Arne, Love at the Haven 6

LOVE AT THE HAVEN 6

A RENT BOY ROMANCE

STELLA SHAW

Copyright 2021 / Stella Shaw

Smashwords Edition

Friends-with-benefits is a practical arrangement—until it becomes something more.

Arne’s easy-going nature is sorely tried the night his kitchen’s almost set on fire. It’s the fault of admin assistant Simon, a man Arne’s treated with suspicion ever since Simon joined the Haven Hotel team. But when he has Simon in his arms, injured, vulnerable, yet full of sexy, prickly spirit to match Arne’s own—he starts to rethink.

When Simon confesses he’s struggling with intimacy, and Arne offers his practical help as an escort, it’s only meant as a joke. Until Simon accepts. He’s inexperienced and nervous despite his confidence at work, and embraces Arne’s sensual, unashamed instruction very eagerly. Alongside the passion, a friendship blossoms—and the vulnerability becomes emotional, too.

But Arne’s always been too generous with both his time and his money. When he’s betrayed by someone he trusted, it hits him hard, and halts his plans to launch a cookery vlog. All Simon wants to do is help him in return, but Arne rejects him.

Maybe it’s time for Simon and their friends at the Haven to unite on behalf of Arne’s ambitions and dreams. And help both Simon and Arne decide if there’s a new direction they can share.

Dedication: a special thanks to Terry and Chrissy, for both checking and supporting!

All Rights Reserved

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All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

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Contents

1 – ARNE

2 - SIMON

3 - ARNE

4 - SIMON

5 - SIMON

6 - ARNE

7 - SIMON

8 - ARNE

9 - ARNE

10 - SIMON

11 - SIMON

12 - ARNE

13 - SIMON

14 - ARNE

15 - SIMON

16 - SIMON

EPILOGUE - ARNE

The Love at the Haven series

About Stella Shaw

1 – ARNE

An unremarkable, rainy Thursday night in London, and in bedroom number 6 of the Haven Hotel, the middle-aged punter who was busy on his knees between my spread legs jerked his head up, so abruptly his chin whacked my balls. I winced, swore aloud, and my cock bounced back on my belly with a wet slap.

What the hell’s that noise? he cried.

Sprawled out naked on the mattress, I hauled myself up onto my elbows. It’s the smoke alarm.

Smoke alarm? His eyes rolled in shock. Are we on fire?

Well, things were certainly heating up, I said encouragingly, though my grin was more like a grimace.

No, I meant in the hotel!

He’d been a nervous client to start with, wary of anyone seeing him arriving for the escort booking. He’d been enthusiastic about getting me stripped, then sucking me off, but he was still half dressed himself.

What the hell’s happening? he bleated. Sucking appeared to be the last thing on his mind at the moment. Shouldn’t you be doing something?

As it looked like neither of us was getting off now, I reached for my sweat pants, the loud siren wailing in my ears. It’s okay. I was going to say keep your hair on, but unfortunately the poor sod didn’t have a lot to play with in the first place. It’s not on this floor. It sounds like the one in the bloody kitchen.

He was already scrambling back to his feet, zipping up his trousers. I saw him glance at his phone, so I suspected he was calculating what credit he’d get if we called the session short. The part-owner of the hotel, Eliot, had lots of city smarts and he’d drafted a no-refund clause to go into our booking terms and conditions—but none of the escorts were much good at paperwork, me included.

Downstairs, the alarm gave a hiccup, then stopped. Thank fuck, someone had turned it off. But with one sensory stimulus gone, others became stronger. I could smell acrid smoke in the distance and, with the sudden silence, feel my heart beating way too fast.

Who the fuck was in my kitchen, and what was burning?

I’ll have to go and check it out, I said, and stood. The kitchen was my responsibility, even though tonight was meant to be my evening off as chef. My punter was hovering nervously at the side of the bed. He’d probably have dashed straight out of the room if I wasn’t standing between him and the door.

I forced my expression into something more relaxed, biting back my anger. Why don’t you stay here until I get back? Don’t put your shoes back on yet. There’s a lot more fun we can have.

I suspected it was a lost cause and I was proved right when he clasped one of his lace-up brogues protectively to his chest and shook his head. No. No, I must go. Shouldn’t you be evacuating the building? I work in Health and Safety, you know. There are procedures you should be following.

I knew that. Rick, the other part-owner, had them fixed up on the back of every bedroom door. But as none of the other alarms had gone off, and there was no sound of running feet in the corridor outside, I reckoned this was a localised issue.

Yeah. In my kitchen!

I pulled on a t-shirt in case I bumped into any non-punters on the way—we rarely got other visitors, but no one could forget the day Tom scared the man come to inspect our electrical outlets by appearing in a mankini and stacked glitter boots—and went to the bedroom door. Mr Nervous was on my heels.

