This was no different to any other blowjob he’d sought when he’d gone after a guy he’d liked the look of. So why was something in his head yelling that it was different? Zain tugged at Roman’s trousers and eased them down his thighs. The light touch of Zain’s fingers on his skin sent tremors trickling down his spine.
Roman couldn’t stop looking at him. He stared at Zain’s face, that pale olive complexion, how his hair flopped over his eyes, the way he pushed it back, those long dark eyelashes that were almost feminine, mysterious eyes, sharp cheekbones… He was thin. Maybe too thin. And young. God. How many times had Roman even wanted to look at a guy when he was in this position? All he’d been interested in was a willing mouth, what it could do, how quickly he could lose himself in sensation, and how fast he could leave. But he still stared straight at Zain.
Then Zain dropped his gaze and his lips settled on the place where Roman’s cockhead pushed at his black cotton boxers, the spot dampened by precome. The breath caught in his throat. Just a blowjob. Right?
Right.
The sensation of Zain’s warm, shaky exhalations, the gentle but tentative massage with his mouth, the firm grip on Roman’s thighs—watching what Zain was doing, feeling it, hearing him breathing—everything worked to draw more from his slit. He’d almost expected Zain to rush this but instead he started to caress Roman’s legs from the knees up, exploring his thighs with his fingertips, his breathing growing more and more ragged before he tucked his fingers into the top of Roman’s boxers, rubbing above the waistband with his thumbs, caressing the bony ridges of his hips and all the time, Zain’s hot, tentative mouth worked him through the barrier of the material.
He has done this before? Roman dismissed the thought. Of course he had. Although…
This was taking too long.
It wasn’t taking nearly long enough.
In the end, it was Roman who shoved his boxers down to join his trousers at his ankles. His cock sprang free as if it had been gasping for air—fuck, I’m so hard—straining to reach Zain’s mouth. But Zain still held Roman’s hips, keeping him in place, maybe keeping himself in place, still rubbing his thumbs on the angular bones of his hips. Driving me crazy.
Roman wanted him to do more yet he wanted him to keep doing this. He reached down to his cock, and as he dragged his foreskin back over the head, liquid caught on his hand. He held it to Zain’s mouth and after a moment’s hesitation, Zain licked it off, quick as a lizard. Roman only just held back his moan.
He wished Zain would look up at him, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell him, even ask him. He wouldn’t let himself look needy. He—who was normally full of instructions, directions, demands—all of which were usually met, stayed silent as if one word would break whatever the fuck this was between them.
You know what it is. He was going to pay him fifty quid for this blowjob. It was a transaction, simple as that.
Orgasm coiled in his gut, winding tighter and tighter. He needed more. And he needed it now.
“Suck me.” The words came out harsher than he’d intended but he was letting himself get carried away. He was paying for this. He had the right to demand what he wanted.
Zain wrapped his fingers around the base of Roman’s cock, gripping tight and pushing down, the pressure perfect before he dragged his hand up. Then Zain opened his mouth, sucked in a breath and engulfed him, almost all of him, down to his fingers before he gagged.
“Christ.” The word slipped from Roman’s lips.
Zain jerked back with a gasp, glancing up at him, the expression on his face as if he thought he’d done something wrong. He knew what he was doing, right? Another moment of doubt evaporated as Zain swallowed him down again and again, and each time he pulled back with only his lips wrapped around the tip, Roman’s hips shifted and bucked to return his cock to that sweet, wet, tight heat. His knees were shaking. God, God, God.
He threaded his fingers in Zain’s silky black hair, holding him in place as Zain sucked him off. Without the door at his back, Roman might have had trouble standing firm. Not good. He took back control, what he always did, and something strengthened in his core. He held tighter, pushed harder, dragged his cock back, drove it forward, fucked Zain’s mouth. His dick was slick with precome and saliva, fluid sliding down his length.
