Chapter Text
Rhys can’t believe his eyes.
When you live in Helios you see Handsome Jack everywhere. On billboards, in magazines, in videos projected above towers, you even hear his voice practically everywhere you go. There are tons of people who’ve never even set foot on the planet, much less in the city, and they know who he is — that’s what happens when you're the president of one of the most well-known weapons manufacturing companies.
He’s a rockstar, Rhys thinks. (Though he’s sure his roommate, Vaughn, would disagree.)
And at this very moment, Rhys is looking at the man himself. Not a projection or a fancy VI, not a picture or piece of snazzy artwork, but the actual Handsome Jack.
Rhys is doing his thing, hanging out at a bar that’s known for being a place to pick up prostitutes — it’s practically the only reason anyone comes there — and there’s actual Handsome Jack standing right in front of him. Rhys swallows his beer a little too hard and it goes down hard, but hey, it’s a reminder that he’s not dreaming or anything.
Is Jack there to pick someone up? Oh god, please.
He realizes that he’s staring — and Jack is staring back, looking considerably less interested than Rhys is — and Rhys knows he needs to say something. Anything. If he doesn’t speak and Jack moves on to the next pretty face, Rhys is never going to forgive himself. Ever. He sets his glass down and props an elbow on the the bar — he almost misses, almost slips and hurts himself, but he shows his best smile.
“Looking for some company?” he asks as confidently as he can.
Jack scowls. He throws a quick look around the bar, then sweeps his gaze critically over Rhys. For a long, long moment, he just assesses him. Stares at him so hard that Rhys wilts and shifts his weight, anxiety making his shoulder blades itch. He fucked up, didn’t he? He goofed. Shit.
But then Jack puts his hands on his hips, seeming resigned. “Yeah, you’ll do.”
And really, Rhys should take that as an insult. But he doesn’t.
He grins and straightens. “There’s a hotel around the corner —”
“Yeah, no, I don’t do hotels, kiddo. God, you’re a gangly one, aren’t ya? Nice long limbs.”
Rhys preens.
“I like the arm. Does it come with any attachments?”
“Depending on how much you pay me, maybe I could afford some for next time,” Rhys says cheekily.
A bark of surprised laughter leaves Jack and he nods, almost like he’s impressed. He grabs Rhys’ nearly empty glass and tosses it back, finishing off the beer Rhys had been nursing the whole night while he’d waited for the right person to walk in.
He grimaces at the taste. “I’m almost tempted to change my mind now — damn, you have crappy taste.”
“It grows on you.”
“I highly doubt that. Let’s get outta here before you do something else to make me regret this.”
“Don’t you want to hear my rates?”
Jack rolls his eyes. “Do you know who I am?”
“Well — yeah.”
“Then you know that I’m filthy frickin’ rich, right?”
Rhys sees dollar signs. He’s about to hook up with a god damn celebrity and he’s going to be paid handsomely for it. (Hah… handsomely… Handsome Jack. He has to remember to tell Vaughn that one.) Could he get any luckier right now?
“I mean, sure,” he says, shrugging.
“Good, so just tell me what to call you and march that skinny ass out to my car.”
“Rhys.”
“Please tell me that’s not a fake name you picked for yourself, because wow, it’s awful. Could’ve given yourself any name in the world and you pick that one.”
“Nope, it’s very real and it’s very not awful, thank you.”
Jack mutters under his breath as they leave the bar, and there’s a large, sleek car waiting for them. The back door opens before they reach it, and Jack ushers Rhys in before he follows.
There’s so much space in the back of the car that Rhys thinks both he and Vaughn could live in there comfortably — and even invite Yvette over for parties, shit — and he stretches his legs out in front of him as he gets comfortable against the black leather seat. It even smells expensive, and the dollar signs appear in front of Rhys’ eyes again.
Jack settles beside him and as the door shuts, the car immediately starts moving, apparently programmed to go wherever Jack tells it.
Rhys glances sideways at him. “Are we, uh, going to your place?” he tries to ask casually. He’s usually a lot better at this — well, a little better at this — but maybe he’s a little starstruck right now. Sue him.
“That a problem for you?”
