Sweet Filthy Boy (Wild Seasons #1)(4)

The heavy bass of music rattles the light fixture hanging above me. Male voices rumble across the empty space separating the rooms; they shout and laugh, have their own little cacophony of whoops and man-sounds going on. A ball hits a wall somewhere in the distance, and although I can only identify a few unique voices in the mix, they’re making enough noise that I can’t believe the entire suite isn’t full of drunk boys tearing up a weekend in Vegas.

Two a.m. passes the same: I’m staring at the ceiling, growing somehow both more awake and more asleep. When three hits, I’m so irritated, I’m ready to be the Vegas buzzkill just so I can get a few hours of sleep before our early spa appointments.

I slip out of bed, being quiet so I don’t wake my friends, before laughing at the absurdity of my caution. If they’ve slept through the ruckus across the hall, they’ll sleep through me padding quietly across a carpeted floor, grabbing a room key, and slipping out of our suite.

I pound my fist on the door and wait, chest heaving with irritation. The noise barely dips, and I’m not sure if I can pound hard enough for them to even hear me. Raising both fists, I try again. I don’t want to be that person—in Vegas complaining about people being joyful—but my next stop is calling hotel security.

This time the music dies down and footsteps slap on the tile just in front of the door.

Maybe I expect some older, sun-bleached trust fund douche to answer, a bunch of middle-aged investment bankers visiting for a weekend of debauchery, or a roomful of fratty guys drinking shots out of a stripper’s belly button. But I don’t expect it to be him, the guy from across the bar.

I don’t expect him to be shirtless, wearing black boxers that hang so low on his tanned stomach that I can see the soft trail of hair, lower.

I don’t expect him to smile when he sees me. And I most definitely don’t expect the accent when he says, “I know you.”

“You don’t,” I say, completely steady, if a little on the breathless side. I never stutter in front of friends or family anymore and only rarely in front of strangers I’m comfortable with. But right now my face feels hot, my arms and legs prickling with goose bumps, so I have no idea what to make of my completely stutterless words.

If possible, his smile grows, blush deepening, dimple taking center stage, and he opens the door wider, stepping out toward me. He’s even better looking than he seemed from across the room, and the reality of him immediately fills the doorway. His presence is so huge I step back as if I’ve been pushed. He’s all easy posture, eye contact, and beaming smile as he leans close, and playfully studies me.

Being a performer, I’ve seen magic like his before. He may look like any other human, but he has that elusive quality that would force every pair of eyes to track him onstage, no matter how small his role. It’s more than charisma—it’s a magnetism that can’t be taught or practiced. I’m only two feet away from him . . . I don’t stand a chance.

“I do know you,” he says with a little tilt of his head. “We met earlier. We just haven’t exchanged names yet.” My mind searches to place his accent before I trip into understanding: he’s French. The * is French. It’s diluted, though. His accent is soft, mild. Instead of curling all of the words together he spreads them out, carefully offering each one.

I narrow my eyes, forcing them up to his face. It’s not easy. His chest is smooth and tan and he has the most perfect nipples I’ve ever seen, small and flat. He’s ripped, and tall enough to ride like a horse. I can feel the warmth coming off his skin. On top of all of that, he’s wearing nothing but his underwear and seems completely unfazed by it.

“You guys are being insanely loud,” I say, remembering the hours of noise that brought me out here in the first place. “I think I liked you a lot better across a crowded room than across this hall.”

“But face-to-face is the best, no?” His voice causes goose bumps to spread across my arms. When I don’t answer, he turns and looks over his shoulder and then back to me. “I’m sorry we’re so loud. I’m going to blame Finn. He’s Canadian, so I’m sure you understand he’s a savage. And Oliver is an Aussie. Also horribly uncivilized.”

“A Canadian, an Australian, and a Frenchman throw a rager in a hotel room?” I ask, fighting a smile despite my better judgment. I’m trying to remember the rule about whether or not you’re supposed to struggle when you fall into quicksand, because that’s exactly what this feels like. Sinking, being swallowed up by something bigger than I am.

“Like the beginning of a joke,” he agrees, nodding. His green eyes twinkle and he’s right: face-to-face is endlessly better than through a wall, or even across a dark, crowded room. “Come join us.”

Nothing has ever sounded so dangerous and so tempting all at once. His eyes drop to my mouth, where they linger before scanning my body. Despite what he’s just offered, he steps fully out into the hallway and the door falls closed behind him. Now it’s just me and him and his naked chest and . . . wow, strong legs and the potential for mind-blowing spontaneous hallway sex.

Wait. What?

And now I also remember I’m only in my tiny sleep shorts and matching tank top with little pigs all over them. I’m suddenly aware of the bright light in the hallway and feel my fingers move down, instinctively tugging the material lower to cover my scar. I’m normally fine with my body—I’m a woman so naturally there are always little things I’d change—but my scar is different. It’s not entirely about how it looks—though let’s be honest, Harlow still does the full-body sympathy shudder whenever she sees it—but what it represents: the loss of my scholarship to the Joffrey Ballet School, the death of my dream.