Thorne did, soft and sweet, taking his time, touching Dash so gently it was more a caress of lips than a kiss. There was no wild rush of passion, yet when Thorne pulled back, Dash wanted nothing more than to be fucked by him. No, that wasn’t right. He wanted Thorne to make love to him because that would erase the ugliness of the night. Dash rarely hated what he did, but that night, that odious bastard Collins had made him ashamed. Thorne could erase the feeling.

Thorne brushed the back of his hand over Dash’s cheek. “Don’t let that son of a bitch make you feel bad.”

“Make me feel good instead.” Dash’s voice cracked. Thorne was seeing him at his worst.

“There’s nothing I want more.” Thorne’s breath was warm against his ear.

Dash’s embarrassment dissipated because Thorne understood what he needed. It was what Thorne himself often needed.

Dash remembered for a moment that Thorne was a client and Dash was there to pleasure him. “Are you sure? If you’d rather—”

“There’s nothing I’d rather do than please you. Forget why you’re really here. Your only job right now is to feel.”

Dash did feel, so keenly it hurt. Would he survive this?

“Let’s go to bed,” Thorne said.

Dash stood on shaky legs. Thorne took hold of his shoulders and turned him around.

“Move. I need to spread you out and open you up. I can’t do that on the fucking couch.”

Dash’s mouth went dry, and his cock tried to push through the snug pants of his new tux. Somehow, he managed to walk across the room, hurried along by Thorne.

“Strip,” Thorne demanded when they were standing at the end of the bed.

Dash turned and studied Thorne as he rubbed his thumb over Thorne’s lower lip. He needed to feel that fullness, so he rose up and ran his tongue across it.

Thorne gasped, grabbed Dash’s waistband, and hauled him up against his firm body. “If you’re going to tease me, I’ll strip you myself.”

“Don’t damage this thing getting it off me,” Dash insisted. “I’ve never owned anything like this.”

“I’ll buy you another one.”

“The fuck you will.”

Thorne shoved Dash’s pants and briefs to his feet, and Dash kicked them off. Then Thorne lifted each of Dash’s arms, removing the cufflinks and tossing them—with surprisingly good aim—into a bowl on his dresser. When he started work on Dash’s buttons, Dash could feel his impatience. He was going to rip the fucking shirt.

“Let me.” But Dash’s hands were no quicker. They were shaking from anticipation, need, and a hint of embarrassment at how unnerved he was.