The Toy Boy by April Vine

facing away from the bathroom door. Sadness washed over her at the thought of him leaving in two days, and it took all her power to snap it in half and fling it aside. She knew what she was getting into with him from the start: a three-day sexual tryst, nothing more. Bottom line, she wouldn’t disappoint her family. Not again. And really this must be as much a fling for her as it was for him. He’d walk away without getting emotionally attached to her, and she should and could do the same. For all she knew he probably had a girlfriend back home, maybe several. Envy squeezed at her heart. She would never be able to compete with someone younger and more eager for his attention, not when she had a ten-year head start.
    When he slipped in beside her, his nakedness spooning her, all depressing thoughts sizzled to ashes. She turned around to face him.
    “What do you do?” Her fingers traced the contours of his face, his high cheekbones, the sexy square of his jaw, his lips.
    “I make Cait come.” He nuzzled her throat and she laughed.
    “Yes, you do, but for a living, what do you in the States?”
    “I design games.” He shifted onto his back and gathered her into his arms.
    “Really? What kind of games?”
    “I doubt you’ll know any.”
    “Hey, my cousin’s twelve-year-old nephew is a gamer, I’ll have you know. Try me.”
    “Ever heard about Chronicles of Combat?”
    “I think everyone on this planet has. Wait, you designed that?”
    “Yeah. You know those two little letters that appear on the cover of all the Chronicles of Combat?”
    “The logo of the company who designed those games.” She remembered seeing the letters dm on the covers of most of her nephew’s games that littered his room. dm.
    “Dm—Declan Meyer? Oh, my word, you’re a millionaire. But you’re so…”
    “What? I don’t walk around with money bags attached around my waist?” he asked, dragging her onto his body. His cock was a pillar of stone against her tummy.
    “But your aunt would have definitely said something.”
    “She doesn’t know. It’s not something I go around telling people. It doesn’t help me in any way. Well, most of the time not.”
    “But you told me.”
    “In this case telling you might help me.”
    “How so?”
    “Will you let me fuck you again now that you know I’m stinking rich and good looking?”
    She gasped, staring at this enigma before her. A self-made man at the age of twenty-four. What did he have to prove so urgently?
    “How did you get that scar?” Her nail traced the faint line from the top of his hairline down to his left eye. It cut across his eyebrow leaving behind a smooth gash. He rubbed at it absently.
    “My dad.”
    The coldness of his admission shocked her.
    “Oh my God, I’m sorry.”
    “Don’t be. I was four years old and I couldn’t take watching him beat the crap out of my mother anymore. I tried to stop him. He sliced this old dagger of his down my face. But it was the one thing that made my mother pack and leave him for good. The very next week she enrolled me in a karate class. She wanted to know I could protect myself. I haven’t stopped doing karate since.”
    Her heart broke at the thought of him being so young and having gone through so much. A stabbing of protectiveness riddled her. She, protect him? It always felt the other way around. And there it was again, that feeling of falling for him. She lowered her eyelids, hoping to hide her feelings from him. She couldn’t change the dynamics of their fling—that was social suicide. He was younger. She was older. Inappropriate according to the standards she lived by, standards her father and his status demanded.
    “Don’t feel sorry for me.” The clenching of his jaw warned away her pity.
    “Are you kidding me? You’re a millionaire who knows how to break my neck in five different places in ten different ways with your pinkie, no less.”
    She laughed as he bulldozed her beneath him, laying the bottom half of