CHAPTER ONE
Thornwell Shipton was not pleased. He’d worked his ass off all week, never getting more than a couple of hours of sleep, and one thing that had kept him going was knowing that on Friday night, he would take a few hours off while his favorite rent boy buried himself balls deep in Thorne’s ass. Now he had a message from the escort service telling him there was an issue with his appointment and he should contact them. He was in no mood to deal with more issues. Work had already thrown enough of those his way.
He double-checked that his office door was locked and then tapped his phone to return the call. As it rang, he stared out over the city hundreds of feet below. His office had a lovely view of Atlanta’s Olympic Park, but he rarely noticed it these days.
Sheila, the woman who ran the service, answered just when Thorne was sure her voicemail would pick up. “Hello, Mr. Shipton. I’m sorry we had to bother you.”
Sheila had a pleasant, soothing voice that probably worked wonders on many of their clients, but Thorne wasn’t in the mood to be soothed. “What’s the problem?”
“Marc isn’t going to be working for us anymore.”
“What? Why?” Thorne dropped his head against the window. No. No. No. He’d tried a number of escorts before finding Marc, none of whom satisfied Thorne’s needs for both dominance and submission, depending on his mood. Marc had been perfect. For the last several months, he’d made Friday night the highlight of Thorne’s week.
“He’s decided to pursue other interests.”
Thorne snorted. That could mean anything. “Fine. I suppose I’ll have to cancel the appointment.”
“Actually, I have someone else for you.”
“I don’t think—”
Thorne didn’t want to break in someone new. Not this week with him trying to wrap up a report for one of their biggest clients, a report he’d rewritten twice, while prepping to head out bright and early Monday morning to win his firm another multimillion-dollar contract. He’d made a killing as a high-end management consultant, but to keep the money flowing in, he had to be his best every day. There was always someone out there hoping to take his business away.
“Dash is well-suited to serve your needs, and he’s available at your usual appointment time.” Sheila had been the one to match him with Marc. Maybe… Why couldn’t anything go right this week? He really did need a good fuck.
“Fine. Send him then.” Thorne hoped he wouldn’t regret this.
“Excellent. Do let us know if he meets your expectations. If so, I can book him for your regular appointment.”
“I will. Thank you.”
“Have a lovely day, sir.”
“It’s been a shitty one so far.” Damn, he sounded bitter and put out.
“Tonight will be better.”
It damn well better be. He ended the call.
***
Thorne’s intercom buzzed. “A Mr. Dash is here to see you. He says he’s expected. Shall I send him up?”
“Yes, Je-Michaels, thank you.” Michaels had only been working as a doorman in Thorne’s building for a few weeks, yet Thorne had lost count of the number of times he’d almost called the man Jeeves. Michaels’ British accent and starched appearance simply begged for it. Years ago he’d loved to watch and re-watch the Masterpiece Theatre version of Wodehouse’s Jeeves and Wooster, with Clint, his—boyfriend was certainly not right, even lover didn’t fit—boss. His boss whom he’d occasionally fucked. Now, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d watched anything but videos of junior consultants’ meetings.
Two crisp knocks at the door signaled that Dash had made the long elevator ride to his penthouse apartment.
Thorne’s pulse sped up. He resented how very much he needed this respite from work, these moments where he actually let go of all his clients’ woes and indulged himself. Yet he kept paying for it, every week that he was in town. He imagined being fucked roughly, hands held down, as Dash whispered dirty words in his ear. By the time Thorne reached the door, he was already hard. Dash damn well better work out; but whether or not Thorne requested him to come back, he was going to get fucked tonight.
He checked the peephole out of habit, although Michaels and the other doormen were quite strict about checking credentials before allowing anyone in the building. The young man standing at Thorne’s door appeared to be in his early twenties, as were most of the service’s employees. He had dirty-blond hair that curled loosely and was longer than he could have worn it if he’d worked in Thorne’s office. His hazel eyes had a mischievous look to them that held promise. His smile, however, wasn’t at all what Thorne was expecting. It was fresh and sunny and it reached his eyes, a true smile, like he was meeting a friend, not conducting illicit business.
