Riot (Bad Boy Escorts #1) Read online

  At least one of us is happy.

  Selfish, Pax. Not nice. You want Corey to be happy.

  I do. And I also want to see Riot. How can he be so busy? He’s not...

  Nah. I stop pacing, stand stock still. He’s not avoiding me.

  Why would he? I thought we had a good time, and—

  With sudden clarity I remember how cold he was when he arrived at my apartment. How distant. How he wanted it over with, until I told him my plans for the night.

  It can’t be...Can it? Crap, this will eat me alive, this awful doubt.

  I need to ask. Will they tell me?

  My heart is thumping in my throat as I grab my cell and dial the agency. The phone rings and rings, and then finally a male voice answers.

  Not the usual one, though. “Good evening. Bad Boy Escorts. How may I help you?”

  “Hi. Uh.” I cock my head to the side, rub the crease between my brows. “This is Paxtyn Page. Look, I called a few times, asking for an appointment with Riot. Riot Gallagher? I was told he doesn’t—”

  “Would you like an appointment tonight?”

  I open my mouth, close it. “Er, yes?”

  “He’s free after nine, if that suits you.”

  I pull my cell at arm’s length, gape at it, then put it back to my ear. “Are you sure? I was told two hours ago that Riot’s fully booked and—”

  “Maybe there was a cancellation,” the guy says smoothly. “It happens all the time.”

  Only not to me, not until today. I have been trying for days. “Okay then. Yeah, nine’s fine.”

  “Excellent. Which address? I have here a hotel and an apartment.”

  “The apartment, please.” I swallow. “Listen, are you sure he can—?”

  “I’ll let him know. He’ll be there. Have a wonderful evening, Ms. Page.”

  “And you,” I say automatically as the click of the disconnect sounds in my ear.

  Wow.

  I stand there for a few moments, trying to wrap my mind around this. I’m meeting Riot. Tonight.

  In fact, quite soon. It’s seven already. Have to tidy up and get ready. My heart’s beating so hard I’m afraid I might break a rib. All my doubts, all my fears take a backseat as I run to my closet and start throwing clothes out on my bed.

  A backseat to excitement and joy.

  ***

  The doorbell rings kind of late. It’s almost half past nine, and I was about to call the agency, make sure I didn’t misunderstand.

  Rushing to my room to check myself one last time in the mirror, I pat my loose curls and check that my eyeliner hasn’t run. All looks good—my blue dress, a narrow belt cinching my waist, my high-heeled pumps, the black choker around my neck.

  As ready as I’ll ever be.

  The doorbell rings again and I hurry to open before he walks away. Would he? Crap, that would be the last drop to a frustrating week.

  I unlatch the door, out of breath and half-scared it will be someone else—I don’t know, Corey, or a parcel delivery, or someone come to ask me if I know my Bible.

  Riot looks back at me, a faint smile forming on his lips. He looks tired. A little frazzled, his dark hair sticking up in all directions.

  Gorgeous.

  “Come in.” I throw the door wide open, grinning at him. “You’re late.”

  “Sorry. Got held up.” His mouth twists when he says that, and not like he’s about to laugh. Rather like he’s angry.

  “It’s okay.” I usher him inside, grab his arm and tug when he hesitates. “Are you okay?”

  “Sure.” His smile returns as I drag him to the sofa and push him down.

  “Would you like some wine?”

  He sighs. “Do you have something stronger?”

  “Whisky? Maybe.” I go to search the kitchen cupboards. “I’m pretty sure Corey brought a bottle once. Hey, I thought you don’t drink when on the clock.”

  He grunts. “I’m making an exception tonight.” A pause as I open another cupboard. “Corey?”

  “Best friend since school. Ah ha!” I pull out the bottle. “Here we go. On the rocks or straight?”

  “Straight. Please.” He’s sitting right where I left him when I return with the bottle and two glasses. He’s shed his jacket, and the flame tattoos on his arm seem to glow. “Best friend, huh?”

  “Yeah.” I take in the dark in his eyes and laugh. “You jealous?”

  “And if I am?”