Look at me! Almost as if Roman had actually uttered the words, Zain finally lifted his head and stared straight at him. Oh God, your eyes. Huge pupils, dark irises the colour of chocolate with a hint of gold. That had to be the light making them shine like that. Roman’s heart stuttered, the need to come swirling in his head, careering faster and faster in the direction of his balls. He fought a battle with orgasm, wanting to hang on a little longer, stretch out the pleasure so the snap of release would be greater.
“Fu…ck.” Roman groaned at the pressure of Zain’s mouth. With his hands wrapped around Zain’s head, Roman pumped his hips to drive his cock forward, full on face-fucking him, his balls slapping Zain’s lightly stubbled chin, his cock disappearing time after time, hitting the muscles at the back of Zain’s throat.
Let him breathe. Except desperation had taken over. All he could do was ride the wave. When he exploded into Zain’s mouth, he felt like he wasn’t going to stop coming. The pleasure was so intense, his eyes closed and he shuddered. He pulled out when Zain finally gagged.
A moment later, Roman had wiped himself off, tucked his cock away and zipped up. Zain was still on his knees, his breathing shaky. That was good. Roman was back in charge. He took his wallet from his pocket and removed—not fifty but two hundred pounds. Now he felt better. Now he was back in control. Except Zain didn’t take the money. He looked at it as if it were a snake readying to bite him. Roman opened his fingers and the notes fluttered to the floor.
“Pick up your money while you’re down there.” Roman walked out still fastening his trousers.
He was in such a hurry to leave, so desperate not to hear Zain call him a prick, a cunt, a bastard that he almost collided with a big-bellied guy in his fifties coming up the stairs. As he reached the first landing, Roman looked back and saw the guy staring down at him before he turned to Zain’s part-open door and banged on it hard, pushing it fully open. Roman’s fury emerged like a lightning bolt. Was Zain’s mouth soon going to be around this guy’s dick?
What did it matter? Fuck. He’d reached the ground floor before he accepted it did matter and strode back up the stairs two at a time. Zain’s door was still ajar and Roman hesitated.
“You filthy little whore,” the older guy snapped.
Roman moved so he could see inside the room. Zain’s eyes were wide with shock.
“I’ll be back Sunday morning,” the guy barked and walked out.
Zain slammed the door in Roman’s face. Roman gave a huff of disbelief and followed the guy to the next floor.
“What’s your problem?” The man spun around and eyed Roman warily. “Do I need to call the police?” He knocked on the door of the flat, then took out his phone, held his finger ready and glared.
The door opened and a young woman held out an envelope. “It’s all there,” she muttered as the man continued to glare at him.
Fuck it. Rent. Roman turned and went back down the stairs. He hesitated by Zain’s door but continued past and went out to his car.
He drove in a daze. Today had not turned out as he’d expected in so many ways. Last night, he’d reluctantly lent his car to Dima, because saying no to Arkady wasn’t an option. Dima had known Roman was pissed off about the car and had emptied a waste bin from a fast-food outlet into the vehicle to make a point. Except for that wallet and the blood-stained T-shirt. Roman wished they’d come from the same bin, but it was unlikely. Though had they been left deliberately or by accident?
Thinking about the wallet and T-shirt stopped him thinking about Zain. Roman wanted neither item in his car but he wasn’t sure what to do with them. He could get rid of the T-shirt but it might be useful as evidence or a bargaining chip. Th
e name of the owner of the wallet, Artur Sheripov, didn’t ring a bell. Nor did his face. The Russian driver’s licence gave an address in St Petersburg and Roman had taken a photo of it, but there was nothing in the wallet to say why the guy was in the UK. No business card. No phone number. Googling told him Sheripov was a Chechen businessman now living in St Petersburg, dealing in oriental carpets.
Was Sheripov wondering where he’d lost his wallet or was he lying somewhere no longer in need of a wallet? If the wallet and T-shirt had been left there deliberately, was Dima or maybe Arkady trying to test him or frame him? Fuck.
Then his mind returned to Zain in whom he was far too interested. Zain, whose beautiful mouth had intrigued him and spectacularly blown him. Except… There was a niggling doubt about the whole encounter that Roman couldn’t quite identify. He’d assumed that even if Zain didn’t usually sell himself for sex, he’d make an exception if the money was right. And he had. But… Roman hadn’t mentioned money, not beyond money for the party. All he’d done was think about paying him. Was that why Zain hadn’t picked it up?