Quit trying to read so much into him. This isn’t a business meeting where you have to size up the clients. It’s a fucking hook-up that you paid for.
Thorne opened the door.
“Mr. Shipton?” the boy asked.
Thorne nodded and stepped back so Dash could enter.
“I’m Dash; Sheila told me you were a client of Marc’s.” Dash lifted the strap of the messenger bag he carried over his head and sat the bag against the wall in the entryway.
“That’s right,” Thorne answered. “He suited my needs perfectly.”
“And you think I won’t?”
Fuck. Was he that transparent or was this kid that good? “What I think is that the rapport I had with Marc was hard to find.”
“He’s a switch and a damn good one.” Dash’s look said he knew that from personal experience.
“Correct.”
“So am I.” Dash smiled, and Thorne reacted as if he’d wrapped his hand around Thorne’s dick.
Thorne’s gaze moved down Dash’s body. He was shorter than Marc, who’d matched Thorne’s six feet, maybe five feet nine or five feet ten. His body was lean but not without muscle. If Thorne had to guess, he’d say Dash was a runner. His tight black pants clung to his body, giving the impression he had a rather nice package.
“Shall I make you a drink while we discuss exactly what you’d like tonight?” Dash asked, wandering toward the kitchen.
It took a few seconds for the words to register in Thorne’s brain. Dash was…hot, fucking hot. But there was something else about him, something Thorne couldn’t define, that had Thorne salivating to get him naked and in bed. If Thorne believed in anything as hokey as “auras,” he would’ve said Dash had a powerful one. Thorne pushed the thought away, disgusted. Too much work and too little sex must have fried his brain. He’d been so busy that week he hadn’t even found time to jerk off.
“I don’t need a drink, and I don’t want to talk.”
Dash grinned and propped himself against the bar in the kitchen area, cocking his hip out. The pose was obviously calculated to make Thorne appreciate his slim waist. “That eager, huh?”
“I realize some people hire escorts for companionship. They want to know someone is listening to them. I’m sick of talking: to clients, to employees, to fucking airport desk agents. I don’t need you to pretend to be my friend. I need to be fucked.”
“Sure of that, are you?” Dash asked, walking around the bar and entering the kitchen.
“Yes.”
“In my professional opinion, a bit of relaxing on the couch, talking, easing our way toward fucking would do you some good.”
What the fuck? Maybe Dash wasn’t right for Thorne after all. Thorne gave the orders here, even if he was the one with a cock up his ass. It was looking less likely that he was going to be in that position. Marc had understood that he didn’t want chitchat; that Thorne liked to get down to business right away, blow off some tension and then get back to work.
Dash began to explore Thorne’s kitchen. Thorne would have stopped anyone else, should have stopped him. What the hell gave him the right to start messing around in Thorne’s apartment? And yet, Thorne simply watched the young man. Dash wasn’t like anyone Thorne regularly interacted with. He appeared friendly and easygoing, but he obviously didn’t take no for an answer. Maybe he really was a very good switch.
Dash opened Thorne’s basically empty fridge and then a door to a closet that was supposed to be a pantry. Thorne used it to store weights and other fitness equipment. He worked out religiously, but he did it at home rather than wasting the time to go to a gym.
“You don’t have any food, like none, not even coffee?” Dash looked truly horrified.
“There are some condiments and beer in the fridge.” Why did Thorne sound apologetic? He didn’t fucking apologize to anyone. No, you don’t talk to them long enough to need to.
“That’s not food.”
“I order out. I don’t have time for cooking.”
“I’d cook for you if you actually had anything here.”
He suddenly imagined Dash standing at the stove, wearing nothing but an apron. A nearly crippling shudder of lust shot through Thorne. Damn, he really was a mess.
“I told you I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to eat either. With what I’m paying you, I know you’re not starving, so there’s no need to go scouring my apartment for food.”
Dash looked hurt for a fraction of a second. Thorne hadn’t meant to belittle him. He had no problem with how Dash earned his money, and he hated it when men patronized prostitutes and then degraded them for providing the very service those men obviously needed.
Dash Studied him for several seconds. “So you truly want me to just fuck you and then leave.”
Did he? He always had with the men he’d hired in the past. “Yes.”
“Then your wish is my command.”