Liam, Love at the Haven 4

LOVE AT THE HAVEN 4

A RENT BOY ROMANCE

STELLA SHAW

Copyright 2021 / Stella Shaw

Smashwords Edition

The brawny Dom and the beautiful Diva—and the secrets they keep.

A personal trainer and part-time escort, Liam is burly, bossy, and perfectly cast as the resident Dom at the Haven Hotel. And if anything falls outside that box—like the lacy lingerie he keeps hidden in his gym bag—that’s easily ignored, right?

Felix’s career as a successful model means being at the beck and call of anyone who requires him. He’s expected to be satisfied with glamour, money, and subservience. No one would ever believe his secret desire to take control.

When Liam agrees to show the outrageously pretty and delicate Felix around Liam’s infamous Room 8, neither one expects the disobedient desire that sparks between two such opposite men.

Felix is looking for a lover who’ll let him call the shots, whereas Liam is fighting the desire to submit. Their passion and power could make for a kinky role reversal.

They just have to surrender to their deepest needs.

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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 – LIAM

2 - LIAM

3 - FELIX

4 - LIAM

5 - FELIX

6 - LIAM

7 - LIAM

8 - FELIX

9 - LIAM

10 - FELIX

11 - FELIX

12 - LIAM

13 - FELIX

14 - LIAM

15 - LIAM

16 - FELIX

17 - FELIX

18 - LIAM

EPILOGUE - LIAM

The Love at the Haven series

About Stella

1 – LIAM

Sometimes, when you’ve paddled six arses in a week, Friday can’t come soon enough.

This particular Friday evening, I sat in one of the booths in the small bar at the Haven Hotel with a large mug of peppermint tea in my left hand and a bag of ice wrapped around my right. Not that I’d walloped a client too hard or done anyone any damage. But my wrist was nagging again. Could you get repetitive strain injury from slapping someone’s arse? The thought of asking a doctor made me grin privately. I leant back with a sigh of relief, glad that my eight o’clock had called yesterday to cancel. It meant less money, but gave me time to recover from the six o’clock punter, who really liked to be smacked.

It never ceased to entertain me how many guys booked for a bit of rough handling. Or maybe it shouldn’t have. Lots of people wanted to step outside their normal lives, even if it was only for an evening. Life in central London was stressful, and relationships took emotional effort a guy might not always have. So, a night out of the drudgery with a companion who took charge, and gave you exactly what you asked and paid for—well, that sounded like a bloody good deal to me.

Even now, off duty in the quiet bar, in my leather trousers with my half-naked torso oiled to look its best, I could imagine what my punters liked as I stripped and bound them; imagine why they liked it, as I fastened nipple clamps, and tested the weight of the paddle on my palm. In my mind I saw their eyes widen and their cheeks pink. Both sets of cheeks, that was. I saw the delicious tension of suspense, then the ecstasy of relief on their faces as the scene progressed. I knew how it felt to hold them as they came, listening to their whimpers and cries, sharing the shudder through their bodies as they submitted to someone else’s control…

I shifted on my seat, my cock thickening. I didn’t need to get off as well as the Haven clients, though I often did. Their desires were just the checklist for my job, enabling me to do it properly and well. Just like an exercise programme at the gym, where my day job was as a personal trainer.

Rick, the owner of the hotel, wandered in with a new stock of beers, and balanced the crate on the bar counter. If you wanted to talk tough guys, you only had to look at Rick… a big, bearded, bear of a man, he made a crate of two dozen beers look like a box of wet wipes.

How’s it going? He leant back against the bar, barely sweating with his effort, and glanced at his phone. Don’t you have a regular eight o’clock?

Not tonight. He cried off.

Rick frowned. Maybe you escorts ought to insist on a non-refundable deposit. You could use the office upstairs to bill them, if you wanted. It’s something Eliot’s already been nagging me about.

So damn cute. Rick played the put-upon boyfriend—and Eliot certainly could be the bossy type when he got an idea he wanted to put in place—but they were so besotted with each other and with keeping the Haven running successfully for us all, that I just grinned.

Arne booked me a consultation instead. Tonight isn’t a complete wash-out. I shifted again in my leathers, wondering if I needed to work off a pound or two this month in the gym. It’s a new client, but he checked out okay when Arne did a search, so I don’t expect any problems. He only wants an hour, to talk through what I do, what he’d like. I smirked. How far he wants me to go.