  I don’t know what to say to that. Can’t decide why there’s heat spilling inside my chest. Why I’m so happy.

  I cover it up by pouring us both some whisky. Is there a protocol, or a specific quantity I should pour? Not having a clue, I just slosh inside about two fingers and pass a glass to him.

  He arches a dark brow and lifts his glass. “Cheers.”

  “To alcohol.” I lift mine, too.

  “To you,” he says and takes a big gulp.

  The heat seeps into my face. I take a small sip, choke on it and cough. “Sorry.”

  He cracks a smile. It’s small and tired. “You okay?”

  I nod.

  He knocks back the rest of the whisky.

  Like, whoa. “And what about you? Are you…?” I frown. He has welts on his wrists. Both of them. Deep, crimson wounds. “What happened?”

  He puts the glass down on the low table, carefully, his face blank. “Nothing.”

  “But your wrists—”

  “Come here.” He beckons and I scoot closer. His lashes flicker, his eyes a dark gray, as he takes my hand and lifts it to his lips. “You’re the highlight of my day. Hell, my week. I was hoping you’d ask for me but then realized you were probably busy studying or something.”

  What? “You were the one busy. So many appointments. I could never get one with you.”

  His brows draw together. Then his eyes widen. “That motherfucker.” He winces. “Apologies.”

  “Who?”

  Instead of a reply, he crushes his mouth to mine. The glass shakes in my hand, and he takes it, puts it away without breaking the kiss. God, his taste—like whisky and coffee and something dark and spicy, like pain and anger and sex.

  Who needs drinks when you can kiss Riot? He’s heady. Dizzying. He’s mine. I can’t share him. I can’t…

  He pushes me back against the plush cushions, pressing his body to mine. Bony hips, muscled thighs, and his hard-on digging into my leg. So easy to get lost in him, in his strength, his beauty, his need.

  And I want him. Now more than ever. Since he made love to me, I’ve been dying to feel more, have more. More of him.

  He’s like a drug, invading my senses. When I lie in bed at night, he fills my thoughts, and my fantasies. I dream of a man kissing me, and it’s him. I dream of tangled limbs, of a cock filling me up, and it’s him.

  Always him. If that isn’t worrying…

  He lifts a hand, brushes it over my cheek, strokes hair out of my eyes. “Okay?” he whispers. “This what you want tonight?”

  “Yes.” Somehow I wish he didn’t ask, that he’d know, that he can’t help himself and has to take me here and now.

  But he can’t. Agency rules, I guess. Having to ask every time. And it’s not as if our history so far suggests he should be anything but careful with me.

  I can change that. Show him I’m strong. That I’m a thousand times better than at the beginning. That I really want him, want him to stop holding back and unleash his desire on me.

  So I wind my hands in the back of his T-shirt and tug it up, to get it off him. Need to see him naked, feel his skin on mine, trace his ink with my hands and lips.

  Maybe this is who I was meant to be, how I’d have been like if that night at the bikers’ club hadn’t happened.

  He pulls back, lets me divest him of his T-shirt, and I take a moment to trail my fingertips over the impressive muscles of his chest and the flames burning over his heart, the small brown nubs of his nipples. His eyes close, lashes dipping, and he exhales, his chest falling, then rising
with the next breath.

  “Pax…”

  I smooth my hands down his ribs and then round to his back.

  He jerks and sits up, catching my wrists. “Pax, wait.”

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing, just…” He’s panting now, his eyes a bit wild. “Kiss me.”

  My body obeys him automatically. I want everything he offers. He winds my hands around his neck and I arch up to meet his lips with mine. His hard cock nudges between my legs, urgent, and I rock back into him, a hot desire flaring in my core.

  His hands are everywhere, lifting my dress, stroking my breasts, torturing my nipples until I think I’ll come just from that, while he kisses me deeply, his tongue twining with mine. I don’t know if I’m more lightheaded from lack of air or need.

  I pull back, struggling for breath, and he pushes my dress further up. Raising my arms, I let him take it off. It falls to the floor, and I’m left in my underwear, stretched out on the sofa, his long, hard body bent over me.

