Runaway Model (8 page)

The long back wall was floor-to-ceiling glass. They could see the glittering Las Vegas strip all the way out to the dark mountains.

"One-way glass," Kyle said. "We can look out but they can't look in. Even if that helicopter did a fly-by, they couldn't see in."

"How do you know that?"

"Vegas, innit? I thought it were like there everywhere. Then I got caught fucking against the window in Waikiki. Some wanker saw us from the hotel opposite and called the fucking bill. I was lucky to talk me way out of that one without a night in the cells."

"What were you doing in Waikiki?"

Kyle half-lifted his right shoulder. "It probably seemed like a good idea at the time."

Bryce was tempted to grab Kyle by the hips and get down to business. But it was only polite to pretend to be at least marginally interested in hearing somebody's life story before you got it on. And, to be honest with himself, Bryce's interest was more than marginal.

"Have you been in Vegas long?"

Kyle knelt on the Persian carpet and cupped his hand over Bryce's fly to check his firmness. He didn't seem disappointed with what he found. "Two years."

"What do you do?"

Kyle used both hands to massage him through the fabric. Despite the moment in the elevator, he seemed to be a man who liked to take his time.

He also seemed to be a man who could pretend not to hear a question. Bryce knew he should let it drop but instead he rephrased. "How do you get to stay in the United States for two years?"

"Is it a game of twenty questions then?"

Kyle's deft fingers hovered a long tantalizing moment before he finally yanked the zipper all the way down. The rush of blood to Bryce's head—not to mention parts further south—told him to let himself be distracted.

But Kyle was clearly being evasive. Why?

Something about the absolutely smooth skin on the back of Kyle's hands stabbed Bryce with sudden doubt. "How old are you really?"

Kyle's fingers stopped moving. "Do you remember where you met me, mate? I'm twenty-one, innit?"

"Do you have ID?"

"Yes, officer, I have fucking ID."

Bryce's cock was jolted in his briefs when Kyle yanked back his hands. He pushed himself up and away toward the end table where he'd dropped the messenger bag. Rooted around in the contents for a moment.

Either his wallet wasn't on top, or he was deliberately taking his time to torture Bryce.

If teasing was Kyle's game, it was working. Bryce couldn't take his eyes off the twitch in Kyle's tight, curvy ass when he bent over the bag. For a slender man, he certainly knew how to fill out a pair of cigarette jeans.

After a suitable delay, Kyle whipped out a Nevada driver's license with a triumphant flourish.

Bryce didn't get where he was by being the trusting kind. He took it and turned it slowly in the light. The holograms looked genuine.

You couldn't fake a hologram surely.

And it wasn't a borrowed ID. The boy in the photo was Kyle, all right. The hair was growing out from a too-short hatchet job but there couldn't be two smiles that curved up at the ends just like that.

Kyle had turned back to the bag for a moment. It was yet another opportunity to twitch that tempting ass. "You probably don't know what these are supposed to look like. But here. Take them too."

A British passport.

A green card authorizing one Kyle Marchane to live and work in the United States as a permanent resident.

Kyle was right. Bryce didn't really know what those documents should look like. His human resource department handled the visa and green card issues for Bryce Yourself. But if this paper wasn't authentic, it deserved to be.

"Can we move onto the main event, or do you plan to drool over me beautiful pictures all night?"

"Sorry. I had to be sure. Lawyers."

"You must be in finance."

"Mmmm." Now Bryce was the one in no mood for talking. "Get out of those clothes."

Kyle's hips did a flirtatious wiggle-waggle as he stepped back against the uncurtained glass. He unbuttoned a button or two and then batted his eyes in Bryce's direction. "Aren't you going to help me?"

"Right here? Against the window?" The words were out of his mouth before he realized that Kyle had said as much already. Bryce wanted to play it cool but this guy had a way of keeping him flustered.

"It's perfectly safe, mate. They plan for that here. If there's anything Vegas knows, it's that their VIP guests are major freaks." Kyle struck a pose against the night and then segued into unbuttoning his raw silk shirt. Bryce was pleased if surprised to see that Kyle's smooth chest was utterly free of tattoos and piercings. Sometimes he thought the only natural boys left came from Japan—and maybe not even there.

