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Kinn will admit his rivalry with Vegas may have gotten out of hand.
It’s a competition encouraged by their fathers, whose political chess match is being played out through their respective sons. Khun and Kim refuse to play the game, which means it’s Kinn in the spotlight, being pitted against Vegas on everything from business deals to public relations stunts.
Too often, that crosses over to their private lives as well.
Kinn would have been happy never knowing his cousin shared his tastes in bed, but there are a limited number of escort agencies in Bangkok that cater to men with his preferences. Vegas had recognized one of the young men leaving the tower, then made a point of showing up with the same companion at an event in front of Kinn later that week.
Vegas had started with casual comments, making unflattering comparisons and claiming he’d leave marks on their shared lovers for Kinn to find. Kinn’s pride had been pricked, and somehow every time he requests an escort now, his performance turns into a competition against Vegas that he knows is all in his own head.
He can’t believe any story Vegas tells him. That doesn’t seem to stop Kinn from needing to one-up him at every turn. If Vegas claims he’d made someone come just from fucking them, then Kinn needs to get them off twice. If Vegas says he’d edged someone for an hour, Kinn will make it two. It’s reached the point where Vegas doesn’t even need to boast about his exploits for Kinn to imagine them. And fictional or no, his brain insists that he do better.
The one relaxing part of his evening routine has become another stick he can’t stop measuring himself against, and he hates that the stick in this metaphor is his cousin’s dick.
It’s irritating. It’s juvenile. And it’s still working, damn him. No matter what he tells himself beforehand, the minute some slender, flexible youth shows up on Kinn’s doorstep in eyeliner and silk, Kinn feels an immediate need to rail them until their legs won’t hold them up anymore. He knows the boydguards gossip, and the escorts must as well. Kinn is going to be a better lay than Vegas in every possible arena.
Khun looks him over after one of these encounters, while he’s fetching a glass of milk from the kitchen. He offers critically, “If you wanted another workout, you could have sparred with Chan.”
Kinn totters back to his room without comment, faceplants onto his bed, and sleeps for the five hours he has left before he has to be up to start another day.
He obsesses over things like this. He knows that. If Vegas would just stop showing up to events with a parade of Kinn’s favorite playmates on his arm, it wouldn’t be a problem at all.
Kinn has a type. Winter-pale, soft-eyed, slightly-built. Pliable and accommodating. Responsive. Submissive. The agency knows it. Maddeningly, so does Vegas.
Which is why, when a knock on his bedroom door announces the arrival of tonight’s escort, Big looks so nonplussed.
“He has the correct clearance from the agency,” Big says, before Kinn can ask if there’s another reason he has a visitor this late at night. Big clears his throat, probably looking for a tactful way to ask if Kinn wants to send this one back.
The escort in question strolls past Big, ignoring Kinn himself in favor of unabashedly snooping around his bedroom. He looks cocky, arrogant, and there’s lean muscle curving his arms and shoulders. Kinn can see the cords of his biceps, because he’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt.
“I’m Porsche,” he says, tossing a grin over his shoulder. “You’re Kinn?”
Big stiffens and inhales, no doubt preparing a sharp reprimand. Kinn holds up his hand. “Go,” he says. Big lingers just long enough for it to count as a mute protest, then bows his head and closes the door behind him.
“I’ve never seen you before,” Kinn remarks, half-wary and half-curious.
Porsche flops down onto one of the corner armchairs and stretches out, which makes his legs look like they go on for miles. “No one else wanted to deal with you tonight.”
Kinn narrows his eyes. “And you did?”
Porsche tilts his head and raises an eyebrow, one foot wagging side-to-side in front of him. “Lucky for you, I have plenty of stamina and a high pain tolerance. Marks are fine. Nothing that draws blood, though, or I will safeword out of here so fast you won’t see me leave.”
Kinn moves forward, drawn in almost in spite of himself. Porsche has a smart mouth and a smirk, but everything about his body language is open and relaxed, inviting Kinn to take.
“You know the rules, then?” Kinn asks. His voice has dropped unconsciously into the casual purr he uses when giving orders in bed. He stops in front of Porsche and leans down, inhaling the scent of cologne mingled with fresh air and mild sweat from the summer heat.