Oh fuck. The guy didn’t just look innocent, he was innocent.
Roman almost regretted inviting him tomorrow night but he had a job to do and couldn’t let anything stand in his way, especially an odd, unidentifiable sensation in his gut. He’d just left it too long since he’d been blown. Zain might not have let Roman hand him the two hundred pounds, but he’d not shouted at him to take it back. He’d be at the party tomorrow. He needed the cash. He lived in a dump, worked in a car wash, had given a stranger a blowjob. Five hundred pounds was a lot. Now Roman had given him two hundred, Zain would want more. It was human nature, something Roman understood.
He called Arkady and once he’d confirmed he was at home, Roman detoured via Holland Park. The traffic was terrible and as usual there was nowhere to fucking leave his car. After driving in circles for ten minutes, growing more and more bad-tempered, he squeezed into a spot and walked back to the house.
Natalya opened the door. Arkady’s latest mistress. The third in as many years. Russian, tall, blonde, beautiful and, he suspected, in her teens. Arkady was consistent with his lovers at least. She’d flung open the door holding her handbag-sized, weird-looking, half-bald dog called Gucci under her arm and gestured Roman inside without saying a word. The dog growled. It, at least, had some sense. Roman wondered how long it would take before the lifestyle and money were not enough to keep the girl happy to suck Arkady’s dick.
“He in kitchen,” Natalya said, always keen to speak English but she never got it quite right.
Roman walked through to the living area at the rear of the property, a sleek, modern, glass-walled extension facing a small walled garden dominated by a hot tub. Not a thing was out of place. Bare, gleaming work surfaces, spotless floor, even the cushions on the couches were perfectly plumped daily by a cleaner.
He thought of Zain’s room and frowned. The guy had so little. Not even a chair or wardrobe. Nor a proper bed. That inflatable mattress… It wasn’t something he’d bring guys back to have sex on. He wasn’t selling sex so why had he said yes? Not that he’d said yes, but he’d definitely not said no. Roman coerced and persuaded but he never forced. But he’d pushed. Still, Zain puzzled him and he didn’t like to be puzzled. He was annoyed at himself for still thinking about the guy.
“Roman.” Arkady sat at the kitchen counter with a glass of tea, a saucer of sugar lumps and his laptop. The well-dressed sixty-year-old was a little overweight but still strong, sharp and deadly. He stood and hugged Roman, patting his back. “Not out with Helen tonight?” he asked in Russian.
“Not tonight. I wore her out last night.”
Arkady laughed. “I like her. We should arrange another meal.”
“That would be good.” Not. Though Helen would be happy.
“You like my new painting?”
Arkady gestured to a large canvas on the wall behind the couch. Smears of orange on a white background.
“No,” Roman said. “A monkey could have done it.”
Arkady chuckled. “A hippo did it. Five hundred pounds.”
Roman sighed. “Did it speak to you?”
He and Arkady disagreed about art. Arkady saw paintings as possessions, investments—just in case. Roman thought they were things you only bought out of love, then you looked after them but never really owned them.
Arkady shrugged. “I didn’t see it until it arrived.”
“Well, at least it’s a talking point. You should pretend it’s by some famous artist and listen to what people say.”
“Natalya likes it.”
“Give it to her when she leaves. Don’t give it to me for fuck’s sake. It won’t go with my décor.”
Arkady rolled his eyes. “What can I do for you?”
“Nothing for us to smile about.” Roman put the T-shirt and the wallet on the polished granite. “I don’t know what Dima did with my car last night, but I had to have it valeted today because it was full of crap from a fast-food chain, plus these two items. There’s blood all over the T-shirt.”
Arkady flipped the wallet open. The driver’s licence was behind a piece of plastic. There was the slightest twitch in Arkady’s cheek but Roman caught it. He’d learned to be alert for everything. Arkady knew Sheripov or knew of him.
