17
Harlow
The Miami heat clings to my skin. I’ve barely stepped out of the restaurant before my skin is clammy with sweat. I thumb through my phone, debating on a taxi or rideshare.
“Where’s your boyfriend?”
I side-glance. Killian stands beside me like a dark apparition. My hands fall to my sides, and I freeze. The first thought tumbles from my lips.
“Did you do this?”
His brow furrows.
“Did you make Jaxson leave?”
Killian squints and looks around. “He left? Where?”
I squint, skeptical.
“He had a family emergency.” I search Killian’s face, looking for the slightest hint of a lie. “Tell me you had nothing to do with this.” I crowd his space. My fingertip presses to the middle of his chest, but I quickly retract my hand, knowing I cannot touch this man for long or bad things happen.
“Harlow, Harlow. Calm down. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I scoff loudly. “You ambushed my date! You brought River’s—”
“I did that,” he says, unashamed. He raises his palms in surrender. “Nina went home. Were ya jealous? I hope so.”
“This isn’t funny, Killian. You can’t keep invading my life. This is way past showing up at my place or snooping in my phone.”
“Look, I would tell you if I did. I didn’t hide those things.”
I sigh, disappointed in myself.
Because it feels good that he went to these absurd lengths to get closer. I just had a guy ditch me. I’ve never been so shocked on a date. I can’t believe he left.
“Trust me, lowly CNA. I did not have anything to do with your little boyfriend being a dick.”
I hold myself, wanting to believe him. Maybe Jaxson did have an emergency. Or maybe I said something wrong. Still, he just... abandoned me in the middle of dinner in a city by myself.
“He didn’t even pay the bill,” I murmur.
“I told you I’d give you money.”
I laugh softly. “No ride, either. He just left me here.”
Killian gestures to the parking lot. “I told you to take my car.”
“Oh, God,” I say, and snicker. “You’re impossible. And now I am out—” I count on my fingers. “—probably two hundred dollars once I pay for the taxi.”
He doesn’t deliver a slick line.
I glance up, finding him staring at me intensely. “Can I take you dancing?”
I do a double-take. “What?”
“You got all dressed up.” He points across the street. “Salsa dancing there. Hip hop in the white building. Preference?”
“Oh.” I hold my breath and look at my high heels. I did come out tonight. I never get out. This is such a bummer. I wanted to have fun and—
“You told me you like clubs. I’m a good dancer.”
I should call a rideshare. I should go home, throw away the rest of tonight, and pretend this never happened.
But Killian is standing there, looking at me like he can solve all my problems.
Before I can reply, he grabs my hand and leads me into the street. We weave through cars and I hurry to stay close so I don’t get hit. People are everywhere. Horns are honking. Music is blasting. It’s a rush, and I’m not hating it.
“Salsa?” I say, surprised he chose this one. “I don’t know how to salsa dance. Can we do hip hop?”
“Sure,” he says with a sly smirk, turning us toward the white building.
As soon as we step inside, the ice-cold air hits my face. The walls vibrate. It’s dark. It’s loud. It’s perfect.
Killian takes charge, leading me to the dance floor. We slip around people until he stops at an open spot. It’s off to the side and I’m not sure why.
He answers before I ask, leaning near my ear so I can hear him over the music. He points at the ceiling. “A/C vent.” Then at the DJ booth close by. “In case you have song requests.”
“Oh. I didn’t know you were a clubrat,” I tease.
But there is a problem. Killian is close. He has to be close in a club. If not, we won’t be able to hear each other. He smells so good, too. And what was I thinking? Hip hop is very close dancing.
Suddenly, he pulls my body close and we’re touching.
My entire side presses to his front. I roll my shoulders and sway my hips, feeling the vibe of the music.
That cologne keeps pulling me under. His breath skims my neck, his hands palm my waist, and he moves in perfect rhythm with me.
He wasn’t lying. He is a good dancer. The kind that lets the woman be the show, set the pace, and just have fun.
Too much fun.
I step back enough to show him my moves.
I drop it. Twerk. Tease him because why not.
And when I’m done showing him I’m a good dancer, too, people have noticed.
I soak in the attention, but honestly, I’m hoping Killian liked it.
So I get close, turning my back fully to his front, pressing my ass against him as I rest my shoulders low on his chest.
“I got moves, huh?” I say, proud.
“Mm-hm.”
His hands wander over my body, and my eyes close the second the warmth of his tongue meets my neck. His shaft is hard.
Oh yeah. He likes my dancing.
God, this guy wants me.
Bad.
And I love that he doesn’t hide it. I look over my shoulder and say his name.
He turns me around, and his mouth meets mine and it’s fucking over. We kiss. We kiss soft and slow. His jaw is smooth, but the slightest stubble above his lip grazes mine as we devour each other. I love the masculine sensation and ache for more.
Suddenly, foam falls from above, hitting my skin like cool, iridescent pillows.
Oh, I love these nights — bubbles, foam, any kind of sensory overload.
People laugh and squeal. Some pick up the soapy plumes and toss them at each other. Girls rub it over their bodies or blow it in the air. But Killian and I kiss like everything and everybody around us doesn’t exist. Just us among the strobing lights, dark shadows, and mayhem we barely notice.
I shudder and whisper into his mouth.
“You’re going to hurt me so bad.”
Because I know it. I’m done for. I’m giving in. He’s the tattooed trouble I tried so hard to resist. But this? He’s a drug, and I want to overdose.
I reach down, pressing my hand to his cock, trying not to think about him fucking me right here. Right now. That would be...
“We should have sex,” I blurt.
He grabs my wrist and strides toward the exit. I dig in my heels.
“No, here. I want to do it here.”
He laughs, but then realizes I am not kidding.
“I won’t do it if we leave the club. I’ll think about it too much,” I explain.
He doesn’t look hurt in the slightest. “No.”
“No?”
“No. I won’t be forgettable. You haven’t been fucked in two years. I won’t be your sloppy, no orgasm memory in a dirty place.”
I stare, my chest rising and falling fast. I try to answer, but nothing comes out. He wants me to remember him. Really remember him.
He takes my hand. “We’ll go to your place.”
We walk out.
I hold my breath.
I’m doing this. I’m going home — to my trailer — with Killian.
Oh, my God.