My heartbeat thunders in my ears. Every inch of my skin touching his warms pleasantly, and so do my cheeks, once I realize how long I’ve been staring.
I push against this man’s rock-hard chest, but he doesn’t loosen his hold.
“Let me go,” I say once, and then again louder, to be heard over the pulsing music. “I can walk on my own.”
His face turns skeptical.
Before I can ask again, he swoops me up into a bridal carry and takes me away from the dance floor. Instinctively, I wrap my arms around his neck, holding on as he carries me toward the edge of the room, where several u-shaped booths are set up along the wall. He lowers me down onto an empty seat.
As soon as his arms are away from around me, I start to stand up. The man holds up a hand, palm flat, right in front of me. I stop to keep from pressing into it.
“Stay,” he says.
I’m about to snap, I’m not a dog, when he drops down to his knee in front of me. Gently, he cradles one of my calves with both hands and lifts my heel into his lap. With a slow, deliberate touch, he takes off my broken shoe. My foot is swollen underneath.
Now that my focus isn’t fixed so singularly on this handsome man, the pain starts to creep up inside of me.
The man carefully inspects my ankle. “It’s looks strained.” I can hear him more clearly here on the outskirts of the club.
He looks up at me again, and those piercing blue eyes of his take my breath away. He has such an intense focus, I can’t help but wonder what he sees, looking at me.
He’s probably like Garnar, and sees a not-so-young woman. A tired, worn-down expression.
The thought makes my heart sink.
“I suppose this is why I shouldn’t hang around in young people’s places,” I try for a joke. I’m not sure it lands. “It’s too dangerous.”
The man doesn’t laugh. He just looks at me more closely, narrowing his eyes ever-so-slightly.
“I’m lucky my ankle didn’t break,” I say. My first joke didn’t make him laugh, so I double down. “I probably already have osteoporosis.”
“You don’t look any older than me,” he says, frowning slightly.
“How old are you?”
“25.”
A laugh bubbles out from my chest.
As I’m laughing, Cynthia makes her way over to me. “There you are! And – ah! You are here too.” She smiles, first to me, then to my unlikely savior.
The man lifts a brow.
“I have the hotel room key…” Cynthia digs through her purse and retrieves a flat room key. She hands it to the man still kneeling at my feet. “Here we are.”
The man takes it, even though he looks confused.
He can’t possibly be more confused than me. “Cynthia. Why are you giving this stranger a hotel key?”
“Oh. He’s not a stranger. Well, I mean, I suppose he is. But he’s one I hired for you.” Cynthia steps closer to me and fixes my hair. It must have gotten tussled in my near-fall. “He’s a call boy.”
The man straightens somewhat. He mustn’t like to be called that while he’s in public.
I wish I could say I’m surprised, but I’m really not. This is something that Cynthia would think to do, like when she ordered strippers for a mutual friend after her breakup.
“Your husband wants an open marriage, but he expects you to stay home while he struts around like a fucking peacock. That’s not how it works, Esther. An open marriage means you get some too.”
Cynthia points at the man still kneeling, who now looks at the hotel key like it’s some kind of prize.
“You will go back to the hotel room with this hottie and let him fuck your brains out. Is that clear?” Cynthia says.
The man never once looks away from me. “I won’t rest until she’s satisfied.”
My cheeks burn with a fresh blush.
Cynthia laughs. “That’s the spirit! Have a good time, you two.” She winks at me as she turns and disappears right back into the crowd she sprang from.
Embarrassed, I duck my chin and look down at my ankle. The hotel name written on the key is two blocks away.
“Maybe this is a bad idea…” I begin. Cynthia was convincing, as are the man’s deep eyes. But this is so out of my routine that I don’t know where to begin. Any hindrance, like my ankle, seems reason enough to stop it.
“Are you kidding? It sounds like an amazing idea.”
The man’s enthusiasm draws my attention back up. Those blue eyes are somehow even deeper, churning like a storm. I’m pulled in right away. I never stood a chance.
“My ankle…” I say, weakly.
“I’ve got you.” He hands my shoe to hold, then once more scoops me up into his arms. He lifts me like I weigh nothing at all. Holding me close, he carries me from the club and down the sidewalk.
We receive some attention, cat calls and whistles. I bury by red face in the man’s shoulder, but not before I catch his wide grin. He’s enjoying the hell out of this.
His chest is hard, and his arms firm. He must work out, all muscle.
Oddly, he doesn’t take me to the hotel Cynthia reserved. Instead, he shoulders the door open for an exclusive pub with an inn attached.
The place is as high class as high class comes, with wait-staff in tuxedos, thousand dollar chandeliers hanging every three to four feet on the ceiling, and rich wooden tables and chairs.
A valet waits at the bottom of the stairs. He does not question my date, or why he might be holding a strange woman in his arms. The valet simply bows in greeting as he steps to the side.
I thought this hotel reserved for the top elites in the nation. Even as a CEO’s wife, I could never dream of booking a room here.
For my date to simply be waved through…
What is his regular clientele? Can I even afford him?
That should bother me more, maybe. I might have to max out my credit cards for one night of bliss. Garnar is sure to be furious when he finds out.
After everything I’ve sacrificed, all I struggled with, and all I have faced today, I deserve this. It may only be for one night, but I fully plan on enjoying every single second of this one night.
“What’s your name?” I ask on the way up the stairs. At the top, the man carries me down a hallway without having to check the directory for directions.
“Miles Hamilton,” he says. The name rumbles in his chest under my ear.
“I’m Esther.”
“I know.”
Cynthia must have told him.
While still holding me, Miles withdraws a different key from his pocket and uses it to unlock the door.
I lift my head to look at the handsome curves and planes of his face. He has high cheekbones, a prominent jawline, a straight, dignified nose. He doesn’t need to be a call boy. He could be a model.
But at this moment, I’m incredibly grateful for his chosen profession.
He kicks the door closed behind us, plunging us into darkness.
Before he can lower me, I grab him by the collar and tug him close as I lean forward.
Our lips ghost across one another, not quite touching. Not yet.
“Fuck me, Miles,” I whisper.