Stay behind me, I said. In case of a fireball.

Okay, so my humour could be a little wacky, but he took my words at face value. His eyes grew even wider and he gripped my arm like I was the firefighter leading him from a burning building. Bloody hell.

Of course, there was no fireball. There were no flames in the corridor at all. I glanced up the small staircase at the end of the landing, to check the door of Room 8 was closed, and no noise came from inside. Liam was away with his boyfriend Felix, and obviously not back at work yet. As I strode quickly towards the stairs, I checked all the other bedroom doors were closed too, apart from Room 3. Tom. Of course. He wouldn’t want to miss out if there was some kind of drama going on.

He was already in the open doorway, naked apart from a Wonder Woman towel loosely clutched around his skinny waist.

You on your way downstairs? he asked me, eyes bright and inquisitive. There’s no problem in here. He ran his shrewd gaze up and down my client. Hi sweetie. Wanna come in and shelter from the raging inferno with me and my friend? There’s a fire escape in this room, you know. He flashed me a cheeky wink then turned to go back into the room. Seemingly accidentally, he let the towel drop.

My client made an odd little gargled sound behind me.

For fuck’s sake.

I glanced into Room 3. Tom didn’t have a client at the moment, and looked to be playing Twister with Billy, one of the new young escorts. Billy was facing away from us, also stark naked, hands and feet on the mat—one hand on yellow, one foot on green, as far as I could see—with his limbs locked in a stretch, his arse thrust up on show, and his balls hanging low. He’d been a gymnast as a kid, apparently, and now he somehow managed to twist and peek at us from under his outstretched arm. Then licked his lips.

When I turned back, Mr Nervous had stepped so close we nearly bumped noses. He stared over my shoulder at the two young men inside, transfixed.

If you’re sure there’s no danger in the bedrooms, I could wait it out here? he suggested hoarsely. He glanced quickly at me, then back at the gamesters. Didn’t want to miss a second of those flexing buttocks, apparently. I mean, it looks like you’re needed elsewhere.

I rolled my eyes. You owe me, I mouthed to Tom who winked again and nodded. We weren’t meant to snatch each other’s punters, but it wasn’t something he did too often, and I didn’t have time to argue with him. I certainly didn’t have time to pander to Mr Nervous. If we kept him in the building, at least he’d be more likely to make a repeat booking. And he’d probably be a lot happier with Tom’s interpretation of a fun night in with his mates.

I’d been that fun guy, in the past. Maybe my heart wasn’t in the game like it used to be…

The kitchen, remember?

I left Mr Nervous in Room 3 and dashed downstairs, taking the steps two at a time. The kitchen door was behind the reception desk. It was cracked ajar, but I couldn’t see or hear any fire crackling from inside, though there was a sudden crash and plenty of coughing. I had no idea who was in there.

The rest of the lobby was deserted. Wasn’t anyone else panicking? Then I remembered it was date night for Rick and Eliot, and they’d gone to the cinema. The poor buggers spent almost every minute in the hotel, so no one begrudged them an occasional night off. There were no other evening staff, so they relied on the escorts to help out. And presumably they were all behind closed doors with their clients, like Tom and Billy now were. If there’d been a real fire, I would have stopped to check the register and start evacuation, but it didn’t look like we were in danger of burning down.

"Oh God. Oh shit!" came a loud cry from the kitchen.

I wriggled my way through the open gap in the door, cautious of letting smoke out into the lobby. It hung low and heavy in the kitchen, but local to the corner where the oven was. That door was flung open, black clouds still billowing from inside, and I could see a dish dangling halfway off the rack, ugly gunge dripping out of it onto the floor tiles. The smell of burned eggs was disgusting.

I stumbled towards the oven over random pans and baking trays, strewn over the floor. Slumped at the base of the unit was Simon Curtis, our admin guy, on his knees with his head bowed. A stool lay upside down on the floor beside him, and a melted plastic spatula dangled from the one hand of his I could see.

Simon had worked for Eliot at one time, his PA in some fancy-arse London bank. When Eliot had diversified the Haven into offering virtual office services—whatever support small businesses needed, without having to invest in staff or equipment of their own—he’d brought Simon in to run it. Guy was some kind of a prince among admin staff, or so I’d been told.

He didn’t look much like a prince tonight.

What the fuck’s going on? I barked. Then, realising I probably should have led with something more sympathetic, I added, Are you okay?

