Boy in the Club a boy & billionaire novel - Rachel Kane Page 0,14

deepens, why I taste his tongue, why he’s stealing my breath away, his mouth a prize I eagerly claim.

My hand rises as though under its own power. I must touch his scar.

4

Finn

He’s lying, and that’s what did it. A man who can lie about not being kind, a man whose eyes flare with pain when you ask…there’s something so different about him, and I know I shouldn’t be doing this, I know I’m going to pay for it when Jimi finds out. God, how I’m going to pay. Uglies aren’t there to land a whale. Know your place.

If I could have done this anywhere but the club, I would’ve. This is the wrong place, wrong time, probably the wrong man, but it was the way he followed me that changed my mind. I mean, guys follow you sometimes. But this was different. He didn’t feel like a predator. He felt…lost. Like one of us was Hansel and one of us was Gretel, and I’m not even sure who was dropping bread-crumbs in this forest, but we were both in the dark dark woods now.

His tongue is exploring my mouth and all I can think is how much I want him to kiss every inch of me, to discover every secret I have, to kiss and probe and lick and… I shudder again, I’m trembling, and I don’t understand anything that’s happening inside my body. My belly is fluttering, and under this cloth I am rock-hard, I can feel myself leaking for him.

Other men have followed me. You get to know their personalities by the way they do it. The greed. The selfishness. Worse, the creeps. God, the creeps. Especially the polite ones. You learn to dread it when you sense them behind you.

This is different.

I don’t know why this man is in pain, but he followed me the way a stray dog follows, full of hope and fear, breaking my heart with every step. I saw he was going to leave, going to run, when security came up, but I had to let them know I was fine. I wasn’t in any danger. This wasn’t a rabid dog. This was someone who needed a home.

Maybe I’m stupid. Maybe it’s stupid to trust a billionaire with sad eyes. He can afford more therapy than I could.

It’s funny, thinking of what he can afford. I’m not getting paid for this. I get money for slinging drinks, and the other guys, the ones out there showing off their bodies and laughing at bad jokes, they don’t get anything. Jimi’s always careful of that. No money changes hands.

This is charity. It almost makes me laugh, and I start to laugh, when I realize his hands have wandered to my face.

That breaks the kiss. I have to push his hands away.

“Listen,” I breathe. “Listen.” But I can’t figure out what I need to say.

It’s not don’t touch my scar. I don’t care about that.

Maybe it’s don’t pity me.

What comes out is, “You can’t mess with me. It’s against the rules.”

“I don’t care. I need to touch you.”

I’ve got his hands clasped in mine. “It’s not a problem for you. It’s a problem for me. I don’t want to get fired for being back here with you, for being a… For being—”

I can’t say the words.

For being an ugly.

It’s Jimi’s language, not the outside world’s. It would sound strange, like telling someone the pet name your folks used for you when you were small. Just another way to embarrass yourself.

(A moment, a memory, or rather a lack of memory, did my folks have a pet name for me? I remember the last names they called me, the horrible words they used—)

There is a question in his eyes that he knows better than to ask. He’s wondering, maybe it’s worth it, maybe it’s okay to risk my job, to take me right here.

And I realize I’d let him.

That’s the crazy thing. I don’t want to work for Jimi. I’ve made that clear a million times.

So what do I have to lose?

I let go of his hands.

He touches my scar because of course he does. But his curiosity is not the avid, possessive curiosity of the usual guy. He doesn’t ask me a thing. He’s not here to get off on my tragic history.

Every inch he traces with his fingers brings me an inch closer to coming, and I don’t even know why, I don’t understand myself at all, but I need this man, at least at this