Take It Off (3 page)

Rolex settled on the couch, so Tristan found a straight-backed chair slid under a desk in the far corner and pulled that behind himself, positioning it opposite. Rather than facing the john fully, he opted for a three-quarters angle, which would give Rolex the best view of both of them.

“Ever had a lap dance?” the john asked.

“Can’t say I have.”

“You should come over to the States. I know some spectacular places.”

Tristan grinned. “Wall Street?”

“Not where I had in mind, but yes, there too.” The john smiled at him and winked. “Champagne to relax?”

“I don’t drink on the job.”

“I still need to understand how a control freak like you became a rentboy.” The john seemed mildly curious. There was no venom or spite in his words.

You know, that’s not so strange.

“I’m good at what I do,” was all Tristan offered.

“Yes,” Rolex said over the top of his glass, “you certainly are.”

Jared pulled out another straight-backed chair and set it up a few feet away from Tristan, facing him. Tristan’s heart sped up again. Jared was pulling out all the stops, wasn’t he? Dancing in an empty chair before dancing on Tristan. Teasing, of course, but maybe that would give Tristan a little time—the length of a song, at least—to plan how he’d take back control and let Jared know, in no uncertain terms,
I want you
.

Keeping the minuscule remote between his fingers, Jared said, “Ready?”

The john nodded and gestured, so Tristan sat down on the chair. Jared regarded him critically, then leaned in and tapped the inside of his knee. Tristan opened his legs. And wider when Jared indicated.

Rolex sipped his champagne, and then put the glass down with a quiet clink. “So the rule is, you’re not allowed to touch him. At all.” The john smirked. “Isn’t that fun?”

Tristan swallowed. “But you get to change the rules if you want to?”

Rolex grinned. “You’re smart boys. I like that.”

Tristan looked up at Jared. The way Jared grinned back at him made his heart beat even faster. Oh, yes. Jared was already enjoying this. And Tristan hadn’t forgotten his own favourite thing about stripping: the sadistic joy of grinding and undulating on a man who had no choice but to sit still and take it.

Sit still and take it, which was exactly what
he
had to do this time. Oh.
Shit
.

Stay in control. Remember the goal tonight. Head in the game. Eye on the prize.

“All right.” Jared gestured at the couch cushion beside Rolex. “You can put the money there whenever you pony up another hundred.”

Rolex gulped. So did Tristan. Goddamn, but he liked this bold new side of Jared. Though he’d been a little shy and uncertain when he’d come to Market Garden, he must’ve been one hell of a confident dancer, and that must’ve been what’d caught Frank’s eye when he’d recruited him. Whatever the case, Tristan had only seen it for a few minutes, hadn’t even seen him dance yet, and he loved it already.

Obediently, Rolex put a hundred quid on the cushion beside him. “There. Ready when you are.”

“Good.” Jared clicked the remote and then set it aside. As the music started up—some typical upbeat dance song—Jared’s body started moving like it was hard-wired into the sound system. One step at a time, he strode towards Tristan, eyes locked on his, hands on his hips as they moved in perfect time with the music. He stopped just short of Tristan’s knee, their legs almost touching, but not.

Tristan’s eyes flicked past him, towards the other chair. Against his will, his mind showed him Jared’s slim, sexy body writhing on and bending over that chair. Oh fuck. He swallowed hard and looked up at Jared again.

Skip the second chair and dance on me. Please.

Jared grinned. Winked. He trailed a finger down the centre of his own chest, and Tristan couldn’t help watching it follow a straight path down the tight black T-shirt, across Jared’s abs, and to his belt buckle. There, it stopped, but Tristan’s eyes kept going. Right to the pronounced bulge beneath Jared’s trousers.

He looked up at Jared’s face again. Jared bit his lip, then grinned, just the way Tristan had often done to the men he’d teased to within an inch of their lives.

You’re going to kill me tonight. You know that, right?

As if reading Tristan’s mind, Jared licked his lips, winked again, and then turned around. One provocative, choreographed step at a time, equal parts stripper and classically trained dancer, Jared sauntered towards that other chair. The empty chair. The one Tristan wasn’t sitting in, fuck it.

