly hadn’t complained, but tonight was the first time in a long time that Nick had just gone through the motions like an automaton: bought, paid for, and without giving a damn.

No, it was worse than that. It wasn’t just that he didn’t give a damn. It wasn’t just apathy. He didn’t want to be here tonight. At all. There was one place he wanted to be, and it was neither this extravagant house nor his own tiny flat. His mind was already there, behind the closed door of Spencer’s bedroom, and if Red Tie hadn’t paid for the entire night, Nick would be well on his way there now.

But he was here tonight. Bought, paid for, and not going anywhere.

No matter how badly he wanted to be with Spencer.

“If you need a ride, I’m heading back to Central London very soon,” the driver told Nick when he emerged, freshly showered, from one of the guest rooms in the manor. The man studiously ignored Nick’s bare chest and stayed at a polite distance. “We’re a bit out of the way.”

“I can get a taxi.”

“It won’t get you back any faster. I need to pick up something anyway.”

Nick arched an eyebrow. The gentle insistence wasn’t just politeness. “I’ll check with Mister . . .” No idea what the john’s name was. “With your employer.”

“He’s fine. He’ll sleep until noon.”

Nick thought he saw a hint of concern, but he himself was off the hook. Paid and dismissed. If the game hadn’t gone on ’til five or so, he wouldn’t have hung around, but Red Tie had insisted, arguing he’d paid to have Nick at his disposal for the entire night. Smart-arse.

“All right.”

“Breakfast?”

“Just a coffee, please,” Nick said.

“Follow me.”

Nick arched his eyebrow again, but followed the man into a large kitchen. Here, the reason for the john’s insistence that
It doesn’t fit into my life
became painfully obvious. There were kids’ wellies lined up near the sliding door into the garden. One pair was pink, a larger one blue.

“Filter? Italian? Cappuccino, latte?” The driver stood next to a fully automated Italian coffee machine.

“Latte.” Nick spotted a couple photos on a corkboard, and saw the john and a smiling woman, cheek to cheek, in what was likely a tropical location, considering the light and the reddened skin on the verge of sunburn.

He turned to look at the driver, half expecting that the man had shown him these for a reason. But yeah, a wife and kids were three good reasons not to enter into another relationship. Nick couldn’t even imagine what it took to keep those things separate enough to function.

“Sugar?”

“No, thanks.”

The driver placed a mug down on the table between them.

“Cheers.” Nick took it and had a sip. “Do you know what’s going on here?”

The driver shrugged. “I know what your purpose is.”

“Well, that one’s easy to guess. I hardly look like an investment adviser.”

The driver nodded. “Thank you for helping him deal with the pressure. He doesn’t have many . . . friends or allies. It’s very difficult at the top.”

Nick frowned. Odd thing to say, but if the driver was grateful for Nick looking after his boss in that way, that was a good reason for the offered ride. Anything beyond that was none of Nick’s business.

He drank the coffee, which revived him, though the anticipation of getting back home was an even bigger jolt than the caffeine. He wanted to be gone. Normally, he’d have tried to get the john to book another appointment, but considering he hadn’t done a great job—competent, but not great—taking the money and leaving was the best thing he could do.

He set the mug down. “Ready when you are.”

It was weird, going back into the city in the same car he’d arrived in last night. The seat seemed abnormally spacious and quiet without Red Tie and his frustration.

The driver left the privacy screen up. Hard to tell if that was to give Nick space to collect his thoughts, or if he just didn’t want to run the risk of further conversation with his employer’s prostitute.

Either way, the drive was silent, and the silence very nearly lulled Nick to sleep. Good thing he’d given the driver the address beforehand. When the car slowed to a gentle stop in Angel, Nick snapped out of a half-dreaming state, wondering how the hell they’d gotten here already.