“What? No — no. I mean, I guess the CEO of Hyperion isn’t going to cut me up and scatter my body parts throughout town or anything.”
“Don’t give me any ideas, sweetheart. You should see what I do to my employees.”
A laugh bubbles out of Rhys and wow, he really shouldn’t find it funny, should he? Jack’s gaze flickers towards him, mouth twitching like he’s going to smile, and warmth pools in Rhys’ chest. He might actually enjoy this.
Jack lives in only the sort of high-rise building you’d expect. It’s on the other side of Helios, the expensive side, and Rhys’ jaw drops a little as he sees it. He’d never even fantasized about a building like this, much less seen one in person. He never could have imagined there were buildings this nice in the same city his crappy apartment existed in.
“Catching flies?” Jack asks when he sees Rhys’ reaction.
“Shut up, I was — I was thinking.”
Jack cackles a little at that, climbing out of the car.
The elevator to the top floor seems to take ages and Rhys almost grows bored with it. But then Jack’s leading him into his penthouse and Rhys has to try and contain his amazement at the luxury that awaits him. He’s got to change his line of work, he thinks. He needs to own his own weapons manufacturing company or something because this? This is the kind of life he was meant to lead.
As they reach the bedroom and Jack pulls off his outermost layer, Rhys bats his eyelashes a little — in the way Yvette taught him, not the way he used to do it, the way that made it look like he had something stuck in his eye. He gives his best smile again and even licks his lips.
“So what do you want from me first, Handsome Jack?”
Jack smirks a little. “That’s nice — almost makes up for your cheap taste in beer. Here’s the plan, alright? I’m gonna fuck you stupid. I like it fast and I like my partners loud.”
“I can do that —”
“Yeah, we’ll see about that. Come here. You got any big no-no things I should hear about?”
“Not really.”
“That’s a very smart answer,” Jack says sarcastically. “Let’s make it simple: you say ‘stop’ and I’ll stop. You say ‘no’ and I’ll change up my tactics. I’m a simple man, Rhys, however exquisite and refined my tastes might seem to someone of your…” he trails his gaze up and down Rhys, and finishes wryly, “Caliber.”
“Works for me.” Rhys presses his hands against Jack’s chest, delights in the strength he feels, and he says, “You want to make yourself a drink first? Maybe I can give you a little massage —”
Jack interrupts him, cuts him off by shoving two fingers into Rhys’ mouth. Rhys’ eyebrows go up in surprise, his head cocking slightly, and Jack pushes out a sigh through his nose.
“Look, I know you’re not charging me by the hour here, sugar, but really, I just wanna get on with it. I’ve had a long, dull week of dealing with the stupid jackasses who work for me and I want something to take my mind off it.” He presses his fingers down against Rhys’ tongue, something dark and dangerous flashing in his gaze, and he asks, “You got that?”
Rhys nods a little. Then takes a chance and sucks on Jack’s fingers. That dark and dangerous something comes back with a vengeance in those mismatched eyes, and Jack gives him a predatory little grin.
“I knew you weren’t as dumb as you look.” Jack reclaims his hand — not before tracing his spit-slicked fingers down Rhys’ chin — and he turns to sit down on the edge of the bed. He reclines back, braced on his hands, and he lifts one of his shoulders in an unimpressed half-shrug. “What’re you waiting for? Get undressed.”
“You said you like it fast, I get it,” Rhys says with a little smirk, starting to unbutton his shirt, “But I know you’re the type who gets off on telling others what to do — I can tell. So, uh, that’s what I was waiting for.”
“Oh? You ‘know’ this about me, do you? You think you’re hot shit, huh?”
“I mean… you did pick me up.”
“And I can just as easily kick you out. I’m not the one who’s relying on this sort of thing to keep food on the table, babe.”
Rhys gives an agreeing little nod, finished with the buttons (and he’d only fumbled with them once, at that). He opens his shirt and watches the way Jack’s eyes rake over him, scanning him critically. He’s skinny and soft, and he knows his clients tend to expect more from him — abs, at the very least — but he’s usually confident in his appearance. Or, at least, confident in the knowledge that his skills will make up for what his body lacks in definition.
Usually.