Simon lifted his head and stared at me. He was in his mid-twenties, and cute enough with chocolate-brown eyes and well cut, dark, wavy hair. Tonight, those eyes were wide with anger and distress, and his hair was a spiky mess, like he’d run his hands through it in frustration. Actually, he looked pretty dazed. He always wore smart suits to work, like he was still in the City when, in my opinion, all he did was sit behind a desk in the cramped top-floor room 7 and gossip to people online. Whatever. Right now, he was a fucking mess.

His shirt sleeves were rolled up, the collar was twisted, and a couple of buttons were missing—just over his navel, I happened to notice, exposing a hairy little dip and the lower edge of some surprisingly well-defined abs—and his trousers were covered with jagged stripes of charcoal. He was in just his socks and, funnily enough, that was the most shocking thing of all. His shoes were always so well polished—I’d never seen him without them.

Assuming Simon was telling the truth about being okay, I closed the door firmly behind me, checked the oven was now turned off and nothing was still burning, then strode over to the windows. I flung them all wide open, coughing as the smoke trails eddied around me, seeking a way out into the cooler evening air. The back door led onto our small patio and a scraggly patch of grass, so I opened that, too. To stand any chance of clearing the stink smoke could leave in its wake, my first priority was to get a good through breeze.

Still kneeling on the floor, Simon shivered.

I pulled the fire blanket off the wall and hunkered down to put it around his shoulders, but he snatched it away from me and huddled awkwardly into it under his own steam.

Unfortunate choice of phrase.

What the hell were you trying to do? I asked. I gazed around the kitchen, wondering where to start cleaning up. A normal day would start with me making breakfast for Rick and Eliot and anyone else who might have slept over, then I’d start preparing lunch and supper for the escorts on duty. Looked like tomorrow would be a café and takeaway day.

Simon didn’t answer me, though that was probably because he was caught in another coughing fit. I thought you were working upstairs tonight!

So did I. But it’s pretty difficult to concentrate on sex with the alarm screaming in your ears.

He closed his eyes for a brief moment. Wow. Had I ever noticed how thick and dark his lashes were? They brushed his cheeks, which were very pale. It accentuated the effect.

Fuck. He winced. I mean, I’m sorry about that. I didn’t know it was so sensitive. I managed to turn it off, but then the pans fell off the top of the cupboard, and the stool didn’t hold me because my feet were slippery, and… and I fell. He winced, gripping the ruined spatula like it was a lifeline. I doubted he even realised he was doing it. He must have used it to reach the alarm on the ceiling.

You should get up now, I said. He was still shivering and I wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t hurt himself. Come on, let me help you. Do you need to go to hospital? Charing Cross had a 24-hour A&E and it was one of the nearest.

He shook his head fiercely. I’m fine. Don’t make a fuss.

I’m only asking.

And I’m only saying, don’t bother, he snapped back.

I withdrew the hand I’d offered for him to lean on. He moved slowly and carefully, leaning against the oven unit as he rose from his knees. It was an odd manoeuvre and, although he finally dropped the spatula, he didn’t use his hands to stabilise himself.

I didn’t know you were still here, I said. I thought you’d gone home at six, like usual.

I wasn’t… He took a deep breath. His skin looked clammy, too. I wasn’t working. I just stayed on to…

"To what?" I still hadn’t received an answer to my earlier question.

He flushed. Arne, don’t shout. I feel stupid enough already and I don’t want to be a worry for Eliot.

Didn’t want anyone finding him here, more likely. I glared at him as he stood propped against the oven, swaying a little. I’d never seen him look so dishevelled. This close up, and in his shirt sleeves, I could see the bulge of his biceps, and the way the material strained against a lean but muscled body. He hadn’t adjusted the ripped buttons and I could still see the little patch of furred skin on his belly.

Huh. I was obviously still on edge after Mr Nervous. No other explanation for the frisson of desire that ran through me now.

Simon and I weren’t friends, or not by any standards of mine. In fact, we didn’t have much interaction apart from meals, and the occasional times I needed props for a sex role play and went searching through the hotel. Unfortunately, he’d banned me from touching anything apart from basic clipboards and pens; seemed I had an adverse effect on the office equipment, after the scanner failed both times I tried to copy a document, and the printer had never sounded the same after I yanked the top off to change the ink cartridge. He’d been furious, and told me so. Yeah, I knew what Mr Brainy Bean-counter Simon Curtis thought of my casual ways.

I took another quick glance around the kitchen. Tell me, I ordered, waving my hand through the remains of the smoke. I deserve an explanation of all this.

I was just trying something, he said grudgingly. "The cooker at my place isn’t very good, plus I don’t have all the ingredients to hand. I’d offered to take a couple of hours on the desk tonight and so, when all the guys were settled for the evening, I thought you wouldn’t mind me practising a recipe here, while you were… busy elsewhere. I won’t make a habit of it, of course