“Forget you saw this.”
Roman clenched his teeth. “You don’t trust me enough to tell me the truth?”
“It’s for your own benefit. Take the cash.”
“No and I don’t want Dima using my car again.” Especially if he was with his psycho friend.
“Understood. If his hadn’t been in for repair…” Arkady shrugged.
You could have fucking lent him your car. So why didn’t you? If Dima hadn’t been driving under the influence five days ago, then he wouldn’t have crashed and wrecked his car. An incident Roman had not found easy to put right. He’d arranged for the theft of Dima’s car to be reported to the police while Dima was in a public place, miles away from the vehicle. It sounded a good alibi but required hacking into a couple of sites to change the time on a report and fixing a camera. The incident could still come back to bite him, not Dima.
“Has anyone else seen this?” Arkady held up the wallet.
“Guy at the car wash.” Roman was careful with his lies, especially when he could be caught out.
“You took it to Musa’s?”
“Yes.”
“No problem then. Money solves everything with that guy. With all guys.”
Roman gave a short laugh. Money had just caused a problem with one.
Arkady popped a sugar cube in his mouth and sucked his tea through it. Roman’s father had done the same. “Would you like tea?”
“No thanks.”
“Is everything in place for tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
The change of direction wasn’t unusual. Arkady was still sharp as a dagger and just as lethal.
“You have enough people going that Foley won’t think he’s being targeted?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a great asset to me.”
Roman mustered a smile but not for the reason Arkady would think. “Is it time to adjust my salary?
Arkady smiled. “Perhaps. I do appreciate you getting involved with a scene you must find repulsive.”
The man’s hypocrisy was staggering. Unless even that comment was a test. Fuck it. Roman’s anxiety surged.
“You’re right.” Roman made it seem as if he was trying to hide his smile. “Money laundering is reprehensible.”
Arkady guffawed. “I wonder if there is anything you can’t fix?”
“Let’s hope we never find out.”
Roman drove straight back to his flat in Wapping. Once inside, he did his usual checks for cameras and recording devices, then called Helen as he changed into his running gear. He gave her the code—Dragon—so she knew he was secure, and told her about Sheripov, emailing the photo he’d taken of the lice
nce.
“You think the guy is dead?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“That Dima or Cash killed him?”
“Probably not Dima. He lets others do his dirty work.”
“I’ll do some checking.”
She cut off the call and Roman sighed. The tightrope on which he walked shook more and more every day.
He did some stretches before he headed out. His head felt tight with the beginnings of a headache and he hoped running would ease his stress. He turned right out of his building and set off along the high street in the direction of Tower Bridge.
Roman ran when he could, morning or night, whatever the weather. He ran when he didn’t feel like it, ran when he was angry, ran when he was frustrated. He generally felt better when he got back, even if, with two bosses to juggle, the satisfaction was likely to be temporary. Roman continually moved from one difficult situation to another.
He didn’t always take the same route but this one was good at night, a circular five-mile run with a couple of loops. It was safer to stick to a well-lit path he was one hundred percent familiar with and he always wore reflective gear. He was in a dangerous enough profession without getting hurt by accident.
The first mile was the toughest. It took a while for his muscles to lose their stiffness and for his mind to stop churning. Does it ever really stop? He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep doing this. Not the running, he had the feeling he’d never want to stop doing that, but the rest of it. Most of it anyway.
Not all of Arkady’s business was illegal. When Roman had started on this path, he’d had a goal, seen an end date, but the finish line was pulling away from him—was being pulled away from him. He was a small shark in a sea of bigger ones and if he stopped swimming, he was dead.
Going over Tower Bridge wasn’t part of the route but he decided to cross the river that night. It temporarily put him on the same side of the city as Zain. The thought made him smile. Then he thought about the following night and stopped smiling. Time to remind himself of what this was all about. It wasn’t as if Zain was going to get hurt. The guy knew five hundred pounds was buying more than attendance at a party. Roman smacked down the niggles of concern that kept asking him questions.
Whatever It Takes Page 7