Something has his heart thumping uncomfortably in his chest now, however. Jack’s eyes bore into him, appraising him, and as his gaze travels over Rhys like he intends to burn the sight to memory, heat crawls up Rhys’ neck. It’s Jack, he knows. The power he wields to cut through you right to your insecurities, make you almost desperate for his approval.
Hooking up with a celebrity isn’t as easy as Rhys thought it would be.
He lingers on the robot arm as Rhys shrugs the shirt off entirely. Rhys unconsciously wiggles his mechanical fingers, a nervous tic.
“Huh,” Jack says finally, thoughtful but not exactly disappointed. “Thought you’d look different.”
Rhys opens his mouth, but Jack doesn’t let him finish.
“No, no, I think I like it, actually.” It’s like he’s debating with himself — like he doesn’t even realize he’s speaking aloud. He blinks and his gaze returns to Rhys’ face, eyes narrowing. He snaps his fingers and gives a low whistle like he’s calling a dog. “Pants next, come on.”
Thinking better of just dropping his shirt to the floor, Rhys gives Jack a brassy little smirk and tosses it at him instead. Jack catches it lazily in one hand, but doesn’t throw it away — he holds onto it and stares at Rhys like he’s never seen anything quite like him before. And that’s good, right? That’s a good reaction to evoke in someone who’s paying you for sex?
Rhys undoes his fly and hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his pants, sparing Jack another fleeting look before he slides them down. After toeing off his shoes, he steps out of both them and the pants, kicks them aside, and then he fingers the elastic of his colorful and striped boxer briefs.
Jack snorts. He’s looking first at Rhys’ garish socks, then at his underwear. “Boy, you really dressed up for the occasion, didn’t you?”
“At least I’m consistent,” Rhys says. Excuse him, but the design on the socks and underwear almost perfectly matches — that’s awesome, and anyone with half a brain and a lick of fashion sense would tell you that. They weren’t even sold together in a set or anything. It was fate, buying them.
“Look, I gotta ask: is it your first day on the job or something? You’re not striking me as someone who’s very professional here.”
“That’s objective.”
“Subjective. That’s the word you’re looking for.”
“Whatever. Hey, man, if you aren’t feeling it, you aren’t feeling it. I can totally get out of here.” Rhys bends and grabs for his pants. He has no intention of actually leaving, but Jack doesn’t know that. He almost expects a quick ‘no’ from the other man, maybe with a forced too-casual follow-up to try and look cool afterwards.
Instead, Jack says, low and threatening, “Put those back on and you’re gonna regret it, pumpkin. We’re just getting to the good part.”
His tone makes Rhys’ throat go dry, makes him feel hot all over. He raises his eyebrows as he glances back at Jack, and Jack’s gaze is steady and even. Rhys thinks he probably shouldn’t be as into this as he is. In his line of work, you stay away from the people with such hunger in their eyes, such brutality buzzing in their bones and radiating off them in waves — no matter how rich they are. You have to be proactive if you don’t want to get hurt.
And yet, all Rhys wants to do is tell this guy, ‘Hurt me, please.’
Dropping his pants again, Rhys smirks a little and nears the bed. Jack watches him, unblinking, and shifts his legs apart ever so slightly, telling Rhys right where he wants him without uttering a word. Dutifully, Rhys falls to his knees between Jack’s legs, placing his hands on Jack’s thighs and looking up at him from under his lashes.
He slides his hands up towards Jack’s crotch, then drags his fingers back down. Jack flexes beneath his touch, and he huffs an agitated little sigh.
“I’m not known for my patience,” he says.
“Will you just let me do my job?”
“You got any plans of actually doing it?”
Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Rhys slides his flesh hand back up and presses it against Jack. As he starts palming Jack through his pants, stirring his cock into arousal, he uses his robot hand to knead at the meat of Jack’s thigh, massaging it. With a satisfied little grunt, Jack shrugs out of the rest of his top layers, leaving himself in a yellow sweater that Rhys really wants to point out is just as tasteless as his underwear/socks combo, but he bites his tongue.
He unbuckles Jack’s belt, then undoes the fly of his pants, and a thrill shoots through him as he realizes that Jack seems to prefer going commando. Of course he does. It’s stupidly fitting. He glances up at Jack again as he dips his flesh hand into his pants, and Jack is breathing carefully through lips that are barely parted, his eyes darkened and clouded with desire as he stares down at Rhys.