Kinn braces himself on the back of Porsche’s chair, taking up most of his personal space. He turns his head so that his nose brushes Porsche’s cheek, then traces a line down to his jaw. Porsche holds himself still, breathing slowly, letting Kinn explore him without any sign of being intimidated.
When their eyes meet, Porsche looks amused, like he can tell how badly Kinn wants to wreck his composure. “No kissing, no marks on you, bubble bath first,” Porsche recites easily. “I read your notes file.”
Kinn is almost certain Porsche isn’t supposed to tell him the agency keeps a notes file.
He realizes that their faces are still very close together, and that his own gaze has fixed unconsciously on Porsche’s mouth. “Go get started, then,” he says, straightening up. He points toward the bathroom, and undoes the buttons at the cuffs of his shirt to give his hands something to do that doesn’t involve putting them on Porsche.
Porsche looks down Kinn’s body and back up, then leaves for the bathroom with a lazy swagger. Kinn wants viscerally to bite him.
It only takes Kinn a few minutes to remove his clothes, wrap himself in a robe, and get into the correct headspace for this sort of encounter. In that limited span of time, Porsche manages to turn the bathroom into pure chaos.
“How much did you add?” Kinn demands, gripping the doorframe at the sight of the mountain of bubbles that Porsche is trying in vain to corral back into the bathtub.
“Not that much,” Porsche insists, gesturing to a half-empty bottle that Kinn remembers being full just a day or two ago.
“It’s a jetted tub,” Kinn says in disbelief, wading into the melee in an effort to reach the taps Porsche hasn’t yet turned off.
Porsche gives him an exasperated look. “Do I look like I know what that means?”
Kinn fishes around in the steadily-expanding sea of foam for the bathtub, which is now completely out of sight. Porsche sees what he’s doing and tries to help, groping along the edge of the tub toward the taps. He’s stripped down to a towel, and his body is a line of heat pressed against Kinn’s side.
Their hands close over the second tap at the same time, and Kinn grips Porsche’s fingers a little too hard, twisting them into a firm hold. Porsche winces and tries to shake him off.
“What have you done to…” Kinn begins, furious at the wreckage of the bathroom. It’s his last haven of relaxation, now that his bedroom has become a battleground against his cousin’s purported sexual prowess.
Porsche scowls, the question not even out of Kinn’s mouth before he opens his own to reply. He draws in a breath and takes a step back, only to slip on the tile floor, which is now coated in a film of oily soap.
Kinn still has one of Porsche’s hands crushed in his, which might be why Porsche grabs for him rather than the bathtub when he tries to catch his balance. Kinn’s training kicks in immediately, the threat of a stranger trying to seize hold of him triggering an automatic and violent response.
Even as he’s shifting his weight to flip Porsche and slam him down hard onto the floor, he feels a flicker of guilt for reacting this way to an escort. He knows firsthand how much it’s going to hurt.
Porsche never hits the floor.
He spins away from Kinn’s lunge, blocking his arm and forcing it down, and Kinn feels a spike of adrenaline shoot up his spine. That’s not how an escort should react. That’s professional training.
He strikes out at Porsche’s chin to snap his head back, and Porsche dodges him, slapping his arm away and ducking inside Kinn’s guard. Kinn drives the heel of his hand into Porsche’s sternum and follows up with an elbow to the gut, which Porsche only just manages to evade.
Porsche skids backward across the slippery tiles, nearly losing his balance again, and Kinn doesn’t give him a chance to recover. He strides forward, blocking the hand that rises to fend him off, and carries Porsche along with his momentum until Porsche’s back hits the wall with Kinn’s forearm across his throat.
Porsche scrabbles wide-eyed against the hold as Kinn demands, “Who sent you?”
“Fuck!” Porsche wheezes, slapping at Kinn’s closed fist. “I was a national Taekwondo champion, I’m not a goddamn assassin.”
Kinn replays their brief fight in his head, alarm still buzzing through him, and can’t remember any attempts to actually disable him. Porsche had defended himself, but he hadn’t fought back. It doesn’t mean Kinn trusts him any farther than he can throw him.
