Page 123 of Lovers Like Us

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 beenspotted.

Notonce.

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 thecrowds.

Like I’m in a fantasy world. Music pumps and magnifies mypulse.

I letgo.

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 inpublic.

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 hisback.

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 seehim.

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, thenfuchsia.

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 myjaw.

Am Idreaming?

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 experiencethis.

A man to call a boyfriend. A man to dance with in a crowd. To wake up to. To go to bedwith.

Tolove.

And beloved.

But here heis.

“Farrow!” I yell over themusic.

He reads my heady gaze, and a taut, earth-turning beat passes. Words lose meaning. He fists my shirt, leaning even more intome.

His lips brush my ear, and he breathes, “Metoo.”

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’trelease.

Our hands seem to clasp at the sametime.

Both of us on the same page, we push out of themasses.

* * *

Ican’t touch Farrow.Not while we stand at the check-in counter of a five-starhotel.

Marble flooring, gold chandeliers twinkling up above, guests in swanky cocktail dresses and suits congregate at a nearby speakeasy-stylebar.

Bet you think I go to these ritzy places a ton. Idon’t.

Notreally.