  “Fuck, you’re beautiful”, he mutters, one hand propped by my head, the other tracing a path down my arm. “Most beautiful girl ever. Can’t say it often enough.”

  So why does he sound sad? He’s acting weird again tonight, but different from the other time. Not distant, or cold. The opposite. Too hot, too jittery. On edge.

  And very aroused. His hard-on is an iron bar, heavy and thick, burning through his jeans, branding my thigh.

  “God, I want you, Pax.” He places hot kisses on my breasts, his hands cupping my ribcage, lifting me off the couch. “Can’t believe how fucking bad I want you.”

  “Then have me,” I breathe, my pussy wet and throbbing, clenching on nothing. I lick my lips and tell him what he always tells me. “Do what you want with me.”

  He groans, his face twisting as if in pain. “Don’t say such things, Pax.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I just might.” He reaches down between us, tugs down my panties, rubs his fingers over my seam. “Take you as I want. Think I’m allowed to do whatever I desire.”

  “You are.” I gulp as he parts my folds, presses a fingertip into me. “You should.”

  “You call the shots, Pax. You pay.”

  “I don’t want to think about that. I don’t want…” I clamp my mouth shut before I say more. Crap.

  Don’t want him to do this because it’s his job. Want him to do it because he really wants me. And how screwed up is that? It is his job. How can he be anything else but an escort I am paying for sex?

  He stills, his gaze searching. Whatever it is he sees on my face, it sends shadows flitting through his eyes. “Okay.”

  That’s all.

  But his finger breaches me, presses into me deeper, and I moan, pleasure zapping across my nerve endings. I clutch at his arms, his shoulders, my fingers digging into his solid muscles. He strokes me, in and out, in and out, until I can’t do anything but writhe, clenching around his finger, coming in great shudders that rock me to my soul.

  God. Oh shit. I hiss out his name as I ride the aftershocks, and he’s still stroking, still fucking me with his finger.

  His eyes look almost black in the half-light when he finally pulls it out of me, and his expression is so intense, it might have scared me if I wasn’t a boneless pool of satisfaction on the sofa.

  “Riot.” Have to stop and draw more air to speak, my heart racing. “You.”

  His lips quirk, and some of the previous intensity fades from his gaze. “Me what?”

  “I want you.”

  He smiles, dips his head, dark hair falling in his eyes. Says nothing.

  I sit up slowly. My panties are still on, as is my bra. I tug down the straps and reach behind me to unclasp it. One final pull and it’s off, letting my breasts bare.

  “Hot damn, Pax…” He’s staring at my breasts like he can’t get enough. His hands cover them, toying with my nipples, and how can I want more when I’m still feeling the orgasm he just gave me? “Take off your pretty panties.”

  I freeze for a second. He’s still holding my breasts, teasing them, building my arousal. He lowers his face to them, licks and suckles, and the pressure rises between my legs.

  Can’t believe how I need to feel him inside of me. I push down my panties, wiggling out of them, and I’m naked, while he’s still in his pants and biker boots.

  He likes that fact, apparently, as he draws back, his hands still kneading my breasts, his hot gaze raking over me.

  “Goddamn pretty,” he whispers. “Can’t believe you’re here. I missed touching you. Holding you. I just can’t…”

  His face twists again, and this time he looks away and rocks back on his heels.

  Hiding from me.

  What’s going on? The unease from earlier on returns full-force.

  “Riot. What happened? Please tell me.”

  “I told you, nothing happened.”

  “You’re lying.”

  The accusation hangs between us like a storm cloud, dark and heavy.

  He makes a small noise in the back of his throat and turns to sit on the sofa, swinging his legs off. He props his elbows on his knees and buries his hands in his hair.

  He looks...lost. Battered. Exhausted. Worry tightens my chest.

  “Hey.” I sit beside him, put my hand on his cheek. “I’m here. Please tell me how to help you.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Riot

  Her hand on my face startles me and I flinch away before I can stop myself.

  “Pax.” My heart is racing, my hard-on flagging. Great. “Gimme a minute.”

  I get up, pace a little, fight to calm down my ragged breathing.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Sure.” I try for a smile, but it feels like a grimace, so I stop and clasp my hands behind my head. “Fuck.”

