Sultan's Choice: Tales of the Djinn, #5 Page 10

  “We’re lucky,” Connor said the same as if he’d spoken the words aloud. “Partners don’t always get each other going this intensely.”

  “Speaking of going,” Georgie pointed out.

  She still gripped the paddle—somewhat white-knuckled, he observed. He was between her legs, feet on the floor, knees edging her relaxed thighs wider. Her scent was high, her pulsing heat a lure his cock was reacting strongly to. It knew the paradise that awaited it, not to mention how ready her slick soft walls were to envelop him.

  Only Connor could have distracted him from that.

  “Yes,” Iksander said to Georgie. “How could I have forgotten?”

  Quivering with anticipation, he lowered himself to her. Positioning himself involved an assortment of sharp pleasures. The cling of her satiny lips. The press of his fingertips angling his erection. Aware that Connor’s eyes were glued to the spot, he pushed in lengthily.

  The groan that spilled from him was rapturous.

  Georgie moaned, obviously experiencing similarly delectable sensations. “God, you’re so hot and big.”

  He pushed until he couldn’t push anymore. Her pussy clasped him from stem to stern, not a millimeter spared, as if God himself had fashioned them to fit each other. He wasn’t sure he could breathe. He certainly didn’t dare moving. He was going to come if he rubbed two more atoms against her. Actually, he might come if Connor sighed. His closeness to climax was a hairsbreadth from agony. Shudders of pleasure wracked his body.

  Georgie wriggled, and that was nearly the end for him.

  “Should I?” she asked.

  She rubbed the flat of the leather paddle against his ass, which nearly sent him over a second time. He sucked in air and held on by his fingernails. He more than wanted her to hit him: He desired it with every fiber of his perverse djinn being.

  She read the answer in the hot green glow that ignited behind his eyes.

  “I promised you hard,” she said. “I hope you’re up for it.”

  “If it helps, I dare you to do your worst.”

  He drew back slowly so he could thrust, but also to savor her pussy’s cling. Though that pleasured her as well, she held onto her intentions.

  Her next hard swat propelled his inward stroke.

  He cried out, abruptly abandoning his attempts to control himself. He did her—as Connor put it—in long wild thrusts, harder, deeper, smacking her body as she smacked his. This was abandon, and she was meeting it. No, she was driving it, directing him with her paddle so that the sting and the ache and the sense that she was expelling his inner demons tangled into one immense pleasure.

  To his amazement, she came before he did. Her pussy clenched around him. He felt himself swell within that ecstatic grip. His head arched back and something wet hit his chest. Connor was coming. He heard the other man panting, the quick slap of palms squeezing up his cock to draw out the climax. Iksander opened his eyes and got a swift flash of images. Connor’s flushed penile skin. His dark raised veins. His swollen head pulsing ejaculate.

  All those triggers flipping at once were too potent to resist. Iksander’s peak detonated. He couldn’t have delayed it for anything. Georgie dropped the paddle, her hands catching his to squeeze. He needed them to hold onto. His orgasm wasn’t stopping. It shot from him in a ferocious torrent. The cry that tore from his throat was somehow orgasmic too. The sun seemed to swallow him. Was this heaven? This sweetness so strong it hurt?

  He must have lost himself in it. The next thing he knew Georgie was sitting up holding him.

  “Shh,” she said, stroking his hair gently.

  His face was wet—with tears, he suspected, though he couldn’t remember shedding them. As he swiped them off with his hands, Georgie’s legs hugged his hips. A moment later, her calves squeezed him for good measure.

  “I’m all right,” he said.

  She smiled, and Connor sat beside them.

  “That was big,” he said.

  “The biggest,” Georgie agreed waggishly.

  Iksander laughed. He guessed maybe he didn’t mind their sense of humor. Right then it was helping him feel less embarrassed.

  “I was right,” Connor announced, confusing him. “We’re going to be late for the vizier’s dinner.”

  “Shoot,” Georgie said. “I didn’t actually mean for that to happen.”

  Iksander laughed again, the warmth that filled him pleasant in the extreme.

  “Murat will forgive us,” he predicted. “Even viziers understand sometimes one chooses to put love first.”

