Riot (Bad Boy Escorts #1)

by Jo Raven

  “Don’t stay too late!” Lisa, a nice redhead from my Statistics class calls out.

  Statistics. I’m telling you, psychology is like a hybrid between humanities and sciences, half philosophy and half neuroscience. Not at all how I imagined it to be.

  And crap, it’s late…again. Since my last disastrous meeting with Riot, I’ve thrown myself into my studies like a madwoman—a good thing, all things considered, as I’ve neglected my classes and reading for months. I have essays to turn in and projects to work on.

  Except my mind is not on my studies. No, it’s stuck on a certain gray-eyed escort with an easy smile and a smoking hot body.

  Shit.

  Gathering up my books and my laptop, I stuff everything in my bag and head out of the library. I need to get my act together. Can’t let what happened with him rattle me, even as the memory of his body under my fingertips makes my blood run hotter in my veins.

  Because we all know what comes after that if I meet him again, if I try to go further: panic, tears, a backslide into the past.

  No, better stop thinking about him. Somehow. Study harder. Maybe I should get a pet. A furball to cuddle with at night.

  And of course that makes me think of Riot’s pets—Dexter, and what was the other one? Batman? Strays he picked up from the street. He said I was like the kitten he rescued. That I needed to learn how not to be afraid.

  Said he could help me, but he was wrong. He can’t. I can’t be helped. The past is too strong. Wraps around me like a rope, a leash, a noose.

  I can’t win. And he can’t save me.

  My car engine takes a moment to warm up, and I rub my hands together waiting for the heater to kick in. It’s a cold, cold night. There’s a scent of snow on the air.

  The cold in my bones can’t be chased away, no matter how wrapped up I am in my coat and scarf. In fact, in these past two years, the only time I felt warm…

  The times he held my hand. It was as if heat spilled from his fingers into mine.

  And this isn’t helping. Nothing’s helping. I already decided I can’t see Riot again. If only my heart felt less heavy, my thoughts lighter.

  If only I didn’t want to see him again so much. Even if it won’t help. Even if it’s to feel his warmth, his fingers around mine for a moment.

  What is this weird need? The need that has me pulling out my cell from my purse and dialing the agency before I realize what I’m doing.

  “Bad Boy Escorts,” the receptionist’s by now familiar, smooth baritone greets me. “How may I help you?”

  I clutch the phone to my ear and suck in air. “Hi. This is Paxtyn. Paxtyn Page. I’m—”

  “Ms. Page. What a pleasure to hear from you again. You wish for Riot or another of our boys?”

  Crap. “Um. Riot, but I—”

  “Excellent. Tonight? He’s free.”

  I swallow hard. “He is?”

  “The usual time? Eight?”

  Wait, I have a usual time after three meetings? “I was calling to ask—”

  “Eight o’clock it is then. The usual place?” The receptionist sounds pleased. Of course he does. That’s money for the agency, and himself. “All set. I’ll let him know.”

  “Wait! That’s not what I called to say. I just…”

  But he’s hung up already. I mean, I called the escort agency. What else would he think I wanted?

  What am I doing?

  What have I done?

  I could redial. Tell the guy to cancel the appointment. I haven’t signed anything. Nobody can make me go to the meeting against my will.

  Of course not. I called because I want this. Even if it doesn’t fix me. Even if it’s just a moment’s fix, a need for something elusive and hard to define.

  Warmth. Quiet. A flash of desire. A strong hand gripping mine. A sexy grin. God, I can’t wait to see him again.

  And this is bad. Really bad. Like, if Corey knew, he’d have a fit. He’d have absolutely no problem telling me I’ve lost it and what a stupid idea it is to ever meet Riot again.

  ***

  My palms are sweaty, my mouth is dry and my knees shake. You’d think I’m a schoolgirl going on her first date.

  I hardly remember, although I know I was that, once, and I went on a first date, and a second, and many more. But it’s as if that terrifying night erased everything that came before it—my adolescence, my childhood.

  But it hasn’t. It only obscured them, darkened my memories. It hasn’t killed them.

