This is a perfect little snow globe of anarchy. And I’m on the hunt.
I scan the crowd for power, or money, or just a decent set of shoulders to flirt with.
My stomach bottoms out. Nolan“Fuck Me He Looks Good”Rhodes, standing by the pool, half in shadow, half bathed in golden light like some tortured noir antihero. His tux is basically molded to his body, a black jacket framing broad shoulders, a crisp white shirt with bowtie. His hair is artfully tousled. And that scowl on his face is unapologetic.
I hate how hot he is.
I hate how much he knows it.
I hate that I can’t stop looking at him.
His eyes rake across the party, detached and calculating until they land on me.
My breath stutters. The glass in my hand is suddenly too warm, like I’ve been holding it for hours.
Our gazes lock. Hold. Fuse.
A jolt of static zips through, low and slow, tightening muscle and breath. Heat coils at the base of my spine, molten and inconvenient. The air between us is tense, charged with that same sharp-edged electricity as the other night.
Nolan doesn’t look away. Neither do I.
His lips tilt. Just barely. One side of his mouth curves up in the kind of smirk that should be illegal in several countries. It says everything he doesn’t need to say:I see you, sweetheart. I know exactly what you’re thinking. And it’s mutual.
My jaw clenches. Nolan“Make-Eye-Contact-and-I-Ovulate”Rhodes doesn’t know shit!
Especially not what I’m thinking.
Of all the broody bastards in this city, why did it have to behim?
Also… why is my stomach doing aerial stunts while my thighs try to pretend they’re not interested?
I tilt my chin higher, force my lips into a neutral, cold, untouchable smile. His eyes flick down, like he’s reading the heat beneath the frost.
God, his mouth. Why does it look like it was carved by temptation itself?
That mouth was on me. I lick my lips.
Fuck, he knows. Heknowswhat my body’s doing to me right now. And by the smug precision of that smile, he’s enjoying every second of it.
I came here to make moves. Not mistakes.
I find Jeremy and Maya posted up by the fountain bar, taking synchronized shots.
“Big Stream is here,” I say, setting my drink down with a little too much force.
They both swivel in unison then the rooftop erupts into a swell of gasps and camera flashes.
Because Asher Cross does not enter a room. Hearrives.
A low thump shakes the patio floor then ahissof smoke jets up from either side of the pool like we’re in a Mission Impossible reboot. Lights flicker dramatically until a spotlight finds him.
Asher steps through the fog, aviator sunglasses, shirt half-unbuttoned, wind-whipped hair in a devil-may-care way. It’s like he just stepped out of a storm and somehow still smells like leather and sexy man, not a strand of hair out of place, even though it looks like all of them are.
He’s flanked by two men who I’m pretty sure were 3D printed from a protein shake commercial. One’s got a champagne bottle in each hand. The other just ripped his shirt off and is now raging to absolutely no one.
A cheer breaks out. Someone yells,“We love you, Asher!”
I swear someone behind us starts crying.