  Intrigued by threesomes? Here’s the opening to The Billionaire Bad Boys Club. Enjoy!

  Chapter 1: The Billionaire Bad Boys Club

  Trey Hayworth had a choice. He could jack off to his dog-eared Victoria’s Secret catalogue or rely on his stash of torn out underwear stud ads. The Victoria’s Secret women were soft and curvy, the Calvin Klein men as ripped as gym rats in their groin-hugging briefs.

  Both made Trey’s eighteen-year-old cock swell up and harden.

  He could have used both to masturbate to of course, but he preferred to save that treat for his last climax. Privacy was precious. He liked to make a full meal of it.

  Trey’s father was a pharmaceuticals rep for a drug company. Twice a month he traveled out of town on sales trips. When he was home, he kept too close an eye on his son for Trey to risk breaking his anti-sex edicts. When he was gone, Trey had more leeway. His sort-of pal Kevin Dexter had shown him how to feed fake footage into his dad’s spy cams, which gave him multiple days and nights to revel in freedom.

  He could pretend he was normal then. Crawl the mall. Crash a party if he knew of one. He wasn’t popular enough to be invited. The other seniors at Franklin High smelled the freak on him—his indeterminate sexual preference, his home situation, the whole “his mother killed herself last year” thing. Whether they were jocks or nerds, people steered clear of making friends. Trey didn’t fit their boxes. They didn’t know what to make of him. His saving grace was that he was decent looking and owned a car. Waiting tables sixteen hours a week meant he could buy non-lame clothes and keep his rusty Mustang running.

  His father believed allowances ruined kids.

  But that was fine. Trey was happier not relying on him. Safer too, probably. Trying to please her spouse had led to his mother giving up on everything.

  He pushed that thought away. Remembering how his mother had checked out made him feel like he was choking. Determined not to waste his time alone, he scooted beneath the box spring to retrieve his inspiration from its well-concealed hiding place. His cock woke up as he did, twitching like Pavlov’s dog from the familiar feel of his back sliding over the cool floorboards.

  The sound of a raised male voice froze him there with the dust bunnies.

  Zane Alexander’s father was on a tear tonight.

  In some ways, Trey’s next-door neighbor was the opposite of himself. Zane was a golden boy. Captain of the football team. A zillion friends. A Porsche. A girl for each arm and leg if he wanted them. In one important way, however, he and Trey had too much in common.

  Trey squirmed out from under his bed and crawled to the windowsill to peek out. His pitch-black hair was long—too long, according to his father. Thus far, he’d avoided his father’s scissors. As a result, he had to shovel it out of his eyes to see. A strip of grass separated the two ramblers, maybe fifteen feet in all. The night was dark and the shades were pulled. The light from a single lamp silhouetted Zane and his father in their living room. Divorced for a couple years from his beauty queen of a wife, Zane’s father had been Franklin’s hometown hero once, a football prodigy like his son. An injury sidelined his career, leaving him to simultaneously hate and need to live through his son—who he liked to pimp out at the sporting goods store he owned. Mr. Alexander was big and beefy but not as tall as Zane. As if he didn’t want to remind his dad of that, Zane’s shoulders were hunched in.

  “You forgot?” Mr. Alexander’s drunken voice shou
ted. “You forgot? You want to tell me how you could be such a stupid shit you couldn’t remember one simple thing!”

  Zane’s answer was inaudible. Truthfully, it didn’t matter what he said, no more than it mattered what he’d forgotten. What happened next was inevitable.

  His father’s arm uncoiled, his meaty fist smacking Zane in the temple. Trey flinched and gripped the window tighter. Zane didn’t let out a sound. Again came the fist, and again Zane took the blow. If reflex made him jerk away slightly from the swing, experience kept him from blocking it.

  Defending himself would be the opposite of helpful.

  He’d made the right choice. Mr. Alexander was finished then, his anger a storm that had blown over.

  “No sniveling,” he instructed before he left the room. “You take your medicine like a man.”

  His son stood there by himself, his chest going up and down, his fists opening and closing with some struggle. Shit, Trey thought, not sure what was happening but concerned. Zane’s body language said he was about to explode. Trey sucked in a breath, wondering if he should call out. Zane and he weren’t friends by any stretch, but maybe something he could say would help.