  Somehow, the thought of seeing him again gives me hope I will find the person I used to be under the layers of fear. No clue how he can do that when I hardly know him—when every time I’m determined not to return and yet here I am.

  The doors of the hotel slide open and I step inside.

  A familiar setting. The potted plants beside the dark reception desk, the round hanging lamps over the plush armchairs.

  The tall, muscular man lounging by the desk, arms in his pockets, one biker boot propped against the wall.

  He’s not looking my way, a distant look on his face, and I take a moment to study him—his long legs, his wide shoulders straining against his leather jacket, the strong line of his jaw, those soft lips. That tousled dark hair.

  It’s as if he’s fresh air and I can breathe again.

  Jeez, Pax. Just move already. Talk to him.

  Ugh.

  Before I take one step, though, he turns, his gaze finding me unerringly. I don’t know what I expected him to do—scowl, or paste on a fake smile as he’d do for any client.

  I don’t expect that bright smile that lights up the grays in his eyes, turning them silver, or for him to push off the wall and stride toward me.

  “Pax.” He’s acting like he’s happy to see me. Like he missed me.

  Which is ridiculous.

  “Hi. This was a mistake.” I snap my mouth shut, open it again. “I wasn’t going to call.”

  His smile wavers, in and out of focus. It sharpens again. “But you did.”

  True. Otherwise we wouldn’t be here. Standing like this. Awkwardly. Uncertainly. His hands still in his jeans pockets and that bright smile on his face that makes my heart hurt.

  “Shall we?” He nods at the elevators, and something shifts in his gaze, a glint of lust that sends a hot pang of need through me.

  Because I do need, I still desire, in spite of my fear. And it’s hard not to lust after a man like Riot. He’s so damn hot.

  So hot it scares me. I want him. And I’ll freak out the moment I touch his bare skin or bend close to kiss him. Not to mention the rest of the things one does in a hotel room, in a bed, with a handsome guy.

  He leans against the reception desk like he did last time, at ease, muscular forearms resting on the polished granite. His dark hair falls in his eyes. He must have used a gel or something before, because now it looks soft and it flops on his forehead in silky tassels. He’s shaved, I realize, and he looks younger like this.

  Boyish. Cute.

  Sexy.

  I hide a shiver as I receive my key. Thankfully, the obnoxious girl who flirted with Riot isn’t on shift. Not that the way the older lady manning the desk today is undressing him with her eyes is any better.

  Jealous, Pax?

  Of course not.

  I grab the key and head for the elevator, keeping my gaze ahead, not glancing to see if Riot is following. I step into the carriage and turn just as he enters. Like every time, heat pours off him, seeping into me. I want to press up against him, drink it in, feel the hard contours of his body under my hands, my lips, feel him molding on my curves.

  When he turns to press the button for the third floor, I let out a shaky breath. Then he closes the small distance between us and looks down at me.

  Holy shit. So close.

  Though he doesn’t touch me. No part of our bodies is touching, but his gaze is like a wall of fire, crashing into me, passing through me. My core clenches, my breasts tighten, and I press my back against the mirror cove
ring the insides of the elevator, breathing hard.

  What is he doing to me? He’s only standing there, looking mildly amused. And then we stop, the doors dinging as they open.

  Dazed, I watch as he reaches down, between his legs. Tugging. Accommodating his hard-on.

  He’s aroused. Holy crap, he’s so hard I can see the outline of his cock inside his jeans.

  “Coming?” he rasps, gesturing at the open elevator doors, and it takes me a second to make sense of the word.

  Right.

  As I step outside, onto the landing, and lift the key to open the door to the room, I wonder what’s about to happen.

  ***

  He follows me inside, unzipping his jacket but making no move to take it off, although it’s warm in the room. I shrug off my coat, drape it over the back of a chair and twist my hands together.

  I feel like I should explain myself—why I made this appointment, why I ran away last time, why I told him this was a mistake.

  Instead I find myself staring at him, fascinated. God, he’s beautiful. Not perfect, but beautiful in his imperfection.

