Chapter 47
ALEX
“Holy shit!”
We pull up curbside at Gravity, and it’s mayhem. Paparazzi swarm like hornets, cameras raised, stocked and loaded. I glance out the tinted window at the crowd gathered in front of the club. It’s easily twice the size of the mob that camped outside my apartment.
Flashes explode against the windows, lighting up our limo like the Fourth of July. I instinctively turn away, shielding my eyes from the storm of lights.
The scandal surrounding my so-called homewrecking days seems to have cooled off. Now, it’s all about Elijah and me. And the media, along with half of the world, apparently can’t get enough.
The glass divider slides down, and Steven’s face comes into view.
“I just spoke with Fernando,” he says calmly. “He’s waiting at the entrance. Wait until I open the door. As soon as it swings, drop your heads and follow security. Don’t stop. Don’t talk. Just walk. Got it?”
We both nod, but something about it doesn’t sit right with me.
I’ve never been one to ignore my fans. And now that the media is working in my favor again, I’m excited to interact with them again.
Even if the attention is more about my personal life than my modeling career. Honestly? I’ll take what I can get.
“Stay by my side,” Elijah says, just before the door swings open. He steps out first, then leans back in, reaching for my hand. “Ready, baby?”
I’m so fucking ready.
I grip his hand and step out into the chaos.
A hailstorm of flashes hits us instantly. Blinding, relentless. Fans scream from every direction, shouting my name, waving signs, holding up phones. Security has us boxed in tight, with barely enough room to move, but we press forward.
It doesn’t stop the questions though. Not even close.
“Alex, who are you wearing tonight?”
“Elijah, have you proposed yet?”
“Alex, how long have you known you were gay?”
“Elijah, will you be traveling internationally with Alex?”
“When is the wedding?” comes a voice louder than the rest.
“Elijah, how does Gabriel feel about your relationship with Alex?”
“Alex, will you be removing your Grindr profile?”
Elijah’s eyes go wide. He stiffens, his steps stuttering just a little bit.
I nearly double over laughing.
It’s such a ridiculous question. I’ve never had a Grindr account, and he knows it. He’s playing it up for the crowd, pretending to be scandalized. The little shit.
We’re awkwardly squeezing through the sea of bodies, almost tripping over each other, when I tug on his hand and yell, “Stop!”
“Keep moving, Alex. We’re almost there.”
“Wait. Just—stop.”
Security slams into us from behind as I dig in my heels, refusing to move. They’re shouting at us to keep walking, to stick to the plan, but I’m not budging.
“Elijah, I can’t do this.” I turn to face him, dead serious. “These are my fans. I adore them. I don’t ignore them.”
He glances over his shoulder at the crowd. “And the paparazzi?”
“We just give them what they want… and they’ll back off.”
He studies me, patience wearing thin. “And what exactly do they want?”
“This.”
I grab his face and crash my mouth against his.
It’s hard enough to make our teeth click—almost—but thankfully, his thick lips save us from that disaster.
He’s stunned for a second. Maybe two. But the moment my tongue slips past his lips, and my fingers thread through his hair, he catches up quickly.
“You’re fucking crazy,” he mumbles against my mouth.
I smile into the kiss. “What I am, Elijah, is a gay man, and I’m so fucking proud. I want to shout it from the rooftops that I’m in love with you. I think there’s a saying for that, but hell if I know what it is.”
“Loud and proud?” He grins, laughing as he scoops me off the ground and spins me in a full circle. “I fucking love you,” he yells over the thunder of the camera shutters and fans erupting around us.
He sets me down and kisses me again… this time, slower, deeper, and another round of flashes ignites the night.
When he finally releases me, I’m breathless, grinning. I throw both arms into the air and wave to my fans.
“Now I’m ready,” I say, tugging on his hand. “Take me dancing.”
Cool air sweeps across our skin the second the doors swing open, and we step inside Gravity.
Just like that, the chaos outside vanishes—the noise, the lights, the flashing cameras—all shadowed by the hush of luxury and music pulsing in the distance.
We both take a breather, pulling out our phones at the same time, swiping and tapping in unison. It’s clear we’ve just received the exact same text, because we both let out a deep, knowing laugh.
A still-shot fills the screen: me, mid-make out, practically inhaling Elijah on the sidewalk; and Elijah, sweeping me off my feet, lifting me like a trophy he’s damn proud to show off.
And beneath the image:
Seriously? #getaroom, #gaydads.
Of course it’s from Ana.
Elijah winks, pocketing his phone.
I shake my head, grinning. “Let’s do this!”
