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Victor sighed and reached for Oliver’s hand, pulling it to his lips. When he pressed his lips to Oliver’s knuckles, Oliver’s breath lodged in his throat and made him feel like he was suffocating. No one had ever done that before.
Ever.
“I’m sorry you had to deal with that. I know this is an unorthodox situation, but I don’t want you to feel unsafe.”
“I don’t,” Oliver said and hated how much truth was in those two words. He had zero business feeling like this.
Luckily, the lights went back up, and the music got louder, and the announcements began. Oliver was able to sink into the excitement of the game, even as Victor kept hold of his hand. He would occasionally stroke a soft thumb over his palm, and it made Oliver want to be somewhere more private where Victor could touch him more places than just his fingers and wrist.
His imagination started to become a serious problem a few minutes before the first period was over, and Oliver jumped to his feet right before he popped a massive boner at the thought of what Victor’s very soft, very warm hands could be doing to him.
“Bathroom?” he asked when Victor shot him a startled look.
“Down the hall, three doors,” Gabriel chimed in. He appeared with two glasses of wine in his hands and handed one to Victor. “Mind if I steal your seat?”
Oliver waved him off so he didn’t start going full fanboy again and hurried out the door. The walk to the bathroom wasn’t far, and he let out a sigh of relief when he realized it was a fancy single-stall bathroom that allowed him to lock the door. He sagged against it, bowing his head and taking a breath before walking over to the toilet and relieving himself.
He stared at his dick, which was still half-hard, hanging over the edge of his blue lace panties, and he wondered what Victor might think of him in them. Would he like it? Would he get all shy and blushy before pinning Oliver to the wall and kissing him senseless?
Would he touch them?
His dick twitched.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” he warned. He knew it was futile. The moment he got home, he was going to stuff his ass with a dildo and rub one or two out with Victor’s name on his lips because he was almost never this turned on. And he couldn’t remember being this hot for a totally hypothetical situation and never for a client.
Tucking himself away, he glanced up at the mirror and narrowed his eyes. For the longest time, he’d seen nothing in his reflection besides stressed-out grad student and part-time hooker. He knew there was something else waiting to emerge, but while there was a light at the end of the tunnel, it was still so far off.
For a long while, he’d been panicking that he wouldn’t ever be able to escape this life. Even when he quit sex work, would he still feel like a paid escort every time he went on a date? Would he know how to behave on one—get to know someone without the goal being to get them horny and desperate?
He hadn’t had faith in himself until right this moment. Because even though the situation was fucked, Oliver was having the time of his life. More than once, he’d forgotten who he was and why he was there.
He’d forgotten Victor was some stranger who made a mistake about his identity. And that had to speak of hope for his future, didn’t it?
Shit, maybe hecoulddo this. He’d get through the date, make sure Victor had the best time, and part ways knowing he’d left something better than he found it. And Victor would never have to know who Oliver actually was.
Chapter6
Oliver knew instinctivelythat shit had hit the fan when he started toward the owner’s box and saw Victor standing outside in his dirty white shirt with his hockey jersey draped over his arm. His expression was unreadable, but he started forward the second Oliver was close.
“What is your name?”
“I…already introduced myself?” Oliver said, entirely confused.
“So it’s not Bryce?”
Oliver blinked. “Bryce?”
“Stop playing dumb,” Victor hissed. He reached into his pocket and brandished his phone, flashing the screen far too quickly for Oliver to see it, but he figured it had something to do with the company he’d hired to drive him around. “Who are you?”
He took a breath. “My name is Oliver Paxton.”
“And you’re not my driver,” Victor said.
Oliver wanted desperately to look away, but he also wanted to pull Victor close and hold him because the man was clearly upset—even if he had an amazing poker face. “No. I’m not your driver.”
“So, why?” Victor demanded. His voice cracked just slightly, and he cleared his throat, glancing away for a long second. “Why did all of this happen tonight?”
“Because you got into my car,” Oliver said. “And for a minute, I thought you were someone else.”