Which, now that Porsche is stripped to the waist, Kinn can see wouldn’t be very far at all. He’s more solidly-built than Kinn had guessed, and they’re nearly the same height. Porsche’s abdominal muscles are tensed, corded forearms taut where he’s braced his hands against Kinn’s arm.
The adrenaline still rushing through Kinn’s body surges in a new direction.
He yanks the belt of his robe open with one hand, flattening his other palm against Porsche’s chest to keep him in place. Porsche’s chest is heaving, and his eyes are slightly glazed in a way Kinn recognizes intimately.
Kinn spins him around and shoves him against the floor-to-ceiling window, his breath hitching when Porsche fumbles to catch himself against the glass with a low curse. “Safeword,” Kinn demands as he wrestles Porsche’s arms behind his back.
Porsche mutters another string of curses, but he finishes with, “Phoenix,” in a clear voice. Kinn had seen enough in those few seconds of fighting to know that Porsche could get away from him if he wanted to. He’s still tense and braced on the balls of his feet, but his upper body has relaxed, letting Kinn wrap the soft belt of his robe around Porsche’s wrists a handful of times before securing it.
It’s an easy word to remember, given the vivid tattoo that Kinn can now see inked across Porsche’s back. He traces over it with his fingers first, then the flat of his tongue, tasting fresh sweat. His hand closes on the edge of Porsche’s towel and tugs it off, tossing it carelessly behind him.
Porsche knocks his forehead against the window and widens his stance. It’s partly for balance, and partly, Kinn thinks, invitation and permission.
Kinn is used to verbal encouragement from his companions, breathy entreaties for him to take them and assurances that he’s making them feel good. Porsche is still spitting foul-mouthed curses at him as Kinn’s hand slides proprietarily over his bare arse, but he tilts his hips back into the touch, offering himself up.
He’s come prepared, the way all of Kinn’s bedmates do. It’s probably in his notes file, Kinn thinks wryly, as he traces the glistening crease of Porsche’s arse and tests the resistance against his fingertips.
“Condom,” Porsche gasps, pushing back against him.
As if Kinn would ever forget to use one, too impatient to take safety into consideration. As if he’d fuck Porsche bare like this and finish inside him, so he could see the milky trickle of his own spend leak down Porsche’s thighs. So he could lick it up afterward, or push it back inside with his fingers. Maybe he’d fit Porsche with a plug to keep it there. Maybe a vibrator, while Porsche is still shaky and overstimulated, writhing against the sensation.
Porsche makes an impatient sound, riding back against Kinn’s fingers. Kinn snaps out of the fantasy and shrugs out of his open robe. He retrieves a condom, rolling it on and tossing the wrapper aside before stepping back between Porsche’s spread legs. He adjusts Porsche’s bound wrists to rest more comfortably against the small of his back, then grasps the belt and Porsche’s hipbone, and presses inside.
Most of Kinn’s partners are too short to be comfortable getting fucked like this, but Porsche fits against him like he was made to be there, rocking forward with the force of Kinn’s thrusts and panting out wordless, breathy moans as he does.
Porsche has no leverage in this position, pressed against the glass by Kinn’s full weight and braced only on one shoulder and his cheek. His breath fogs the window with every exhale, and his cock is leaking, leaving smears on the glass where he slides against it. Kinn hauls him back by the hips into his next thrust, and Porsche groans as he loses the friction on his cock.
His back arches more with the new angle, shoulder muscles bunched into strong definition, and the pitch of the noises he’s making rises steadily until it’s a whine. Kinn wonders if Porsche can come like this, if he will come like this, speared on Kinn’s cock and pinned like a butterfly. The thought of not seeing Porsche’s face when that happens twists in Kinn’s stomach. Then he’s pulling out abruptly, ignoring Porsche’s bitten-off shout of protest to manhandle him into the bathtub.
Kinn bats at the clouds of foam displaced by their bodies as he climbs in after Porsche, who wriggles upright until he has enough leverage to fit his legs over Kinn’s hips and pull him back in. The tub isn’t really big enough for this, but if they tried it on the floor, they’d drown in bubbles.
Porsche welcomes him with a low groan, arching his back and shoulders to brace himself against the rim of the tub. Part of Kinn wants to draw this out, to see if he really can make Porsche come from this alone, but he’s on a countdown timer now. Lube and water aren’t a good mix.