“A Night to Remember” by Shalamar comes rocking through the speakers, and I swear the universe couldn’t have picked a more perfect song for this night.
I sidle up to Elijah as we weave along the curvy design of the bar, headed toward the dance floor. This time, I’m passing on the tequila, passing on the bourbon. I’m drunk on love, and I plan to stay that way.
“Two bourbons on the rocks,” Elijah orders, squeezing into a small opening at the bar.
Okay, well, maybe one won’t hurt.
As I wait, my eyes catch on a pulsing orange-and-black sign behind the bar: Café Bonito.
That has Elijah written all over it. I know he’s close with the owners—probably helped get their brand in here.
But coffee? In a nightclub? Then again… the idea of an espresso martini made with authentic Puerto Rican coffee has my taste buds waking up.
Who knows, maybe they’ll even branch out and make a coffee liqueur someday.
Now that’s something I could get behind.
Bourbon in hand, I turn toward the dance floor. It’s jam-fucking-packed. And I’m buzzing with excitement. I’m so high on happiness, I’m pretty sure my smile is permanently pressed into my face.
I take Elijah’s hand and pull him in closer, touching my lips to his ear. “Dance with me?”
Those lips curl into a devilish grin just as he tosses back the rest of his bourbon. Michael Jackson’s “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough” kicks in, and my heart practically moonwalks out of my chest. I love this song! The DJ’s spinning old-school tunes, and I’m definitely not complaining.
Elijah slams his glass down onto the bar, grabs my hand, and we’re on the move.
Arrogance sits like a king on his broad shoulders as he carves a path through the crush of bodies. The bass vibrates through my veins, syncing perfectly with the rush of bourbon.
We break into the center of the dance floor, swallowed up by swaying limbs and a storm of colored strobe lights. Bodies bounce, legs pump like they belong on a trampoline, and arms flail wildly without apology as I focus on finding my footing.
Elijah spins, full-on John Travolta style, and I double over laughing, remembering Gabriel’s warning about Elijah forgetting his age when he’s out on the dance floor. Seems I’m about to find out if it’s true.
He finishes the fantastic spin, looks me straight in the eyes, and flashes the most mischievous grin I’ve ever seen.
And then… he fucking moves.
And, my god. Gabriel wasn’t kidding!
He’s like rapid fire—pumping down my body, humping up my leg, hips swaying and moving, making love to the beat and my body as he rocks himself all over my bones.
His mouth comes to rest at my laughing lips; smile cocky and sure.
He knows I’m impressed, not to mention totally turned on.
Strobe lights dance across those pillowy lips as his smile flirts with mine.
Oh yeah, he’s definitely showing off.
And he just keeps on going.
He reaches for my waist, rocking those hips against every damn curve of my body, attacking me and the music as I try like hell to keep up.
But he’s effortless.
Smooth.
Ricofuckingsuave.
I thought his Spanish words were intoxicating—his dance moves are downright rebellious!
That’s not to say I didn’t have my own moves back in the day—but with Elijah, I’m pulling out everything. And I’m rocking right there with him, body to body, curve to curve.
He’s driving me wild.
Fucking insane.
The DJ spins a new beat and Elijah rolls right with the changeover, slithering like a snake around my bones.
Fuck yes! Ricky Martin!
The crowd roars as salsa pumps through the speakers, and Elijah throws his arms up in the air, his hips catching the beat like it’s in his damn blood.
Mother of God. I wipe the sweat from my face.
“Hold on,” he cautions, and I wrap my arms around his tapered waist, bracing for the ride, fully surrendering to his Puerto Rican culture.
My hips sway in sync with his—at least that’s what I tell myself—and I do my best to follow his naturally skilled feet as they dust the floor like a fucking pro.
He’s phenomenal.
Trying to match the rhythm of his cultivated salsa moves, I gleefully toss my head back, laughter bubbling up, as twinkle lights strobe across his face, casting a glow over his beautifully bronzed skin.
I’m transfixed. He looks incredible. Handsome.
I can’t believe he’s all mine. My eyes roam over every inch of him and, just like that, the crowd fades away.
It’s only him.
Only us.
This is the best night of my life!
The song comes to an end, and red strobe lights explode like fireworks above us. The color of crimson falls in waves down the walls and onto the dance floor. Elijah leans in and takes my mouth in a blistering kiss, and I suck salaciously on his generous lower lip. I fucking love this man.
“I need some water.” I’m panting, desperately trying to catch my breath from the chaotic rhythm of my newly acquired salsa moves.