  “You have a scar,” I whisper, breathless, realizing he’s come nearer, that now I’m standing so close to him I can touch the scar if I lift my hand. “On your jaw.”

  It’s long and thin, and it’s the first time I notice it. The scruff he sported before had hidden it.

  He blinks, reaches up to touch it. The urge to push his hand away and trace the white line myself is making my fingers twitch.

  “It’s just a scar,” he says, his voice rough. His gray eyes darken to slate. “It doesn’t hurt.”

  “All scars hurt,” I whisper. “With every change in the weather.”

  “Well, it’s warm in here, with you.” He grins, all dimples, and I take a step back. “Relax. I won’t bite, Pax. That costs extra.”

  I stare at him in disbelief, but I’m already choking on laughter. “Really?”

  He nods solemnly. “Depends where you want me to bite, of course, and if you want a mark. A love bite.”

  Shit, I can’t tell if he’s serious or not.

  A love bite. And why does the idea make me want to fan myself?

  “Everything costs extra with you,” I say, trying to recover, trying to gauge him.

  “What can I say? I’m worth every penny.”

  I bet he is. And the thought of him with other women, other clients, shouldn’t make me want to slap them and pull out their hair.

  Jesus, Pax.

  “What’s on your mind?” He takes the step that brings him flush against me—again without touching. “You’re overthinking, aren’t you?”

  “How would you know?” His scent is making my dizzy. I want to touch him. It was never a matter of not wanting.

  The fear is what stops me.

  “Your forehead gets all wrinkly with accumulated thought.” He dips his head and God, his mouth is inches from mine. “It makes your eyeballs bulge.”

  “It does not.”

  “It does, too.”

  I bite my lip, fighting laughter. His eyes dance with mirth and something else, something darker, like before. He’s close enough I can’t look down, but I’m pretty sure he’s hard. In fact, when I turn my hips a little, I feel it, feel his hard cock brush over my side.

  Oh God. My breath leaves my lungs in a whoosh. My mouth is dry.

  “What do you want to do today?” he whispers, and his broad chest rises and falls, so close I could lay my head on it, on those hard pecs.

  “I want you to tell me.”

  He frowns down at me, and I replay the words in my mind. I hadn’t planned to say that, but it’s true. That’s what I want.

  “You said you can help me,” I mutter. “I want to try again.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  I shake my head. Hard to tell. But...“It’s easier.”

  “What’s easier?”

  “Being near you.” I draw a deep breath and slide my hand up his chest, over the soft cotton of his T-shirt, feeling his muscles shift under my palm. “Touching you.”

  “Pax.” My name catches in his throat, a quiet exhalation, and under my hand every muscle goes taut and hard like steel.

  “Tell me. What else? What next?”

  “I don’t get to tell clients what they—”

  “Just tell me, Riot, before I lose my nerve.” I’m pleading now, because familiar terror is crowding my thoughts. “Please.”

  He swallows. “Okay. Okay, all right? I’ll tell you.” He reaches down, grabs my wrist, his fingers engulfing half my forearm. “Touch me.”

  He slides my hand down his chest, a slow drag over his solid abs, over every groove and ridge. Lower, over the dip of his bellybutton, and lower still.

  I resist. He gives a tug. I give in.

  My hand settles over the bulge in his pants. He hisses between his teeth, but I’m more interested in the sensation of his hard cock under my palm, the scorching heat seeping through the fabric. It moves under my hand, hardening more, and his grip on my wrist tightens.

  We stand like that, my hand on his denim-covered crotch, his fingers wrapped around my arm. Both breathing hard. Both rooted to the spot.

  “Riot?”

  “Sorry.” He licks his lips, his eyes dark. “You feel so good.”

  Something inside me relaxes at his words. He likes my hand on him. And I like my hand on him, the effect I have on his body.

  Experimentally I shift my hand to cup his balls, and he groans. It’s faint, but comes deep from within his chest, like a rumble of thunder.

  Heat washes through my chest, down my belly, settling between my legs.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, husky and low, and the heat turns into a throb, an ache that I need to satisfy.