Tristan curled his fingers around the edges of the seat on either side of him, no doubt turning his knuckles white. He inhaled deeply and watched, mesmerized, as Jared made a slow, slinking gesture of leaning over the other chair. He rested a hand on the back of it, then pulled one knee up onto the seat, and the way the leather stretched tight across his arse made Tristan’s breath catch. The little snap of his hips to one side, then the other, didn’t help at all.

Tristan made himself breathe slowly and deeply. Eye on the prize, indeed.

“Are you—” The john’s voice startled Tristan. He’d all but forgotten there was someone else in the room. “Are you going to dance over there? Or on him?”

Jared turned around, lowering himself onto the hard chair and straddling it. “You telling the dancer how to dance?”

Both Rolex and Tristan watched Jared slide a hand down his abs on onto the front of his trousers, and Tristan had no idea which of the two of them made that helpless “oh fuck” whimper as Jared squeezed his own erection through the leather.

“I want . . . I want to see you . . .” The john swore under his breath. “I want to see you on him.”

“Do you?” Jared slid his gaze towards Rolex. “Make me.”

Tristan didn’t know where this sassy side of Jared was coming from, but Jesus fuck, it was hot.

With shaking hands, Rolex freed a couple notes from his wallet and added it to the one already lying on the cushion. “There.” He nodded sharply towards Tristan. “On him. Now.”

Jared grinned. “I do love it when you ask nicely.” He took his sweet time rising from the chair, and was in absolutely no hurry to get to the other. When he made it to Tristan, he stood with both legs between Tristan’s knees and slid his hands over Tristan’s shoulders. He leaned down, and his breath was hot on Tristan’s neck as he whispered, “Enjoying this?”

“You’re a motherfucking tease,” Tristan said before he could stop himself.
I want you so bad.

“Of course I am.” Jared drew back. “Would you really want me any other way right now?”

Tristan’s mouth went dry. He couldn’t think anything except that this was likely payback for every time he’d fucked Jared and made him beg for it to score more money. Shit, it was nothing personal. But apologising for something that had put a lot of cash in their pockets and been tremendous fun would have been dishonest. He wasn’t sorry, and Jared had never protested.

Though, it dawned on him now, that didn’t mean Jared hadn’t been plotting revenge. Fuck.

A small flick from Jared’s finger changed the music, and now it was much slower, Kylie’s singing sensuous and breathy. Jared turned in front of Tristan, bent over a bit, curved his spine, nearly pushing his arse against Tristan’s chest. Before Tristan had managed to break the tension with so much as a breath, Jared brought his knees together and kept his hands on Tristan’s thighs as his hips swayed from side to side, long legs bending and straightening as the circles became wider, looser. All the moves of a female lap dancer, as far as Tristan was familiar with them, but Jared pulled them off in a way that was sexy and masculine and uniquely
him
.

Straightening, Jared turned around, the one-eighty executed with all the grace of a perfect pirouette. His hands slipped under his T-shirt, pushing it up to flash his toned abs, then slid again over his groin, left and right of his bulge, thumbs extended, framing his erection in a triangle, hip movements slow and thrusting as if fucking into and through his fingers.

“Take off the shirt,” the john said, and immediately put the cash down.

Jared didn’t hesitate, though he also didn’t rush. He condensed his rhythmic movements somehow, making them less overt, small and sensuous. His hands slid up under his shirt, rucking it up as if by accident, revealing his abs one muscle at a time, his flat belly button, the gentle curve of his pecs. Then in a single, smooth motion, he pulled off the T-shirt, his muscles sliding under his pale skin as he kept dancing. The T-shirt dropped to the floor between his feet. He turned around, folded his upper body down, legs straight and opened, arse pushed out as he retrieved his shirt. As he stood, he swept the shirt over his torso as if he were drenched in sweat. He wasn’t, though. He wasn’t even really worked up. Unlike Tristan, who already had perspiration cooling the back of his neck beneath the ends of his hair. From the corner of his eye, he saw Rolex wipe a hand across his brow.

Jared, still calm and cool, tossed the wadded up shirt in Rolex’s lap. Some guys would’ve picked it up and pressed it to their faces, breathing in deeply. Tristan had no idea if Rolex did that or not. His eyes were locked on Jared’s sinewy body, the way he moved, the way he touched his own torso, hips, legs. Every time Jared’s hand ran over his own erection, Tristan swore his got even harder. All the times he’d teased and fucked Jared before, he’d always been turned on as hell, but never like this. Never to the point he could barely think, and probably wouldn’t be able to string together a coherent sentence if someone asked him to.

