Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 101840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
I saw the man make eye contact with Locke, who gave a very faint headshake. “I’d like you to come home with me.”
I stared at him. “You would?”
“Yes.”
“You would?”
“You sound like an idiot,” he muttered.
Not untrue, but I wasn’t sure what was happening here… even though my dick seemed to be stupidly, immaturely, career-killery on board with whatever the guy wanted.
Then again, Locke had come up clean in our investigation, and I was on personal time right now.
We’d just be two private citizens… doing private citizen things.
“Forgive me if you’re shocking me a bit, Mister…” I suddenly realized his driver could hear us. “…Hypocrite,” I finished vaguely.
“Can you just keep your mouth closed until we get there? Is that too much to ask?” He blew out a breath and pinched the bridge of his nose, and though it seemed impossible, he somehow frowned harder. “I’ve had a shit day, and my head’s killing me.”
Keeping my mouth shut wasn’t something I excelled at. But on the off chance I could convince him to let me do something else I did excel at later, I stopped talking and enjoyed the ride.
4
LOCKE
I didn’t know what I was doing, exactly. All I knew was that in the weeks since seeing this kid in the club, I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him.
More accurately, thinking about his effect on my dick. Because in the end, I’d gotten hard for him.
Even more accurately, I’d gotten hard thinking about fucking his ass. I’d gone out and found a woman to have anal sex with—which had been fine. Good, even. But it hadn’t put an end to my thoughts of this particular ass.
So when I’d run into him at Rutherford’s, I hadn’t been surprised at my dick’s continued interest. He was even more attractive than I remembered. Still moved with liquid heat despite being at an uptight restaurant, dressed in ten times more clothes than before.
But when he’d mentioned being there with some presumably old-ass sugar daddy, I had been surprised at my visceral reaction. At how wrong it had felt.
Jett Whatever-his-name-was seemed like the kind of guy who could get modeling jobs paying way more than whatever he could make as an escort. Or get a corporate job, depending on his education—hell, even without an education. All he’d need to do was drop a few comments about “preferring hard work over useless degrees,” and my grandfather would hire him at Maris.
Not that it was worry over the man’s financial future that made the wrongness of his plans for the evening sit heavy in my gut.
No, it was the sudden, unshakable conviction that Jett should be coming home with me.
I wanted him to suck my cock and help me kick this fucking headache. And maybe kick whatever the hell spell he’d put on me at the Candy Bar while he was at it.
When we arrived at my house, I thanked Demarius and let him know my guest would most likely be ready to go home in the next couple of hours.
Demarius nodded, unsurprised. He was used to waiting around to return women home after I fucked them—not that he’d ever assume that was what this was. Everyone, including my driver, knew I wasn’t gay.
“I didn’t take you for a Greenwich Village guy,” Jett said as I let him into the town house.
“What guy did you take me for?” I tossed my keys aside and led the way up the stairs to the kitchen.
“Meh. I’ve only been in the city a year and a bit, but I’d guess Upper West Side. Isn’t that where all the uptight banker types live?”
I snorted. “Do I look like an uptight banker type? You know what, don’t answer that. What would you like to drink?”
“I’m guessing you’re out of Natty Light and Boone’s Farm, so I’ll go with whatever you’re having.”
I was surprised to hear a slight Southern softness to his voice as he said the names of the beer and cheap wine. “Where are you from?”
He hesitated for a beat before giving me a megawatt smile. “Is this the getting-to-know-you portion of our date?”
I pulled out the bottle of Macallan and two lowball glasses. “Definitely not a date.”
“So more like a date?” Jett batted his lashes coyly while copying the tone I’d used back at the restaurant.
To my shock, I felt myself blushing slightly, though I couldn’t say why. I busied myself pouring scotch, glad he couldn’t see my cheeks.
“Charleston, South Carolina,” he said when I put the scotch down on the counter and handed him one of the glasses.
I couldn’t determine whether or not he was telling the truth. Maybe it was close enough. More likely a shitty small town nearby—one he might have had to leave when they discovered he was into men.
“What brought you to the city?” I asked, handing him one of the glasses of scotch.