Water sloshes around them as he thrusts, and Porsche has to struggle to push back against him so he doesn’t slip down into the tub. Kinn would never let him go under, but watching Porsche fight against soap-slick and gravity as he fucks himself back on Kinn’s cock is so compelling that he’s also not about to offer any assistance.
Kinn slides one hand between them and traps Porsche’s cock against Kinn’s stomach, letting Porsche ride the ridges of his abs with increasing desperation. Porsche tenses when Kinn’s rhythm goes sloppy and erratic, his hips hitching faster as though afraid Kinn won’t let him come if he doesn’t win the race.
It’s not an entirely unjustified fear. Kinn almost hopes he doesn’t make it.
Porsche buckles forward, his choked cries muffled against Kinn’s shoulder as his body seizes up. For a brief second, his mouth is open and hot against Kinn’s skin like he’s going to bite down, and then he jerks his head to the side with a whimper.
Porsche is still shuddering through the aftershocks when Kinn finishes inside him. The bathwater has to be absolutely disgusting now, but Kinn is finding it difficult to coordinate his muscles enough to get them out. Only when Porsche bites back a soft sound of discomfort does he pull out and haul himself onto his knees, fumbling for the sodden fabric binding Porsche’s wrists and reaching for the tap to rinse them both off.
Porsche slips again as he steps out of the tub, wobbling on unsteady legs. Kinn wraps an arm around Porsche’s waist and takes most of his weight, steering him out of the bathroom and toward the bed.
He gives both of them a cursory rub-down with a towel, just enough that they’re not soaking the bedcovers. Porsche hisses when Kinn gropes his cock through the towel, twitching away and batting at him. It only takes Kinn’s finger against his chest to tip Porsche back onto the bed, where he lands with a soft whoomph onto the comforter.
Kinn sprawls out beside him and lets them both bask in the afterglow for a while. When he looks over, he sees that Porsche’s face has gone soft and relaxed, his eyes drifting shut. Kinn reaches out impulsively to trail his fingers down the line of Porsche’s throat, pleased when Porsche turns his head in response to grant him better access. Porsche’s eyes slit open to watch Kinn in turn, studying him as he idly caresses Porsche’s collarbone.
He’s wanted to explore Porsche’s chest since Kinn first saw him without a shirt on, so Kinn rouses himself enough to roll over onto his side, thumbing at Porsche’s nipple. It tightens under his touch as he flicks it back and forth, until Kinn is compelled to roll over further and get his mouth on Porsche’s warm brown skin. He licks across the expanse of Porsche’s chest, scraping his teeth over Porsche’s pectoral muscle before biting down.
Porsche groans, but doesn’t try to stop him. He lets Kinn do what he wants, which shouldn’t feel as heady as it does. Kinn is used to having his way in bed, being satisfied and accommodated. It feels like something that shouldn’t be taken for granted with Porsche.
“God, they were right about you,” Porsche mutters. His hands come up to stroke Kinn’s hair, then slide down his shoulders to drape loosely over his back. Kinn bites his other nipple, worrying it between his teeth before licking the reddened skin.
He remembers what Porsche had said earlier about no one wanting to deal with Kinn, and leaves off sucking a bruise onto Porsche’s chest to raise his head, curious. “And what do they say, exactly?” he asks, his fingertip circling Porsche’s nipple in idle warning.
“That you’re a sadist,” Porsche answers, ignoring the warning and squirming when Kinn pinches him in retaliation. “That you like to be in control. That you’re fucking insatiable and no one can keep up with you.”
Kinn is surprised by how inaccurate that is. It’s certainly the image he’s cultivated, and he understands why Porsche believes it, but it’s not even close to the truth. Without Vegas’ mindgames and his own competitive nature driving him, he’d have happily shown Porsche out the door by now and tucked himself in for some reading and tea before bed.
Maybe not Porsche, he revises. Anyone else, certainly, but the want still burning low in his belly is new and unexpected. He doesn’t feel like he’s had nearly enough of Porsche. It’s like looking down into a yawning chasm, aware of the potential dizzying drop.