  Before he could decide, Zane turned sharply and headed for the door.

  He was out of the house in seconds, striding down their front walk on jerky legs. Probably he wanted to walk his upset off. Trey had done the same lots of times. As he went, a circle of streetlight lit up his chiseled face. Trey winced. The cheek Zane’s father hit was bruising. It made Zane’s expression seem even more set and grim. His eyes were a blue so bright it was electric.

  He looked like he might do anything.

  Despite suspecting it was a bad idea, Trey swung out of his bedroom window, hung by his hands, and dropped the remaining distance onto the lawn. Because he was no champion athlete, the landing stung.

  By the time he’d rounded the house’s corner, Zane had reached the end of their cul-de-sac. Still reluctant to call out, Trey sprinted as stealthily as he could after him. If Zane intended to throw himself off a bridge, Trey was going to stop him.

  Mr. Martin’s head jerked up as he dashed past in his half crouch, startled from the engrossing task of watering his boxwoods in his robe and slippers. Trey nodded as if everything were normal. Thankfully, the surprised neighbor didn’t say anything.

  God, this was stupid. Zane wasn’t a bully, but—just on principle—he’d beat Trey senseless if he caught him stalking him. The guy was a beast, 6’2” already and solid with muscle. He was quick as well, or he’d never have pulled off playing quarterback. He’d make mincemeat of a sparely built guy like Trey.

  Zane didn’t seem to know he was being followed. He didn’t look around as he led Trey out of their suburban neighborhood and along the shoulder of the two-lane blacktop they took to school. Zane’s hands were shoved in the pockets of his dark blue hoodie, his long strong legs apparently tireless. Though Trey ran a couple miles most mornings, he was beginning to get winded.

  Then again, his breathlessness might have been arousal. Masochist that he was, he’d had a boy crush on Zane for years. The occasional glimpses he’d caught of his neighbor changing spurred more fantasies than a truckload of underwear models. Trey knew for a fact Zane woke up with morning wood.

  As he’d expected, Zane turned in at the high school’s grounds. He headed for the track, which was empty at this hour. The chain link fence that surrounded it wasn’t tall, and Zane vaulted it easily. Empty or not, the track was lit. If Trey wanted to follow his example, no way could he miss being seen.

  He hesitated in the darkness. Zane unzipped his hoodie and pulled it off, revealing his monster shoulders under a white T-shirt. He crouched down to stretch his thighs. He was going to run—an activity Trey could conceivably join him in.

  His heart drummed behind his ribs as he told himself not to pussy out.

  “Hey,” he said like he’d only then walked up and noticed Zane. “You come out here to run?”

  Zane turned his head and snorted. His blackening eye confronted Trey, managing to convey sarcasm in spite of swelling up. “Don’t be a tool. I knew you were tailing me since you climbed out of your window.”

  Trey hadn’t known his cheeks could blaze quite that hot. A second later, a fierce sexual tingle streaked up his spine. If Zane had known he was there, why hadn’t he stopped him?

  “I was worried,” he said as steadily as he could. “I heard you and your father fighting. I didn’t want you to do anything crazy.”

  Zane let out a ragged laugh. “I guess Horny Hayworth knows a thing or two about crazy.”

  The nickname wasn’t Trey’s favorite. He wasn’t as big a slut as that. He just tried not to waste opportunities. But at least Zane wasn’t saying to take a hike. Trey approached the fence, stopping when he was close enough to grab its top rail. “You want to talk?”

  “Fuck. What is there to say?”

  “Nothing. Anything. Who cares as long as you know you’re not alone?”

  This might have been too touchy-feely. Zane dropped his arms and frowned. Still he didn’t tell Trey to fuck off. “Your dad hits you too?”

  Trey pulled up his flannel shirt to expose a fading bruise. It crossed his ribs in a purplish stripe. Maybe it wasn’t appropriate to compare right then, but Trey was aware his six-pack wasn’t as ripped as Zane’s.

  “Shit,” Zane said. His fingertips touched the fence as if he’d reach through and stroke the mark. “I never hear him yelling at you.”