You’ll do, he’d said. Rhys can’t help but feel smug.
He pulls Jack's cock out — it’s mostly hard by now, of average length, but thick, and the dark hair around it is groomed meticulously, though he didn’t expect anything less. And as he wraps his fingers around the warm shaft, he squeezes lightly and traces his thumb along the prominent vein that runs on the underside. As if he’s touching himself, his own dick pulses in his underwear — that’s new. It usually takes a little more to turn him on by now.
“Gonna tell me what a nice cock I have, or what?”
Rhys grins at him. Gives him a few loose strokes before he brings his hand up to his mouth and licks a stripe from his palm to the tips of his fingers. He doesn’t miss the way Jack watches this simple gesture like a hawk. “Didn’t think I needed to point out the obvious.”
“Good answer.”
Still grinning, Rhys starts to work Jack’s dick nice and slowly. His fingers close tighter as he strokes upwards, then loosen up on the way back down, and he watches a translucent bead of pre-come swell out of the tip. Driven by a primal need to taste it, he ducks down and presses his lips to the head like he’s giving it a gentle kiss — he smears the wetness around with his mouth, then lets his tongue snake out and flick against the sensitive skin.
Jack takes a slow, controlled breath.
Rhys casts a teasing look back up at him. “You taste nice too.”
And Jack grins at him. It makes Rhys feel warm again.
He explores every inch of Jack’s cock with his tongue, starting at the base and licking up one side, and then down the other. He ignores the swollen tip, even as more pre-come oozes from it, and he starts mouthing along the shaft, letting his teeth slightly scrape the velvety skin. Some people don’t do teeth, but Jack doesn’t seem averse to it — he buries a big hand in Rhys’ hair and all but pets him in encouragement.
When Rhys finally comes back up to the tip, letting his tongue swirl around it, a deep rumble of a groan leaves Jack. The sound goes right to Rhys’ cock and he really wants to touch himself; almost does, in fact, but he reminds himself that he’s a professional. This is about Jack’s pleasure first and foremost — he can’t pay himself, after all. His tongue flicks against the tip again, playing at the leaking slit, and he smiles up at Jack.
“You like that?” he purrs.
“Oh, honey, you don’t need to talk to me like I’m one of your other average johns. If I didn’t like it, believe me, you’d know.”
Rhys laughs a little. Fair enough. He presses a kiss to Jack’s dick again, then wraps his lips around the tip. He sucks gently, lets his tongue dance against the skin, and he pays attention solely to the head. So the rest of Jack doesn’t feel neglected though, he starts working Jack’s shaft again with his hand, pumping it in smooth, easy motions.
Jack sighs. His fingers tighten in Rhys’ hair, pulling.
Rhys looks up at him to find that he’s staring down at him with fire in his gaze, and Rhys smiles around him before he lets his own eyes flutter shut. He hollows his cheeks as he sucks on the tip, earning himself another soft sound from Jack, a murmured praise that moves through Rhys on a shudder.
Then, Jack says, “More,” and there’s pressure on Rhys’ head, urging him down.
He obliges. Starts to take more of Jack into his mouth, and Jack sighs again. Rhys has been with a lot of vocal people before, but something about Jack is different — better. Or maybe it’s just Jack himself. Getting the president of Hyperion to moan and sigh and praise you is a hell of an ego boost, right?
And damn, they’ve only just started.
“All of it,” Jack says next.
And again, Rhys obliges. Relaxes his throat and swallows every inch, buries his nose in the curls at the base.
“That’s it, kitten, that’s the way.” He holds Rhys there, forces him to remain in place for a moment, and just as Rhys is starting to feel like it’s too much, he loosens his grasp and strokes Rhys’ scalp almost gently. Rhys comes up, coughing a little, and Jack lets out a groan mixed with a laugh. “Fucking beautiful.”
“You probably say that to everyone who sucks your dick.”
“Well, you’re not wrong.”
