“Not here,” I whispered, lifting my chin fractionally toward the upper right corner of the elevator. “Cameras.”
“It’s fine.”
“You won’t say that when we show up on the front page of theNew York Timesbecause some bored hotel employee decided to sell you out for a quick buck.”
“I just want to touch you,” he went on, his voice low, intimate. “To make you feel good. Let me do that for you.”
There it was—the familiar pivot. Concern acknowledged, then neatly sidestepped. The cajoling note that made it seem like I was the problem.
We reached our floor before I could respond, and the doors slid apart. “Youneedto be more careful,” I said more forcefullyas I stepped out, scanning the hallway. “You never know who’s watching.”
His smile softened. “That’s why I keep you around—to remind me. Now let me remind you whyyoukeepmearound.”
Inside our suite, Wyatt wasted no time coaxing my body into familiar responses. I let it happen, let myself relax into the rhythm I knew by heart. This was the part that worked between us. The part I could rely on. But even as my pleasure built, I was dimly aware this had become a dangerous pattern—my discomfort brushed aside instead of resolved.
When I finally came, my orgasm dulled the edges of my frustration, softened my sharpest thoughts. But only just barely.
Wyatt pressed a kiss to my shoulder, saying something about how good we were together, how much he needed me.
I stared at the ceiling and let the post-orgasm calm wash over me, knowing it wouldn’t last.
It never did.
Hours later,wedged into a booth at the club downstairs, Celine leaned close so I could hear her voice over the loud, pulsing music. “You’re not dancing.”
“I hate dancing.” I lifted my glass of whiskey to my lips and eyed her over the rim. “You know that.”
“Come on,” she urged, grabbing my free hand to pull me with her as she scooted along the banquette. “It’s my bachelorette weekend, too, you know.”
She pushed her bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout as I awkwardly slammed my glass down onto the table, tripping over my feet to follow her onto the dance floor.
Wyatt joined us a few minutes later with refills.
For the next hour, the three of us danced to pop remixes I recognized from my running playlist—the kind of queer anthems I’d never admit out loud that I loved for fear of someone correctly guessing why.
Bass notes thrummed through my chest, and sweat gathered at my hairline and dampened the back of my shirt as strobe lights flashed over Wyatt’s and Celine’s faces, illuminating their smiles.
When the unmistakable opening notes of “Unholy” started, Celine threw her arms around Wyatt’s neck and pulled him down for a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss, and for a few minutes, I let myself forget who I was.
Whohewas.
My hands found Wyatt’s hips before I registered that I’d stepped into his space. Celine pulled her mouth from his and yanked his head back by his hair. He looked up at me, his pupils blown wide and his mouth curved in a soft, open smile. My hand slid to his abdomen, pulling him flush against me.
Celine’s nails raked over my shoulders to scrape through the hair at my nape. “Kiss him,” she mouthed.
I shook my head. I was drunk, but I wasn’tthatdrunk.
He pulled her closer, sandwiching himself between us, his hips rocking against the erection I couldn’t hide.
“Yeah, kiss me, Sebastian,” he murmured.
For one beat, I let myself believe this was enough. That we weren’t playing a dangerous fucking game.
Then the room snapped back into focus, and I realized how reckless this was.
There were eyes everywhere. One photo, and we’d both be ruined.
Lately, I’d begun to consider the possibility that that was what Wyatt washopingwould happen. That he might actuallywantpeople to know the truth about him. Whenever we weretogether in public, he kept creeping closer and closer to the line of what was considered appropriate between two supposedly straight men. Men who were supposed to be nothing more than good friends and colleagues.