Kinn doesn’t know why he answers honestly. Maybe it’s the aftermath of orgasm, still fucking with his hormones. Maybe it’s just that Porsche seems like he’s listening.
“My cousin has the same…tastes…as I do. He uses the same agency, and knows who I request. I can’t let him be…better than I am.”
Porsche is silent for a moment. Then he says, “That’s fucked up. You know that, right?”
Kinn sets his lips against Porsche’s chest in a lingering, close-mouthed kiss. “I don’t know how to stop,” he admits, feeling guilty over the confession.
Porsche rubs his back, rolling his knuckles over one of the knotted muscles at the base of Kinn’s neck. “You should just buy the agency,” he says finally.
Kinn raises his head and blinks. “What?”
“Buy the agency,” Porsche repeats, sounding drowsy. “Then you can blacklist your cousin and any other clients you don’t want. Aren’t you into that kind of business anyway?”
Most of Kinn’s business ventures are above-board and legal, but he doesn’t make the correction. His head is spinning. He thinks about the freedom of owning an escort service, of never having to see his partners hanging on Vegas’ arm the night after they’ve been with Kinn.
He thinks about owning Porsche, and that terrifying chasm opens up in his stomach again, hungry and possessive.
He bites Porsche’s neck where it joins his shoulder, drawing out a low moan. He licks up the side of Porsche’s throat, tasting sweat and the faint chemical bitterness of the bubble bath. When he lifts his head, Porsche’s dark eyes are on him.
He’s so close. It would be so easy for Kinn to kiss him.
Kinn looks away and rolls onto his back. “I’m going to blow-dry my hair,” he says, sitting up on the edge of the bed.
There’s a long pause behind him, and then Porsche says, “Sure. I’ll go get my things.”
It’s for the best, Kinn thinks. He already feels dangerously out of control, and another round with Porsche - in Kinn’s bed, smelling of them together, their combined sweat and spunk and musk - isn’t going to improve things.
He doesn’t let himself look back when Porsche gets up to leave.
*
Kinn buys the escort agency.
In the process, he receives a detailed client list, which he intends to make use of in the future, and a complete roster of employees.
Porsche isn’t on it.
He’s not there under a working pseudonym, and not under a legal name, so far as Kinn can tell. There are photographs attached to every file, and none of them are Porsche.
Kinn had been so certain it was the truth, when Porsche had said he wasn’t an assassin. Kinn hadn’t stopped to consider whether he might be a spy instead.
The agency manager stammers excuses when Kinn corners her about his last appointment. Porsche is independent, she says. It was a special contract, one-time only, for their most valued client.
“Find him,” he demands, sending the beehive of his bodyguard detail buzzing into urgent motion.
They track down Porsche in a small club called Hum Bar after two weeks of searching, by way of an underground fighting ring where Porsche is apparently a regular, easily recognized by his distinctive tattoo.
Porsche is working behind the bar when Kinn walks in, followed by a full complement of six bodyguards who fan out to cover all of the exits. Porsche’s automatic smile of greeting fades into wide-eyed alarm at the sight of them, and that only increases once he spots Kinn.
“Hey, woah,” he tries, raising both hands in surrender and glancing around the bar at the customers. Everyone else is being firmly escorted from the building by Kinn’s bodyguards, which Porsche seems to recognize as the danger sign it is.
Kinn crosses the room at a deliberate, leisurely pace, and takes a seat at the bar. Porsche’s expression has shuttered into wariness, which feeds the hot core of Kinn’s fury. He doesn’t ever forgive a betrayal. That had been a lesson he’d only needed to learn once.
“You and I are going to have a conversation now,” Kinn says, pleasant enough to be intimidating, “about who sent you to me.”
Instead of closing down further, Porsche looks confused. “I already told you, no one sent me.”
“No? Then why don’t you work for me?” Kinn folds his hands on the sticky bar in front of him. When Porsche doesn’t answer, he explains, “I bought the escort agency.”
Porsche looks blank. “I don’t work for the agency.”
“Yes,” Kinn emphasizes clearly. “I know.”
Porsche’s expression clears abruptly, like he’s finally caught on to what’s happening here. Kinn is viciously pleased to see that he doesn’t look any less alarmed by it.
