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“How much?” I stared at six-foot-plus of seduction, finally resting back on the kohl-lined hazel eyes and at the heat and smoke I saw there.
“You’ve been watching me,” he answered, just as softly, turning to lean against the bar. His arm brushed mine, and a frisson of heat sparked at the casual promise in the touch.
“Me and everyone else,” I pointed out, raising an eyebrow. “How much,” I repeated, “… for the whole night?”
“You couldn’t afford me,” the hooker answered, looking me up and down then smirking.
“Try me.” I said as confidently as I could.
Please try me.
“I’d want at least two,” he said, brooking no discussion, lifting a beer to his lips, running his tongue over those same gorgeous lips to catch stray drops of the cold drink. I stared, fascinated, as his Adam’s apple bobbed, watched the hands, and the bottle, my cock threatening to break through my jeans.
“Two hundred?” I could do that. Easy. I could even get twice tonight, and my chest tightened at the thought.
“Two thousand, all night,” Hooker said, amused.
Shit. Fuck.
“I don’t have two thousand on me,” I admitted with disappointment.
The hooker leaned into me, his warm breath on my face as he spoke, beer and whiskey, the scent of cologne, the tang of sweat from his sheened skin, the sum of it all intoxicating.
“You have very pretty eyes,” he said, a thoughtful look passing over his face.
I had pretty eyes? Jeez, had this guy checked in a mirror recently?
“Josh,” I blurted, blushing, and squirming on the stool, waiting for some comment, some comeback. Like, what the fuck do I need to know your name for, you waste of space, useless, fucking useless.
But he said nothing.
“What do you want, Josh?” he asked me. The words were so low that I had to lean into him. The guy’s body radiated heat.
What do I want?
My lips on yours.
Your hand wrapped around me, at this bar, in front of everyone. Now.
“Want?” I finally asked, confused. I wanted S-E-X and surely, I was being obvious about this? I’d never done this before, but surely… surely the professional knew?
Fuck. What if he wasn’t a hooker? What if he was playing with me? I watched him run his tongue over his lower lip and had to hold back a whine.
“Who do you want me to be for you?” Hooker asked.
“Forme?” I thought about what I was being asked. I wanted to get off, I wanted to do thata lot. I wanted to lose boring-Josh, and fuck with that heavenly body, and for one night I wanted everything I was, everything I’d hidden, to feel real.
“Who do you want me to be?” The hooker continued with this strange line of questioning in his growly, sexy voice. “Dom? Sub? Lover? Whore?” Jeez, this guy was insistent, his lips mere inches from mine.
“I need… to… ” Jeez, shit, what answer was I searching for?
“See if you are gay? Cheat on the wife? Scratch the itch? Whatever. Look me in the eyes… ” He paused as I did that, seeing flecks of amber in the green. “Who do you want me to be for you?” he repeated, no hesitation in his voice.
I wanted the guy to fuck me, hold me down and help me lose six years of tension that had built inside me. “I want you to fuck me,” I said, pulling back, feeling I’d blown this. Was this guy a hooker who topped? Did hookers top? I thought I’d answered incorrectly when a thoughtful expression crossed his face.
The hooker waited, watched, and then he stood, uncurling his frame from the bar, and standing tall—shit—so tall. He took my hand in a firm grip, tugged me away from the bar and I followed, aware that people were staring, and imagined they were wondering why he’d chosen me.
Why am I different?