Rhys laughs and swallows him down again, flattening his tongue against the underside and sucking. Jack’s hand remains on his head as he starts to bob up and down, quickening the pace now that he’s getting used to Jack’s size, and once or twice, Jack holds him down again. And Rhys likes it more than he should, likes the way Jack calls him a ‘good boy’ when he comes up for air. He’s given a lot of blow jobs in his life, and there’s only one he’s enjoyed more than this one right now, and that’s only because that one had sentimental value to him.
He’s enjoying it so much, actually, that when Jack pulls him off of him and growls at him to stop, Rhys is disappointed.
Jack stands, yanking Rhys up with him by his hold on his hair, and he slides an arm around Rhys’ waist. Before Rhys can ask what he wants next, Jack’s other hand is on him. He grabs him through his boxer briefs, shaping his fingers against Rhys’ erection and squeezing. A shaky little moan of surprise leaves Rhys. He feels like he needs to hold on — his fingers twist into the material of the Hyperion sweater, feet trying to find purchase on the plush rug.
“Got this hard just from tasting me, huh? I bet I’m the only one that’s ever affected you like that, aren’t I?”
He squeezes again, hard, and a broken little sound leaves Rhys as he tries to speak.
“Come on, use your words.”
“You — you are,” Rhys manages. It’s hard to think because of the way Jack’s fingers are working against his cock, stroking him through the thin cotton of his underwear. It’s like Rhys’ body is an instrument that he alone is some weird expert at playing.
“I am what? You’re losing me here, kiddo.”
Rhys curses.
Jack laugh. “As much as I like hearing these vulgar little words fall from your pretty little mouth, that’s not what I was looking for.”
“You’re the only one,” Rhys says through his teeth. “I’ve never gotten this hard blowing anyone before.”
Jack’s eyes gleam wolfishly. He suddenly turns and shoves Rhys down onto the bed, and in a flash, he’s hooking his fingers into the waistband of Rhys’ underwear and wrenching them down his hips. Rhys’ cock springs free and settles against his stomach, and Rhys shifts a little on the mattress, getting comfortable.
Jack tosses the boxer briefs aside and surveys Rhys fully; the long expanse of his torso, his spindly legs, his hairless cock and balls. He smiles a little. “Look at that pretty cock — so desperate for me to make it come.”
And Rhys doesn’t know how to react because this isn’t at all what he’s used to. His normal clients usually just want a quick release — whether it’s a blow job followed by a short, unsatisfying-for-him fuck, or just a blow job and facial before they turn all self-loathing and cold — they never act like this. They don’t care about Rhys’ pleasure — they aren’t paying for him to get off, of course.
But Jack seems actively interested in it, and holy shit, Rhys is so turned on he can’t think.
Jack chuckles and shakes his head. “Oh, I’m gonna fuck you so good, Rhys.”
The sound of Jack’s voice as he says his name makes Rhys’ cock throb.
“But first,” Jack goes on, that predatory glint flashing in his eyes again, “I want to watch you.”
“You want to…?”
“Touch yourself for me, baby.”
Rhys hesitates, though he doesn’t know why.
“Go on.” Jack pulls his yellow sweater over his head, flinging it aside carelessly, and Rhys is momentarily distracted by the sight before him.
With his pants open and his dick still hanging out, Jack is shirtless and thoroughly impressive. It’s hard to tell with all the layers, but he’s broad and thick, not necessarily cut or ripped, but strong all the same. There’s dark hair across the top of his chest, and even scars littering his torso that Rhys longs to learn with his tongue.
He notices that Rhys is staring and visibly puffs up a little in pride, though he makes a flapping gesture with his hand. “Things were going so well for us, Rhysie, don’t make me lose my patience here.”
Rhys nods and brings his flesh hand up to his mouth to get it nice and wet with spit. He grabs ahold of his dick and starts stroking it at an even pace, his gaze flickering from what he’s doing up to Jack. Jack settles his hands on his hips and just watches, his jaw tight and his eyes smoldering, and Rhys knows he’s blushing stupidly. His neck and face are on fire — he’s never really been shoved into the spotlight like this before.
But he likes it. He likes the way Jack is looking at him like he wants to devour him, like he intends to do just that any second. The thought sends a spike of pleasure through him and Rhys can’t stop the little groan that leaves him. The idea of Jack’s mouth being anywhere on him makes him want to cry he’s so desperate for it.