“Get—” Rolex cleared his throat. “The boots. Take them off.”

“That’ll cost you.” Jared rose and leaned back against Tristan. His arse ground against Tristan’s hard cock, and his bare torso was hot through Tristan’s T-shirt. “A hundred per boot.”

At least one of them still had the presence of mind to keep after the money. Of course Jared did. This was business for him. All business. As it should have been, even if Tristan held out hope for more.

“Gonna go broke with you two.” Rolex pulled out another hundred, but he didn’t put it down yet. “
One
hundred for both boots.”

Tristan bit his lip, staring at Jared’s back and silently begging him to agree to it.

“Fine.” Jared writhed a little harder against Tristan. “Put it down, and the boots come off.”

Please put it down. Please put it down. Fuck, dude, seriously, put it the fuck—

Rolex put the money on the cushion.

Jared didn’t get up. Oh, no, that would’ve been entirely too easy. He leaned down, arse still pressed firmly against Tristan’s erection. Tristan’s mouth watered as he watched him, their bodies locked together in a crude pantomime of the times they’d been stripped down to nothing except a condom and Tristan had thrust into Jared while Jared made helpless noises and cursed and fell apart.

Except Tristan was still dressed. And there was no thrusting. Because he couldn’t move. At all.

As Jared unlaced his boots, the muscles in his back, arms, and shoulders moved subtly, and those hypnotic movements happened in time with the music. Everything the man did was in perfect time. Perfectly rhythmic. Perfectly calculated. And absolute torture.

Jared sat up again, reached back, and held onto Tristan’s hips as he pressed his back against Tristan’s chest. He lifted both feet up, the laces dangling from his boots, and toed them off. Then his socks. All the while pressing against, rubbing against,
grinding
against Tristan.

Hands still on Tristan’s thighs, Jared lifted himself up a little. Tristan relaxed somewhat, thinking he’d just been granted some breathing room, but Jared had other plans. Room to breathe? No. Room to
move
. Keeping his palms flat on Tristan’s legs, Jared continued to dance on him, kept lifting up, then leaning back, then lifting up again, sometimes touching and sometimes just making Tristan watch.

“More.” Rolex panted. “More. Take . . . take off the belt.”

“With pleasure.”

Oh shit. Jared didn’t even demand more money, and that grin in his voice said Tristan hadn’t even begun to know what “torture” really meant.

Jared got up and turned around. He put one leg over Tristan’s. Then the other. Straddling him. Tristan had the most tantalizing view of nearly everything Jared had to offer: that gorgeous chest, those amazing abs, not to mention that very pronounced erection all wrapped up in slick black leather.

Their eyes met. Jared’s were hot with lust, and there it was, that gleam of raw desire Tristan had seen the first time. Tristan’s heart skipped. He very nearly reached for Jared’s face to draw him into a kiss, but then Jared grinned and it was back to strictly business.

Jared leaned back. Way back. He must’ve had his ankles hooked around the legs of the chair. Something. Somehow, he balanced perfectly, his torso almost horizontal. His abs were taut with the exertion of holding himself like that, his legs pressing hard against Tristan’s lap, and Tristan couldn’t fucking breathe.

Rolex cleared his throat. “The belt. Take it off.”

“Don’t rush me.” Jared looked right at Tristan. “There’s a method to my madness.” His hands materialized on Tristan’s calves, and Tristan’s heart pounded as Jared ran them up. Down. Up again. In a smooth, fluid motion, they went from Tristan’s legs to his own hips, drawing a curving path over his cock—
yeah, Tristan, you see how hard I am
—before coming back up to his belt buckle. His abs were quivering now, his leg muscles rock hard over the tops of Tristan’s thighs, and the cords in his neck stood out slightly as he continued to hold himself in that perfectly balanced position.

He unbuckled his belt, then tugged it free, leather hissing over leather as it slid out of the loops. Without breaking eye contact with Tristan, he dropped his belt, and then pulled himself up using only his legs and his toned abs. He wrapped those legs around Tristan and the back of the chair, pressing their clothed cocks together, and then kissed Tristan hard.

“
I’m not usually a kisser,
” Tristan had said to Jared a while back. “
But the johns like it. A lot.
”