Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
“It’s a girls’ night out, old chap.” She lifted her chin. “I’m partying with Sullivan and Luna, and you’re not allowed to hover or protect. They’re my responsibility, and that’s that.”
I trust Janie with all my fucking heart. So I nodded and gave in.
Spoiler Alert: I lost sight of the girls within twenty minutes. The nightclub is gigantic. Three-stories of balconies overlook a packed dance pit. Colorful strobe lights stroke the swaying and gyrating bodies. A DJ spins on a table, amps blasting my favorite electronic music.
This could’ve been a disaster zone for security and our bodyguards, but the public has no clue we’re in Dallas. Plus, the strobe lights obstruct our features. Becoming nameless, faceless humans. None of us have been spotted.
Not once.
I’m not even rigid or alert. I’m in the pit, dancing as much as anyone can with jam-packed bodies. Bright pinks, oranges, then purples bathe the club. Light sweeping the crowds.
Like I’m in a fantasy world. Music pumps and magnifies my pulse.
I let go.
A hand slides across my neck. Farrow is in front of me. Pressed up against me as we move to a hypnotic beat. In public. We’re in public.
The fact elevates this euphoric, light-as-air feeling that dizzies me. Heady, intoxicating—and I pull him even closer. My strong hand on his abs, rising up his back.
His gaze drips in a scorching trail down my body. Sweat blisters on my skin, and even with people all around us—someone at my back, my sides—I only see him.
Right here. Now.
NYE sunglasses with the year rest on his hair, pushing back the white strands. He’s fucking beautiful. Blue lights cast over his face. Then red, then fuchsia.
I devour him and this moment. Our eyes dance along our bodies, and when they meet, they caress over and over again. Kiss me, man.
His hand warms my skin and clutches tighter. Foreheads almost touching, we move with carnal force. And my mouth parts in a shallow breath, a raspy noise stuck in my throat. Farrow hones in on my lips, his hand shifting to my jaw.
Am I dreaming?
Christ, this feels like an exhilarating, out-of-body dream. Emotion overwhelms me to a point of no damn return. My eyes sting. My pulse speeds. Never in my life did I think I could experience this.
A man to call a boyfriend. A man to dance with in a crowd. To wake up to. To go to bed with.
To love.
And be loved.
But here he is.
“Farrow!” I yell over the music.
He reads my heady gaze, and a taut, earth-turning beat passes. Words lose meaning. He fists my shirt, leaning even more into me.
His lips brush my ear, and he breathes, “Me too.”
Goddamn.
Cannons of glitter and confetti explode from the vaulted ceiling. Showering the dance pit and his hair, my shoulders. Paper streamers thwart our view. My body thrums with untapped energy that dancing won’t release.
Our hands seem to clasp at the same time.
Both of us on the same page, we push out of the masses.
I can’t touch Farrow. Not while we stand at the check-in counter of a five-star hotel.
Marble flooring, gold chandeliers twinkling up above, guests in swanky cocktail dresses and suits congregate at a nearby speakeasy-style bar.
Bet you think I go to these ritzy places a ton. I don’t.
Not really.
We’re not dressed for an uppity establishment. Me, in dark jeans, a white long-sleeve shirt, and a small travel-duffel is slung on my shoulder. Farrow, black pants and a black Ramones V-neck. He leans on the counter and texts Omega that we left the nightclub.
From behind the counter, the concierge—a well-groomed, tuxedo-clad man—scrutinizes my features. He knows who I am, but he’s not positive. Maybe I’m a Maximoff Hale lookalike.
I take out my wallet. “One night, your best suite.” I don’t want to hear the cost. Trust me when I say, I almost never spend money this flippantly. But I slide a black Amex and my ID to the concierge.
Farrow catches sight and surprise lifts his brows.
The concierge perks up at the cards. “Right away, Mr. Hale. I believe our very best suite is available. Let me check with management. It’ll only be a second.” He glides away to alert staff that a celebrity is here.
Farrow pockets his phone, his surprise still there. “You have a black Amex?”
Since he’s been my bodyguard, I haven’t taken it out before now. “For the travel benefits,” I explain. “I don’t use it a lot. Definitely not for strangers or…” one-night stands. I check the time on my canvas watch. “It’s not a big deal.”
He smiles and scans the chandeliers, the marble statues that flank the revolving entrance, the bellhops, and then me. Knowingly.
I have the means to treat my boyfriend to something other than a crammed bunk bed or a bland room, and so I’m fucking treating him.
Abruptly, the concierge returns, and while he talks, he hands me keycards in an envelope, smiles pleasantly, and describes the hotel’s many amenities. But I’m thinking only one damn thing.