How did this happen? How did he lose control so quickly?
“Feels good, huh?” Jack asks.
“So good.”
Jack grins at Rhys’ immediate response, pleased that Rhys had answered with actual words. “You want me to fuck you?” he asks next.
Rhys shivers a little, hips pushing up off the bed to get more of his moving fist, and he nods. “Yes. So bad, Jack.”
Jack raises his eyebrows.
“I want you to fuck me so bad.”
“I know you do, buttercup.” He moves away, rounds the bed to go to the nightstand, and when he glances back at Rhys and sees his hand falter, he says, “Ah-ah, keep it up. Don’t you stop until I tell you to stop.”
He returns to his post at the end of the bed to watch Rhys, and Rhys sees what he’d grabbed from the bedside table. There’s a condom in one hand, and a bottle of lube in the other, and excitement piques in him. It must be obvious because Jack laughs.
He tosses the lube onto the mattress beside Rhys. “Get yourself ready for me.”
He’d brought his own lube — he was always prepared, with condoms and lube in his pockets — but he’s more than happy to use Jack’s. No doubt, Jack owns the good stuff, the expensive stuff that makes it feel extra good. Rhys grabs it eagerly with his mechanical hand, still pumping his cock with the other.
“Yeah, nice and wet and ready,” Jack murmurs. His own hand’s gone to his dick too, and Rhys is sure he could come just from the sight alone.
Rhys stops stroking himself and spreads his legs, bent at the knees, and he angles his hips to not only give Jack the show he wants, but to make sure he can reach. He squeezes a good amount of lube into his flesh hand and smooths it around his fingers, and then he squeezes more out and brings his hand between his legs. Jack watches hungrily.
Holding his breath, Rhys spreads the liquid around his hole and dips his forefinger past the tight ring of muscle. A pleased rumble stirs in Jack’s chest once more. The sound urges Rhys on, and he slides his finger in as deep as he can. He rushes it — he’s way too eager to get to the good stuff — and he adds a second finger almost right away.
As he starts to work himself open, he moans Jack’s name and looks back up at the other man. Jack is stroking himself, his movements restrained and slow, and he’s not watching what Rhys thought he was watching — his eyes are glued to Rhys’ face. If Rhys’s skin wasn’t already burning, it certainly is now.
“Another finger,” Jack says.
So Rhys adds a third finger. The feeling of being stretched makes a shiver of delight course through him, but it’s not enough — god, he can’t wait until it’s Jack stretching him. The thought makes his hips jerk off the bed a little, a gasp leaving him as he fucks himself on his fingers.
Jack curses under his breath. And suddenly he’s tearing open the condom and rolling it on, and Rhys could laugh he feels so excited. After getting the condom on, Jack shoves his pants down and steps out of them, and he climbs into bed with Rhys, kneeling between his open legs.
“Don’t stop,” he reminds Rhys. He picks up the bottle of lube to smooth some along the length of his cock, and his voice is a little tight as he adds, “Gonna fuck you into the mattress, sweet thing, it’s gonna feel so good.”
Rhys smiles, brazen. “You promise?”
And Jack gives another laugh-turned-groan.
He grabs Rhys’ wrist, finally allowing him to stop working himself open, and his fingers stay locked around it like a steel manacle. He uses his other hand to line himself up, guide himself to Rhys’ entrance. Rhys props his hips up, and he’s glad they’re doing it like this — he wants to be able to watch Jack.
As the head of Jack’s dick presses against him, he clutches at the bed sheet beneath him with both hands. Jack’s moaning even as he starts to push into him, and though it burns — fuck, he’s thick — Rhys only wants more. His eyes squeeze shut before he forces them open again because he needs to see, needs to watch Jack’s face.
He’s not disappointed.
Jack’s expression is hard-edged but one of pleasure, his eyes half-lidded and dark, his mouth open. He looks up from where his cock is sliding into Rhys, gaze finding Rhys’ face again, and he murmurs, “So tight and warm for me.”
“Only for you,” Rhys agrees. A lot of his clients like that one, but in the moment, he actually kind of means it.