He felt a little odd about unbuttoning and unzipping Kyle where he stood so close to the glass. But Kyle was right. It had to be one-way. In all of his visits to Vegas, Bryce had never been able to look
into
a hotel window, had he? Not on the strip, he hadn't. Not after he'd come into money.

There was a discreet chime. The champagne and caviar. Bryce found a black hundred-dollar chip in his pocket and went to the front door. "I'll roll the cart inside myself," he said as he thrust the chip into the butler's hands.

"Very good, sir. Thank you, sir. Please feel free to call me at any time day or night if you need something else, sir.
Anything
else, sir."

If that was the man's way of suggesting he could fetch safe sex supplies, it wasn't necessary. Bryce had been single a long time. Rubbers and lube were always the first items packed in his traveling bag. He shut the door, double-checked the deadbolt, and then rolled the cart into the great room.

"Champagne," Kyle said.

"I'm going to lick it off your body," Bryce said.

"If it's a good enough vintage, I'll lick it off yours."

"High-maintenance, are we?"

"Fuck yeah, mate. No cheap plonk for me. You wouldn't respect me in the morning, innit?" Kyle hefted the bottle to inspect the label.

But they didn't drink right away. Experienced Vegas drink hustler or not, Kyle knew how to set his priorities. He put the bottle back in the silver bucket so he could press Bryce roughly against the window glass.

Bryce wasn't used to being handled so casually. Not since he'd come into money. Fuck. Maybe not since... ever.

But Kyle had a careless confidence in the way he positioned him against the long expanse of sky. Forty-six stories was a long way down. Bryce told himself he shouldn't be aroused by the fantasy of danger-fucking in the window but he couldn't help it.

Taking off Kyle's painted-on jeans was even tougher than tugging off Bryce's cowboy boots. Bryce hooked his thumbs into the fabric and jerked, but they seemed to slide down only a teasing inch at a time.

"I can't get out of these standing up," Kyle said. With a naughty grin, he lay down flat on his back on the plush carpet to perform what could only be described as a horizontal striptease.

Then, suddenly, the jeans were over the bulge of his cock and halfway down his thighs. A jerk and a twist and another jerk, and they were a tangle around his ankles. Kyle laughed as he kicked them away and stood up wearing nothing except aquamarine-colored silk briefs.

Bryce didn't even notice where his own clothes had gone. His cock stretched and spit, the veins knotted from the rush of need. "Come here," he said, pulling Kyle back against the glass.

Electric sparks went up from the spot where Kyle's silk-covered dick rubbed up against Bryce's naked one. The long hands hadn't lied. The slippery fabric couldn't conceal Kyle's impressive length. Bryce growled, literally growled, as he knelt to use his own mouth to yank away Kyle's briefs.

And then Kyle took two steps out of Bryce's reach, as if neither of them had noticed that his cock pointed straight for the ceiling. "You did say champagne."

"You fucking tease."

Kyle thrust a finger into the caviar and licked it off. Slowly. Dear God.

Bryce should have asked the butler to pop the cork. His hands were trembling. For a moment he thought he couldn't do it. Then the cork went flying across the carpet along with a disgracefully wasteful splash of Dom Pérignon.

"Pour it on me, not the Persian rug," Kyle said. He posed against the window once more, hips cocked to tilt his navel slightly upwards. Bryce obligingly drizzled a few drops into Kyle's temptacious belly button and then licked them out. Delicious.

He splashed a little more wherever he saw skin and then licked where the rivulets ran. Again and again, his face collided with Kyle's hard cock.

Two could play the teasing game, couldn't they?

"You want to make me beg, don't you, mate? Well, this is me. Begging. Suck me. Suck me against this window where everybody can see."

An exhibitionist fantasy. Bryce didn't mind. Kyle's moans grew louder as Bryce's head bobbed up and down. Moans? More like screams by the end.

He shuddered endlessly against Bryce's face.

Now it was Kyle's turn to make a man scream. His eyes had gone so dark they seemed black instead of brown. He didn't need the fantasy any more. Pushing away from the floor-to-ceiling windows, he bundled Bryce down on his back on the nearest couch.

This one was leather—a deep brown leather the next thing to black. Bryce's cock reached for the sky. Now that he no longer held Kyle in his mouth, he found himself gasping frantically for air. Funny how it was only at this moment that he realized he couldn't quite breathe.