Rick nodded, giving me a curious look. Have you ever had a boy of your own? Like, full-time?

I shrugged. Not really interested. I like meeting different guys. Right now, for example, I savoured the familiar anticipation of a new regular. All some of them want is to flirt with a spanking. I lean ’em over the bed, slap their arse red and sore, then they go home. Maybe this consultation wouldn’t even go that far. Some newbies never made a further booking, but happily returned to vanilla-land. That was okay in my books.

The set-up at the Haven was just perfect for me. I was in my early thirties—some would say the prime of my life—and I liked variety. I wasn’t interested in the real pain sluts, or subs looking for a Dom for life. Just the guys who wanted to walk on the wild side for the night, but still be in safe hands. It was Liam is the right guy for you, booking in Room 8 whenever someone even hinted at submission.

Voices outside the bar meant someone had arrived in the lobby.

Must be your guy, Rick said.

I stretched out my shoulders and flexed my chilled hand. Yeah, that was better. I wore a chest harness tonight, two supple leather straps buckled over my shoulders and across my lightly furred chest. Focusing myself, I ran a hand through my hair and tweaked my stud earring. I wanted to be the walking advert for what a client could expect.

I wondered briefly what his particular interest would be—what nickname he’d inherit. I already had a list of regulars, like Mr Collar, Mr Rope, and Mr Cock Cage. I grinned to myself again. I bet the Mr Men franchise wouldn’t ever feature characters from my portfolio.

Sliding out of the booth, I could hear Eliot laughing in the lobby, his light voice always full of amusement. The other voice was laughing with him, and was also high-pitched. Young? Cute? They sounded friendly already. Maybe it wasn’t my booking, after all. Maybe one of Eliot’s clients from his virtual office business had dropped in, or he was helping one of the younger escorts who’d joined us recently. I strode out into the lobby, in full view of the desk and Arne in his usual position behind it, then pulled up short.

What the fuck?

Right in front of me was some kind of vision. A man, just like we all were—except he was oh, so very different. He was slim, elegant, probably only a few inches shorter than my own six foot two, but with a build that was ten times more delicate. He had long legs and willowy arms, which he was waving in emphasis as he talked to Eliot and Arne. Under a three-quarter length camel-coloured coat, he wore a simple, blue shirt in some kind of silky fabric that clung to his torso like a second skin, and ridiculously skinny jeans. The beanie covering his hair was a subtle purple colour, moulded to a well-shaped skull. He wore the clothes like he owned them—not just in a purchased way, but as if even a simple pair of jeans had been uniquely made for him. This was what true style was, I guessed. Making something unique out of the ordinary.

Ordinary, except for the pair of outrageously high-heeled, black patent leather boots he wore on his surprisingly small feet. I hadn’t seen heels that high on anyone except the most fashion-conscious women and, occasionally, my fellow escort Tom. And Tom didn’t stand as confidently on them as this guy did.

Bloody hell, Rick murmured from behind me.

Yeah, exactly, I thought to myself.

Mr Heels turned to face us. His eyes widened—they were a soft, liquid grey and heavy-lashed—and a gasp came out of his lush, bow-shaped mouth. The shirt was open at the top to show a smooth, pale throat and a barely-there gold chain. For a second, I expected him to raise a delicate hand to his mouth to cover his discreet startle.

Christ, but he was beautiful. He lit up the place like a beam of natural sunshine, bursting through the meagre lobby lighting. And he damn near sparkled with gayness. As I watched—hoping to God my jaw hadn’t visibly dropped—he pulled off his beanie cap. A cascade of blond, blue tipped hair fell from a central parting over a smooth brow, past his clean-shaven jaw, over straight shoulders, and right down to his waist.

Rick made a gargled sound beside me. Even Arne’s eyebrows raised in admiration.

The visitor smiled at us, his gaze flickering to my harness and my exposed skin. He swallowed heavily, and blushed. Dammit, he almost swayed. Coupled with his height, I reckoned the slightest breeze would tumble him off those heels. And I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but he looked even more gorgeous with that stripe of colour on his cheeks.

I’d serviced my fair share of pretty little twinks. It came with the territory. But this one looked as fragile as a champagne flute.

