Page 124 of Lovers Like Us

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 blackRamonesV-neck. He leans on the counter and texts Omega that we left thenightclub.

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 Halelookalike.

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 theconcierge.

Farrow catches sight and surprise lifts hisbrows.

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 ishere.

Farrow pockets his phone, his surprise still there. “You have a blackAmex?”

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 bigdeal.”

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 treatinghim.

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 damnthing.

Don’t look in love with the guy next toyou.

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

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 securitycameras.

Don’t look inlove.

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 athim.

JesusChrist.

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

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, unsounddegree.

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

I eye Farrowagain.

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 allthree.

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 tiltsback.

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 atFarrow.

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 gettingthere.”

Elevatordings.

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 thewood.