Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(82)

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.

Don’t look in love with the guy next to you.

I force myself not to turn. Not to meet Farrow’s strong gaze. I could be swept up in him. Fucking easily.

Once my exchange with the concierge ends, Farrow and I enter the nearest elevator. He stands right beside me, a fucking breath away. Don’t look at him. I press the highest number and take stock of the security cameras.

Don’t look in love.

The doors slide shut. Ascending.

My muscles flex; I can feel him shifting, his breath deepening. The elevator a sauna, his casual confidence radiates like molten sex. Don’t look at him.

Jesus Christ.

The numbers tic upward too unhurriedly, and alone, in this elevator, my willpower just plummets. And I look to my left. Right at Farrow.

His head slowly turns to me, and his eyes burrow into mine, our chests rising in a taut breath. Burning. Up. Tension winding to an unbearable, unsound degree.

I ball my hands into white-knuckled fists. Don’t move. Don’t touch him. Blood pools, pulse hammering in my cock. God, I want him.

I eye Farrow again.

He hooks his NYE sunglasses on his V-neck and then combs his fingers through bleach-white hair. “You’re fucking killing me.” He tries to look away, but after a millisecond, he looks back at me. “Fuck, Maximoff.”

I have no clue what kind of eyes I have. Kiss me, fuck me, love me—something greater than all three.

My biceps flex as I rest my palms on my head. I imagine Farrow coming up behind me. His hands raking down every damn inch of flesh: my arms, my abs and chest, lower…gripping me—and my head tilts back.

Fuck me. I blink out of a brief fantasy. I’m holding the back of my neck, and I’m actually, for real, staring up at the elevator’s ceiling. Glaring.

I glance at Farrow.

He smiles and gives me a slow-burning once-over. “Never thought I’d be jealous of the imaginary version of myself, but I’m getting there.”

Elevator dings.

The hallway is a blur. I tap into a one-track mind that says, door, unlock, fuck him, my cock, his cock, come.

So by the time we’re inside the luxury suite, Farrow kicks the door closed, and I instantly push him up against the wood.

“Fuck,” he curses huskily. Closer. More. Our fevered hands work like we’re dying and welding together is the only way to survive.