Liam? Arne called to me. He tore his gaze away from the new arrival, his eyes twinkling with mischief. This is your guest.

Those bright, grey, puppy-dog eyes gazed at me, even wider than before.

You’re Liam? he asked, in a clear but soft voice.

Yeah. Was this really my client? Anyone would want him, but I couldn’t recall ever having such a cute little thing on my books. He was waifish, and I felt like a thick knot of muscle beside him. My hand could span his bicep and still hold a cat o’ nine tails in my palm.

Jesus. I could break him like a twig, if I wasn’t careful. But I bet he’d feel great under my hands.

My cock throbbed with new, and unusual excitement.

Oh, hi. Yes, this is Felix, Eliot said, looking between us all. He’s a model, as you might guess. We have a very dear, mutual friend, though I didn’t know he was coming here tonight.

There was a moment’s awkward silence. The punters didn’t usually mix with the management. Last time it had happened, the punter had been Eliot, and he’d ended up in Rick’s bed, life, and hotel. Arne met my gaze over Eliot’s shoulder and winked.

Rick walked over to join his partner, slid his arm around Eliot’s shoulders and murmured something in his ear.

Eliot flushed. Shit. Yes, I’m sorry, this could be embarrassing, I never thought…

It’s fine, Mr Heels said.

No problem, I said at the same time. Our eyes met. We shared a spark of interest, definitely. But then he kept his gaze on me, longer than a punter usually would. Longer than one of mine would, anyway.

A shiver ran down my spine.

We’ll go now, Eliot said to Mr Heels. But I’ll see you again soon. At Lizzie’s birthday dinner next week?

Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Mr Heels smiled in reply. Even his voice was smooth.

Rick and Eliot threw a quick, apologetic glance my way, and hurried away down the corridor to Rick’s room. Mr Heels turned his attention back to me and took a couple of steps forward. He had a key card in his hand.

Now, that was wrong, too. The key card always went with the escort, not the client. And especially for my sessions in Room 8. It was the way things were at the Haven. I glared at Arne, but he just grinned and gave an equally apologetic shrug, like the choice had been magicked away from him.

Hmph. What was it about this guy? I glanced again at Mr Heels, to find his gaze totally focussed on me. I felt slightly dizzy, like I’d got up from my seat too quickly.

Room 8? he said. It wasn’t as much a query as a prompt, and it looked like he expected me to direct him the right way.

I took a steadying breath. Okay. Welcome to my world.

Upstairs, I said. Two floors. Was he listening to me? His gaze had dropped to my torso. The harness seemed to fascinate him.

He reached out a hand—were those long, pale nails painted with something sparkly or was it just the way the light gravitated towards him?—and put a light hand on one of the straps.

Is this okay? May I… touch?

I thought I heard Arne snort somewhere behind us but I ignored him. You’re the client. You may. But you must always ask first.

A nail grazed my nipple. I wasn’t entirely sure if it was his shyness making him clumsy, or a deliberate come-on. For the first time in a long while, I felt off kilter.

Yes, I am the client, aren’t I? His eyes were still wide—was it his bloody default?—but there was something else in his expression I couldn’t identify.

I cleared my throat. Okay. Let’s go up, you’ve only booked an hour and we’re wasting time here. You okay with the stairs? Those legs didn’t look like they could support a fucking daffodil let alone a grown man. And if I tried to walk in those heels, I’d break a bloody ankle.

He shook that fabulous hair back over his shoulder and laughed, just like he had with the others at the desk. It was a musical sound, but with a surprisingly hearty rumble to it.

Of course I am. Eliot will tell you I’m not as frail as I look. Whereas you fit your persona perfectly, a fine specimen of a fit, strong man. He flushed again, dropped his gaze, and almost whispered, I guess you have to be, for what you do.

The truth didn’t need my acknowledgement. I strode off along the corridor to the elevator, with him following. His expression was eager now, excited, on edge. Trusting me to show the way.

But the tap, tap of his boot heels on the floorboards beside me was strangely unnerving.

2 – LIAM

Felix was quiet all the way to Room 8. The stairs took us to the first floor, then at the end of the corridor was another set of steps leading to the top floor. There were only two rooms up there, and Eliot’s friend Simon was running a