  I need him to touch me. But I can’t. That would be like that night—and right now things are so different that I’m holding it together. I think I am, at least, but there’s no telling if that might change at any moment.

  “Hey. Pax.” He releases my wrist. “Earth to Pax. Shit, did I scare you?”

  “No. No, I’m fine.” And I am, I realize. As I lift my hand off him, I poke around in my mind, but I sense no panic.

  I grin.

  “What?” He shifts his weight from one leg to the other and helplessly I glance back down at his hard-on. He looks—and felt—really big.

  No idea why that makes me lick my lips. “Nothing.”

  “You’re grinning.”

  I shrug. “I haven’t freaked out yet. That’s a win.”

  “Yeah, it sure is.” He grins, too, and oh God, those dimples. Can’t get enough of them.

  “And now?”

  His grin fades. He rocks back on his heels, and he gives me a serious look. “Now, Pax, I want you to undress me.”

  ***

  He’s waiting for me to react. To reply, to refuse or obey. I did say he was to tell me what to do. Easier that way. Not letting myself overthink, question my every move.

  But now I have to follow through.

  His gaze is grave and calm. He hooks his thumbs in the pockets of his dark jeans and widens his stance, not saying a word or showing any impatience.

  The message is clear. The decision has to be mine, even if he guides and directs me.

  Get on with it, Pax. Don’t you want to see him naked? To see how far up his arm the tattoos go, if his chest is inked? If he has scars you haven’t seen yet?

  If he’s as big down there as it felt like? Don’t you want to know?

  Christ. The mixture of curiosity and excitement is making me light-headed. Wiping my palms on my dress, I put them on the lapels of his leather jacket. Even in my heels, he’s towering over me, so I don’t really know how I’m supposed to undress him.

  He takes a step back, and another, and without conscious thought I follow him until he sits down on the edge of the bed. He spreads his legs, lets his hands hang between his knees and smiles at me, a faint curve of his lips, his eyes bright.
<
br />   “You know, I was hoping you’d undress me sooner or later,” he drawls, and his smile turns wicked. “See what you paid for.”

  I guess he’s trying to put me at ease, remind me I’m in charge. That he can’t hurt me or he’ll get fired.

  Taking a fortifying breath, I kneel on the mattress and scoot behind him to tug on the sleeves of his jacket. He shifts, lifting his arms, allowing me to pull on the soft black leather with its scent of motor oil and fumes.

  Sexy scent, barely overlaying his own spice, and I resist the urge to press my face to his broad back and inhale.

  The jacket comes off easily, sliding off him like oil, and drops heavy in my lap. It has embossed designs on the back, faded symbols. Flames. A skull. I run my fingertips over worn letters.

  Hellfire? What does that mean?

  “So what did you learn in class this week?” He’s looking at me over one muscular shoulder, his gray eyes hooded.

  I let the jacket drop on the mattress. “Mainly statistics.”

  His dark brows arch. “I thought you were studying psychology, not math.”

  “So did I.”

  He chuckles, and I find myself smiling again. He keeps doing that to me. Making me smile.

  “Arms up,” I instruct him, because he’s just sitting there, his T-shirt stretched tight over his back. “Come on.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He lifts his arms and I grab the hem, pulling it up. Inch by inch of muscled back is revealed—and a different tattoo.

  It startles me. I expected the flame tattoo on his arm to spread there, but…

  A skull. A clock. More flames. Similar to the half-faded, embossed design on his jacket.

  “What’s the meaning of it?” I pull the T-shirt over his shoulders and he grabs it and throws it down to the floor. “The tattoo.”

  “Nothing.”

  “But you have flames on your arm and on your back and jacket and—”

  He turns around on the bed, and the words die on my tongue. Shit, he’s beautiful. His chest is as ripped as it’d felt like under the T-shirt, and yeah, the bright flames spread up from his arm to his shoulder and spill down his pec.

  Smooth, lightly tanned skin, small brown nipples, and that mouth-watering six-pack you only see on guys in magazines.

  Good God.