“Okay, okay,” Porsche says, hands raised again. “I went as a favor to friends. I told you, they wanted a night off. I was curious about you. It wasn’t really on the books.”
Kinn had already known that. The complete lack of documentation for Porsche’s night with him had been a glaring giveaway. “Who do you work for?” he asks, trying not to visibly tense in anticipation of the answer.
If it’s Vegas…Kinn can’t even think about that directly.
Porsche gives him another confused look. “Which agency?” Kinn prompts.
Porsche spreads his hands, still looking bewildered. “I don’t work for an agency.” When Kinn just stares at him, he gestures around them. “Any agency. I work at a bar.”
Kinn pauses to turn that over. “You’re not an escort.”
“No. Well, kind of, I guess, for one night. For you. I got paid partly in pizza and beer, though.” Porsche rubs the back of his neck, which is flushed slightly from the admission.
Kinn doesn’t let his eyes linger on the way Porsche’s biceps strain the thin fabric of his t-shirt.
When Kinn doesn’t say anything else, Porsche huffs out an exasperated breath. “Come on. I was wearing jeans and showed up on a motorbike. Does that really seem like a high-end career escort to you?”
Kinn remains silent. It’s a proven interrogation tactic for a reason, and it works like a charm on Porsche, who continues talking to fill the silence.
“Look, I’m sorry I kind of lied to you, especially when your cousin’s being so shitty. I wasn’t not there as an escort, though. I’m just. Not one. Normally.”
Porsche winds down to a halt and waits for Kinn to make the next move. His gaze is steady on Kinn’s. There’s no hint of guile in it, although Kinn’s been fooled before by a pretty face and an appeal for sympathy.
If someone had sent a spy to gain Kinn’s trust, however, he can’t imagine why they’d have chosen Porsche. His people have done a background check. Porsche is a bartender and university student who fights in illegal street matches for money. He’s not affiliated with any gangs, not associated with the minor family. He’s so completely opposite of Kinn’s usual type that Big had been reluctant to even let him in the door.
“Have you told anyone anything you learned while in my company?” Kinn asks finally.
Porsche looks almost offended. “What do you think I learned, your preferred brand of bath products?”
“Anything,” Kinn presses, and Porsche leans back suddenly away from him. Kinn doesn’t know when they’d gotten so close. He hadn’t realized they’d both been leaning forward, drawn in toward one another.
“No,” Porsche snaps. “I didn’t. Not anything you said to me, either. Is there anything else?”
Kinn feels his stomach unclench. The kernel of fear and doubt at the heart of his anxiety, that Porsche had betrayed his confidence, slowly starts to ease.
“No,” he says eventually. “Nothing else.”
It could be Kinn’s imagination, but he thinks Porsche looks conflicted about that. “Hey. Look on the bright side,” Porsche tells him. “I’ve only done this once. At least you know I’m not fucking your cousin.”
The possessive hunger Kinn had thought he’d laid to rest comes roaring back to life in the space of a heartbeat.
“Come home with me,” he says impulsively. His fingers clench on the tacky surface of the bar. “Right now. Work for me.”
“What? No. Absolutely fucking not,” Porsche says vehemently. “I already have a job, and you have serious trust issues.”
“Then just leave with me,” Kinn says. He feels out of control again, wild and teetering on that cliff’s edge. “Stay tonight.”
“So I can trash your bathtub again?” Porsche asks, but the sarcastic bite of his tone is at odds with the way his body relaxes on the other side of the bar, leaning back in toward Kinn.
“We can skip the bath,” Kinn says, throwing common sense and caution out the window. “We can make new rules.”
Porsche’s gaze drops to Kinn’s mouth. Kinn wants him so badly, he’s nearly ready to haul Porsche across the bar and kiss him right here.
“What sort of new rules?” Porsche asks, like they aren’t both thinking the same thing. Like he doesn’t already know.
Kinn might be holding his breath. This is it, he thinks. The chasm. No measuring stick, no pressure to perform. No rules.
From here, that chasm suddenly looks less like a sheer drop, and more like a leap of faith. One with Porsche standing on the other side, waiting for him to make the jump.
Kinn breathes in and meets Porsche’s eyes.
He says, “Come home with me and find out.”