And Jack seems to like it too. He grins a shark’s grin and braces his hands on the mattress on either side of Rhys. In one fell motion, he sinks into him completely, burying himself to the hilt, and Rhys arches beneath him, breath leaving him in a gasp. It hurts, but god, it feels so good at the same time.
“So warm,” Jack says.
Rhys grins up at him and wriggles his hips like he’s trying to entice him. Being stretched like this, being so full of Jack, makes him feel like he’s intoxicated. His head swims and the sound of his pulse is thick in his ears.
Jack doesn’t wait to start moving. And if he were anyone else, Rhys might have been offended. He pulls out of Rhys almost entirely, only to thrust back into him as deep as he can, and he finds a quick rhythm. Rhys wraps his legs around Jack’s hips, trying to keep himself angled perfectly, and he bites back a grunt as Jack shifts, moving over him a little more.
And then Jack’s staring down at his face as his hips work, watching Rhys’ expression like it’s the most important thing in the world, and Rhys feels more vulnerable than he’s ever felt — which is saying a lot, he thinks. The pain is going away — or maybe it’s just being overruled by the pleasure — and Rhys lets one of his hands slide up Jack’s side, short nails scratching at his ribs.
As if Jack takes this as some sort of encouragement, he thrusts harder into Rhys. Rhys’ eyes close on their own, his head falling back with a short groan, and Jack says, “Fuck yeah.”
He follows through on his promise. Rhys doesn’t try to hold back his moans as Jack fucks him open, driving into him hard and fast. He writhes beneath him, hands clutching at anything they can reach — the sheets, the pillows, himself, Jack’s arms, even Jack’s face (Jack nips at his flesh fingers, teeth sharp and blunt, and it makes Rhys’ cock twitch).
He doesn’t want to touch himself yet though. He knows that the minute he touches his dick that it’s over, that he’s going to come all over himself like a teenager. He wants to last. For Jack.
Jack’s hair falls over his face, wild and damp with sweat, and there’s a vein in his neck popping as he slams into Rhys. And the whole time, his fiery eyes never leave Rhys’ face. Rhys doesn’t know what he’s watching for, and it makes him feel crazy self-conscious, but it also makes him feel kind of… special at the same time.
“You close, pumpkin?” he asks in a cloyingly sweet tone, sarcastic even as he’s fucking Rhys like his life depends on it.
“S-so close,” Rhys stutters unintentionally, his breath catching on a particularly hard thrust. One that touches that sweet spot inside of him and has him seeing stars.
Jack glances down at Rhys’ bouncing cock, but his gaze returns quickly to Rhys’. “Go on. Touch yourself.”
“Jack — if I — I’m gonna come,” Rhys whines.
“That’s what I want.”
He doesn’t need to say anything else. Rhys’ flesh hand goes right to his dick. He pumps himself as hard and fast as Jack is fucking him, hips bucking to get more of it. Get more of Jack and pull him in deeper. And when Jack hits that secret spot inside of him again, that’s all it takes.
He cries out and arches against the mattress, eyes clenching shut as he comes. It’s hard and blinding, and he almost feels like he’s going to die, and he thinks, well, at least he’s dying doing what he loves the most — orgasming. He makes a mess all over his stomach and chest, and he hears Jack’s deep, resounding groan in response, but he can’t quite open his eyes just yet.
He feels like there’s nothing beneath him, like both the floor and bed have disappeared and he’s suspended in air. As he collapses against the mattress, boneless and quivering, Jack doesn’t stop — continues to push relentlessly into him. He’s almost startled when one of Jack’s hands comes up to cup his jaw, his fingers firm against his skin like he’s hoping they leave marks.
“Look at me,” he says thickly.
Rhys opens his bleary eyes against light that feels too bright, and his gaze finds Jack’s. Satisfied, Jack flashes his teeth in a grin that looks more like a snarl, and still cupping Rhys’ jaw, he traces his thumb around the shape of Rhys’ mouth. When Rhys instinctively parts his lips, Jack shoves his thumb between them, and Rhys smiles around it and sucks.
The muscles in Jack’s neck go tight and his own climax hits him at that very instant.
