Page 20 of Crave

To see if the pull between us was real and if he felt the burn under his skin that had nothing to do with cash or craving, too. Or if I was just being a mug, reading too much into a mouth that wasn’t meant for me. But I knew what would happen if I tried to kiss him. He’d laugh. Give me the reminder that this was work, not want. Not love. Not even affection. It was another transaction waiting to be done.

But I did it anyway.

I kissed him.

And he stilled.

He hadn’t expected that. And his reaction to it made me wonder if no one had ever bothered to kiss him properly. Because he didn’t move. Until something changed in him and, as I coaxed the shape of a kiss he didn’t seem to know how to give but wanted anyway, he kissed me back. Tentative. Unsure. So I pressed closer to him, my cock straining against his thigh and the thought that I wouldn’t be getting anything in return, that I was the one offering, made something inside me twist and ache. Then he opened his eyes and I pulled away to breathe hot air into his parted lips.

“You’re right,” I rasped into his ear. “You are definitely more thirst quenching than a drink.”

His breath shuddered against my mouth and a low sound slipped out of him before he could bite it back, and that was it. The moment the whole thing changed. I’d bet if he paid for it, he wasn’t used to someone this keen. This wrecked by wanting him. So I opened up his jeans, dipped my hand inside and gripped his eager hard cock, sliding my thumb over the slick bead at his tip. Smearing it. Taunting him with it. My hips moved on instinct, dragging my hardness against his thigh until the friction made my breath catch.

Maybe I wasn’t brave. More stupid. Soft from a life where danger was a story told from the safety of a penthouse. Because what I did next was reckless. I undid my trousers with my free hand, let them drop, and pulled myself free. My briefs clung, small enough to be obscene, and when I tugged them down, the air hit me cold. He didn’t stop me. No. He stared. Hungry. Uncertain. Undone. And for a heartbeat, I saw myself from above — Mayfair golden boy in an alley with a man whose name I didn’t know. My father would call this madness. My mother would call it ruin.

So why did it feel like the first honest choice I’d ever made?

I stepped in again, close enough for the air to disappear between us, and lined our bodies up. My cock slid against his. Skin to skin, heat to heat. A slick, electric drag punching the air out of me. He was taller by a head, so he widened his stance, leaning back against the wall until our lengths fitted perfectly in my hand.

“Dirty boy,” he breathed. Rough as gravel. Smoke threaded through every syllable.

Christ. My whole body trembled. I could’ve come from the sound alone. That roughness brushing over the softness in me I pretended didn’t exist. Then he groaned. Low. Wrecked. As if giving in to the moment. My touch. And pulling me under with him.

“Fuck, pretty boy,” he rasped. “You’re good, I’ll give you that. But I need this done.”

His hand came down over mine, big and commanding, spreading my fingers and tangling them with his. Then he took over. Controlled the rhythm. Controlled me. Dragging us both towards the edge. Faster. Harder. My breath broke apart in his ear as my knees buckled, my whole body strung tight as wire. But he didn’t stop. He chased it. Chased me. Each pull sharper, meaner, until he came with a grunt, heat spilling over his cock, mine, our hands. But he kept going, working himself through it, milking every pulse as he held my gaze, urging me right to the brink with him.

And when I came, it tore through me. A groan broke out of my chest, release spilling and mixing with his on our joined hands. Only then did he peel his big hand off mine and wipe it on his jeans, casual as sin.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

We just breathed the same air.

Close enough to taste each other’s frantic exhales. Close enough that anything either of us said would’ve broken whatever this was. So we said nothing. And stayed frozen there. Stunned, aching, afraid to move, or even to look away.

Then he flicked his gaze past me, down the alley. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the others. A few had been watching, faces half-lit in the dark. I didn’t much care, but Leather did. I saw it in the way he zipped up fast, jaw clenched, eyes dropping to the ground. The men around us carried on, lost in their own noise.

I bent and hauled my trousers back up.

“What do you call that?” he said, voice low. Rougher now, but quieter. Not a threat. Something else. Shy, almost.

I blinked, confused. “What?”

“So I know what I’m paying for.”

Our eyes met. Held.

I had no fucking idea what I was supposed to say to that.

I should’ve laughed. Told him he’d got his money’s worth. Told him I didn’t take repeat customers. But the words wouldn’t come. And he stepped back, wiping his hand on the hem of his jacket, gaze elsewhere. The distance hit harder than it should have.

“Forget it,” he muttered. “Doesn’t matter.” Then he drew out some money and stuffed it in my front pocket.

Then he turned. Just like that. Back into the dark, the black leather swallowing him whole, and I stood there, heartbeat still wild, skin still hot where he’d touched me, watching until he disappeared.

I hated how empty the space felt without him in it.

But I dragged in a breath, cold air burning my lungs, and told myself to move. To forget him. My hands still shook. And when I finally turned away, it wasn’t the act I remembered. It was his eyes. The way he’d looked at me, as if he’d seen something he didn’t mean to. And how his kiss felt real.