"Let's make it nice and tasty." Kyle began to drip champagne drop by teasing drop in a crooked line from Bryce's collarbone to his inner thighs.

Fuck, Bryce was hot. Any hotter, and the champagne would boil off his body like steam.

"I need it now. Fuck. You little tease."

Not so little, actually. The energetic Kyle had already rebounded. Bryce had to hold onto something to keep the room from spinning, and thus he found himself squeezing two fat fistfuls of cock while Kyle continued to sweep his tongue from collarbone to navel.

"Now, now, now." Bryce heard himself begging. "Please. Do it now, or I'll explode all over this fucking couch. Let me come. Make me come."

Kyle's head dipped. Those gifted lips focused very deliberately on the sweet spot just below the mushroom head. Bryce couldn't have held back to save his entire fortune.

"I'm coming. Fuck. Oh God. Fuck—!"

His hands massaged Kyle's renewed erection in all the key places. If he timed things just right...

Yes. Now. Yes.

Kyle spewed across Bryce's legs while Bryce himself emptied vividly into Kyle's hot mouth.

Bryce might have been twenty-one himself to judge from how long he gushed and gushed and couldn't stop. His hips jerked helplessly against Kyle's face for what felt like hours.

T
here's something about a new lover's whisper. Even in a suite as big as a house, even over the constant purr of a Las Vegas resort's air-conditioning system, Bryce awoke with a sweaty jerk when he heard it. He couldn't make out actual words. Just the soft distinctive murmur of someone trying to talk into a phone.

Bryce slipped naked from the sheets and wandered the halls in search of that murmur. He ended up in the kitchen, where Kyle had stopped talking and started texting. The tip-tap of keys told Bryce nothing.

There was a silver pot of coffee in front of him. Two heavy mugs. A delivery from Bryce's butler. "Fair trade shade-grown rainforest coffee beans roasted personally by flocks of endangered macaws," Kyle said. "Want some?" He hadn't dressed. Long bare legs stretched out from the fluffy white robe supplied by the resort.

It would be so easy for Kyle to slide out of that robe. Bryce's cock stirred at the thought. "Come back to bed, honey."

When Bryce thought about it, he tried not to say "honey" too much. It sounded too southern. And too intimate for non-southern ears. But he had other things on his mind at the moment.

Kyle kept typing. No text was that long. He must be leaving a Facebook post. "I have a responsibility to the fans."

Fans? Bryce thought about what he'd overheard in the bar. The other shoe dropped. "Who's Stoney? Who are you?"

"You obviously know who Stoney is." Kyle kept typing away, his thumbs working at speed. "We're just... fans. We take photos for Instagram and Twitter. Photos with Stoney. To share. Without pay. It's harmless. It even helps Stoney. It's free publicity."

Bryce realized he could Google Stoney. Later. The chill running up and down his spine wasn't about some random band guy.

"Of course Stoney has to make it a challenge. So only the genuine fans care enough to track him and find him..."

Kyle sounded so young in that moment. Almost like a teen girl with a Tumblr blog.

Bryce told himself to breathe. "How old did you say you were?"

"I'm twenty-one. You saw me ID." Kyle was calm. Too calm.

Bryce wasn't just a dice player. He was a poker player too. And now he was reading little tells he'd been too turned-on to read the night before. He saw that Kyle was holding his breath.

"Talk to me, Kyle."

"I'm legal."

"I'm starting to wonder." It was every rich man's nightmare. But casino security had checked too. The wristbands. Those fucking evil deceiving wristbands.

Bryce himself had played underage on the riverboats back in the day. But you always thought Vegas was a little more professional, didn't you?

"I think you better leave now. I've made a terrible mistake."

"Hey, mate. Hey." Kyle finally put down the phone and looked into Bryce's face. "Wait."

"Who else is in on it? Somebody working for the hotel? Somebody in surveillance?" Now there was a thought. If there was a high-end security camera anywhere in the suite, this night's X-rated performance could already be posted to the amateur porn sites.

"Bryce..."

"How much do you want?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, mate." But his eyes were wider than they should have been. A salesman's eyes. Lying and trying to sell the lie.

"Blackmail. Extortion. My lawyer warned me. But I thought I knew better."