He rears back, a sharp sound clawing its way out of his throat, and he rocks against Rhys once, twice, and then holds himself still. He pulls his thumb out of Rhys’ mouth and both of his hands go to Rhys’ hips, clutching so hard there’s definitely going to be bruises, and he utters a string of curses as he finishes coming.
And Rhys has never seen anything so damn hot.
Jack laughs breathlessly — it’s a rough sound. He grabs a handful of Rhys’ hair and jerks him up as he leans down, delivering a hard, close-mouthed peck to the crown of his head. It’s not affection, more like Jack thinks it’s some kind of reward. And truthfully, Rhys has no problem taking it as one. After he drops Rhys none-too-gently, he moves away, pulls out, and climbs to his feet.
As his cock leaves Rhys, Rhys sighs at the loss. And then he sighs again at how exhausted he feels — only the sort of deep fatigue in his bones that comes from being ‘thoroughly dicked’ as Vaughn would say. He glances down at his chest as Jack disappears into the bathroom, and an incredulous little huff of laughter leaves him. He hadn’t known what to expect when Jack had picked him up, but it definitely hadn’t been this. Shit.
Jack returns moments later, having discarded the condom and cleaned himself up — his hair is neat again, swept back out of his face. He’s composed, looking cool and casual, and when his eyes go to Rhys, he smirks. “Look at you, all sweet and destroyed.”
“You’re welcome,” Rhys says, pointing a finger gun at him.
And Jack gets a big kick out of that. When he’s done laughing, he shakes his head like he’s shaking himself out of a dream, and he says,“There’s soap in there, clean yourself up. You’re a disgusting mess.”
Rhys doesn’t know how long it takes him to actually get out of the bed. Jack wanders his large room without bothering to put any clothes on, ending up at his desk and paying a lot of attention to his computer. The nosy brat in Rhys wants to try and see what he’s doing — can you blame him for being curious? — but the businessman in him stops him from trying it. Jack hasn’t paid him yet.
The shower is beyond amazing. Not just because there’s real, actual water pressure unlike the stuff at his dumpy apartment, but because Jack has a ton of good smelling (and good feeling) soaps and shampoos. He takes a little longer than he probably should, but the hot water feels too good on his achy body, makes him unwind after what had to be one of the most intense orgasms he’s ever had.
When he comes out of the bathroom, done cleaning up and perfecting his hair at last, Jack’s waiting for him. He’s still naked — probably intends to take a shower the minute Rhys leaves — and he lets his eyes roam over Rhys slowly, a rapacious smirk curving his lips. He holds out a roll of bills. Ka-ching.
Rhys smiles and reaches for the money.
Jack pulls it back, eyebrows going up. “Not gonna forget me, are you, sweetheart?”
“If I promise not to, do I get a tip?”
A snort of laughter leaves Jack. He holds the money out again and Rhys makes sure to let his fingers stroke Jack’s as he takes it from him — it’s a thick roll, heavy in his hand, and he thinks, damn, he and Vaughn are eating good in the morning. He wants to count it all out and see just how much this night was worth to the likes of Handsome Jack, but that’s never good for business — you don’t want to look like you don’t trust your client.
When Rhys manages to tear himself away, when he slips out of the penthouse and makes his way towards the elevators, he realizes that he’s in trouble. Not just trouble, but Trouble with a capital T.
He might have been being cheeky when he’d answered Jack’s last question, but the truth is that he definitely won’t be able to forget this. Besides the fact that Jack’s face is plastered everywhere the Hyperion brand is, how could anyone forget a night like the one he’d just had? He’d come so hard that he swears his legs are still shaking even as he leaves the high-rise and finds a cab already waiting for him, and when he gets back to his and Vaughn’s shared apartment, he almost wants to brag about how well-fucked he is. (Vaughn’s lucky he’s already asleep and that Rhys is too nice to wake him up. You’re welcome, bro.)
As he crashes into bed, tenderness settling into him in all the right places, he’s actually a little crestfallen, knowing that this had most likely been a one-time thing. Tonight had been the first and only time Rhys had ever seen Jack at the bar he frequented — he doubted he’d see him there again.
At least it’d resulted in some good money, he figures. The thought is enough to make him roll over and slip into an easy, contented slumber.