  Should be okay. Not the first time something like this happens, and I’ve always managed to put it behind me the same night.

  Except for the dreams. Yeah, the dreams are sneaky motherfuckers, bringing everything I try to forget back to the surface, and today...Today was spectacularly bad. I don’t wanna sleep tonight, in case the dreams come.

  She gets up, comes to me. Naked. Beautiful. She puts her arms around me, rising on tiptoe to kiss me, and I tell myself not to move, not to let anything show.

  But when her hands press into the small of my back, sending a flare of pain down my spine, I flinch again, despite my efforts.

  Fucking hell.

  “I’m okay,” I say hastily when she starts moving around me to see. “I’m fine. Please, Pax, don’t—”

  “You’re hurt.”

  There’s fire in her voice. She’s upset. “Not really. Just a fucking scratch, that’s all. Pax, leave it be.”

  But she won’t be dissuaded, and she ducks under my arm and stands behind me, her hands on my hips.

  A horrified little gasp escapes her. “God, Riot.”

  Goddammit. I haven’t even had time to see what it looks like, and now she’s seeing it. I’m supposed to be pleasuring her. Holding her. Not having a small freak out and have her stare at the damage.

  “You have welts. Frigging bloody welts, Riot. What did they do to you?”

  Moot question. She can see exactly what they did.

  “How?”

  “With a belt.” The buckle, fuck, that hurt.

  “And your wrists.”

  Hell, forgot that. “They bound me.”

  “Too tight.”

  I shrug.

  “How? Why did you let her do this to you?”

  “Because the agency told me it was this or lose my fucking job.” I wince when she traces one of the welts. “Can’t afford it.”

  “Why?”

  I shake my head. Can’t tell her without spilling everything about my past, and if she freaks out and the agency finds out...That’s it.

  Like I said: can’t afford it.

  “Clients aren’t allowed to hurt you.” She breathes out. �
��Are they? I mean, I know you said some bondage is okay, but this…”

  It’s not. It’s against the regulations, but fucking Johnson is all too happy to see me punished for my “insolence” while telling the boss I’m being picky and difficult.

  “She had a man with her,” I mutter, not even sure why I’m telling her. Didn’t I decide this isn’t something she should know about? “Like the other times. He ties me up, beats me up and she gets herself off.” I shiver. “Watching me.”

  “Jesus.” She presses her lips to my spine, and a pleasurable shiver travels down my back, to my balls and to my half-hard dick. “This is awful. There has to be a way to get it to stop.”

  “Can’t think of one.”

  “Leave the agency.” Her mouth moves a little, leaves another hot kiss, and fuck, my dick is rising like a flagpole. “There have to be more jobs out there.”

  “Not any that pay so well.” Except illegal fighting. But I promised myself I wasn’t going back, and besides, my club kicked me out. “I didn’t even finish school. What kind of job could I find?”

  “Wait a minute…” She moves away, and I turn to face her. “Did you say there were other times like this?”

  Oh shit. Me and my big mouth.

  “This happened before?” she demands.

  “Not like this.” I frown. They never left marks before. It’s as if they realized nothing would happen. No repercussions. Not as long as I’m tied to the agency.

  “What happened the other times?”

  I study the determined expression on her pretty face. She’s angry on my behalf and it makes me smile a little. What happened to the confused, frightened girl I met only a few weeks ago?

  “It’s okay, Pax. Let it go.”

  “I want to know.” She comes forward, puts her warm hands on my chest, and it would be so easy to grab her in my arms, bury my face in her fresh-smelling hair and confess it all. Tell her everything: about the club, about the night that changed my life.

  But she’s still worrying at it. “It has to be illegal. Nobody should suffer like this. How could the agency allow it?”

  “The agency doesn’t care, Pax. It’s a business. Kind of a shady business, in fact, and this client pays good money. So the boss lets Johnson do whatever he likes as long as the money flows in. Besides.” I sigh, exhausted. “They were careful, these two. Walked right on the edge between what is allowed and what isn’t. And they are the boss’s friends.”