  “He’s quiet. Likes to tell me I’m going to hell in a ‘rational’ tone. Also he doesn’t drink. He avoids leaving bruises where they might show.”

  Zane grimaced at the reminder of his black eye. “I’m going to have to stay home from school until this looks better, and I’m already too behind. I’ll lose my scholarship if I’d don’t keep my grades up. Stupid guidance counselors are starting to give me looks. I know my dad will drag me to some other town if they confront him. This shit is so close to being over. I only have to get through this year.”

  Trey wrapped his fingers farther through the fence links. “You could say I did it. My GPA is okay. I’d survive a couple days suspension.”

  Zane’s eyes widened. They were close now, not even a foot apart. Trey could smell the sweat on him from his rapid walk. “Won’t your dad go ballistic?”

  “He might do that anyway. It’s not like he needs a real reason. If I catch shit for fighting, at least I’d know I was helping out . . . someone.”

  They both knew he’d avoided calling Zane a friend. Zane gnawed his full lower lip, stirring a longing to suck it that was painful.

  “It’d help,” he admitted. “I’m no dumb jock, but I can’t miss more classes and still keep up.”

  “So we’ll do it,” Trey said. “We’ll say you called my Mustang a piece of crap, and I got in a lucky shot.”

  “A lucky shot . . .” Zane’s tone was amused.

  “Wouldn’t work otherwise. Everybody knows you’d take me in a fight.”

  Zane’s gaze measured him up and down.

  “Maybe,” he said as Trey tensed with self-consciousness. “Maybe not. You’re a fast damn bugger. I’ve seen you running here before.”

  Zane had seen him running? Zane had bothered to notice him among the usual morning crowd?

  Trey took a second to close his gaping jaw. Zane wasn’t paying attention to his amazement. He crossed his arms, big guns bulging under the sleeves of his white T-shirt. “You should be on the team.”

  “Me? Play football? You’ve gotta be kidding.”

  “I’m serious. Tony Ciccone blew out his knee last week. Coach would let you try out if I asked him to.”

  Only Zane could say this like it was no big deal. “No offense, but I don’t think I’m the team sports type. More to the point, I’m pretty sure I’m not theirs.”

  “I have to pay you back somehow. I don’t like being in people’s debt.”

  Zane’s bright blue eyes were stubborn . .
. and maybe something else.

  “You want me on the team,” Trey blurted without thinking.

  The faintest wash of color darkened Zane’s cheekbones. “I wouldn’t mind having someone as fast as you to back me up.”

  His gaze held Trey’s a bit too determinedly—as if he were resisting a temptation to scope out other parts of him. Trey knew that trick. He’d used it more than once himself. Being attracted to guys and girls wasn’t always convenient. Recognizing the look in Zane set his blood on fire, his prick stiffening so swiftly it hurt.

  “Shit,” Trey breathed at the inescapable conclusion. “You’re bisexual like me.”

  Zane didn’t try to deny it, though he did heave a sigh. “Don’t tell,” he said, sounding more resigned than anxious. “My life is complicated enough.”

  “Sure,” Trey said, disappointed but understanding why. If his quirks hadn’t tended to out themselves, wouldn’t he have tried to pass for one or the other? Sometimes being bi felt the same as believing in Santa Claus. People assumed he was actually gay and trying to pretend. “Look, you mind if I join you on that side of the fence? I feel silly talking through it this way.”

  Zane scrubbed his short sandy hair, then waved for him to come on. Trey didn’t vault over as picture-perfectly as Zane, but Zane wasn’t watching anyway. He’d moved to a nearby set of bleachers to sit on the bottom bench. Trey dropped beside him, not too close but not too far. Just because Zane was bi didn’t mean he wanted to do him. A trio of dry brown leaves blew across the track’s asphalt, the skittering sound a counterpoint to his not-quite-normal breathing.

  He knew it couldn’t be normal with Zane sitting next to him.

  “Sometimes I don’t know who I want to kill more,” Zane said. “Him for hitting me, or my mom for cutting out.”

  Trey wasn’t sure what to say to this. Everyone in Franklin knew Zane’s mom had run away to Trenton to live with some greasy guy who sold bargain mattresses. Sometimes his commercials played on late night TV.