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ChapterOne
Josh
God.I want.
I wanted to celebrate what my life could look like as soon as the paperwork was rubber stamped, and my son was back with me permanently.
I had the best lawyer, or at least the lawyer I could afford with my friend Connor’s discounted rate. I had evidence that suggested Ben shouldn’t be with my ex, and the judge was already sympathetic to my statement that my ex-wife’s partner was shady. Not that the judge had said that, but I saw him glance at me when my ex’s lawyer extolled the virtues of her fiancé, and we exchanged eye rolls. Well, I rolled my eyes, he stared at me.
I guess that isn’t what I should have done with a judge, but I was in the right, and the judge gave every indication he agreed—even my lawyer was positive, and Connor wasn’t the most optimistic of people.
Ben was coming home with me. To stay.
So, I celebrated, caught a recurring ad in my inbox that advertised a queer-friendly place, and now I was here, two beers down on an empty stomach having a quiet celebration at Remington’s Bar, which according to the ad wasthespot for a lonely man in the city to findcompany. Some switch had flicked inside me, a primal need had driven me from my blank-walled hotel room, an itch that twenty-four-hour porn had done nothing to scratch. I wanted… jeez… I didn’t know what I wanted… something… more. Another man holding me down. Skin stretched over hard muscles and being told to bend over, to take what I was given, to lose myself in the edge of brief pain and mind-blowing sex.
I’d been celibate for four years. I was done with that shit now. I would go home and find myself a man I could love, live my truth, but for now I wanted to get off.
Start my new life with a bang, because tomorrow, papers would be signed and I would have sole custody of my son.
I was on the wrong side of town, in a bar with shadowed corners and the smell of sex in the air—and I watched the hooker from the moment he stepped into the bar; saw him leaning back, veiled eyes scanning the heaving late night crowd. He wore sinfully tight leather pants and a T-shirt that rode up every time he moved, revealing a tantalizing inch of beautiful, golden-toned skin. He didn’t talk to anyone, inclined his head when people approached him, and I could imagine the whispers of money in exchange for sin that poured from people’s lips.
But the beautiful sexy hooker shook his head every time.
His hair was short and tousled in a just-out-of-bed look, and he ran a hand through it, pulling it off his forehead and letting it fall back in the same artful disarray. His eyes were smoky and dark, lined with black, the harsh lights of the dance floor casting shadows over high cheekbones. He was obviously there for trade, and men approached him, sometimes subtly, other times lurching drunk into his path.
I was so fucking hard, staring and imagining what he could do to me.
I want him.
The hooker teased anyone who got near. Leaned in close to them, offering them views of what they seemingly couldn’t have. A short guy in an ill-fitting suit was the latest, dollars held in a sweaty hand. He poked the notes into the top of the hustler’s too tight T-shirt, his body language needy.
How pathetic was that guy?
About as pathetic as me, probably.
The hooker retrieved the money and spoke briefly to the man, who stiffened and backed away, cursing loud enough for the bar to hear, then shaking his head and grabbing back the money he had offered.
What the fuck? Maybe Mr. Hot-as-fuck isn’t here for trade. Maybe he’s on a break? Or is it that no one is good enough for him? Is no one offering him enough money?
Maybe I should offer everything I had to this man at the bar.
Like my apartment.
Idiot. Where would you and Ben live then? Not to mention Ben’s cat, Oreo.
Maybe I’d offer my car then. Thing is he’d have to come back to my place to get it, but still, there were advantages in that. Although then he’d see my small home that I loved, but that was worn and tired. What would a hooker think of me then? A lost cause probably. Same as my wife who left me for a man with money, who then hurt my son, and …
Stop spiraling.
I focused back on the god, this sin personified, jutting his hip into the room, pants leaving nothing to the imagination, and I was harder than I remembered ever feeling. Lust and need boiled inside me, suppressing the exhaustion that had been my fight for my son. I’d be back in the suburbs tomorrow, with Ben, starting a new life where my son was part of everything, and where I was safe knowing no one could take him away from me. So, if I was going to do this, if I was going to give in to the lust, it needed to be now, and it needed to be withhim, the epitome of everything I wanted.
Everything Ineeded.
I saw another man make a move, but this time, some inexplicable force drove me—Josh Anderson, accountant extraordinaire—to stand and walk from the shadows.
My time. My turn.
With my Bud Light in one hand, I mentally calculated that I had about six hundred dollars I could get from the cash dispenser, and hoped it was enough to give any offer I made credibility. Then I climbed onto the stool next to the guy and leaned into him, causing the oh-so-fucking-beautiful hooker to glance left, lower lip caught between his teeth, eyes narrowed.
