Page 64 of Lovely Darkness

“It’s a good idea, though, right?”

“Yeah. I’m in. But I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

“Why?”

I walk towards him, closing the distance in three paces. I place my hands flat on the glass on either side of his head and look him straight in the eyes. “Because we like it, McKay. We like that dirty shit. And even though we don’t need anyone but ourselves, sometimes it’s nice to be needed.”

I kiss him. And when my mouth meets his, I press into him. Our chests, our hips, our thighs, our dicks.

Everything about Core McKay gets me hot. His voice, his eyes, his body, his cock, his hands. All of it. Everything about him is male. He is testosterone. He is muscle, and strength, and aggression. I want to be rough with him. I want to push him, and bite him, and rip his fucking clothes off. I don’t even know why, either. All my animal instincts come out when we’re like this. And I know, if I push him this way, he’ll push back.

That’s what I want tonight. I want McKay to push back. I want the animal inside him.

But I control it. And our kiss is not animalistic and aggressive. That comes later. When the woman is between us. When we become our primal selves.

Right now, I just want him to know that I’m in. Whatever he wants. Whatever he needs, I’m in. And I like it. I don’t even care what it is, if he needs it, and it makes him happy, I will like it. Not because I have to, either. But because I want to.

He knows this. He wants a girl and the idea that I brought him here to give him that makes him look at me differently.

I know he loves me. That’s not even up for debate. But does he want to sleep next to me for the rest of his life? Will I be enough to satisfy his love of the feminine? Because let’s face it, neither of us is gonna be submissive. I’m sure as hell not, and he’s not either. McKay isn’t even gay.

I laugh and pull out of the kiss. McKay’s eyes are shining bright with mischief. “What was that for?”

“I was just thinking about how you’re not gay.”

He laughs. “Shut the fuck up. Does this club have a dress code? You wouldn’t let me pack. Somehow I doubt they’re gonna let us in looking like swamp people.”

I pat his cheek and he responds by pushing my hand away. “Come with me,” I say.

He follows me into the bedroom and when I open the closet, and he sees the two garment bags hanging, he groans. “Tell me that is not a tux.”

I grin big. McKay hates the tux. But I think he looks fuckin’ hot dressed up. And besides, we’re filthy fuckin’ rich. If we’re gonna pick up a girl tonight, we might as well look the part. “Don’t worry,” I say. “I know how you like to wear them.”

And I do.

Because when we’re both ready, and staring at ourselves in the full-length foyer mirror, he’s missing a tie, and a jacket, and his shirt barely counts as buttoned. He looks like a man at the end of his night, not the start.

I love that about him too.

Me, on the other hand, I’m a fuckin’ tux model in a glossy magazine, that’s how I wear it.

It’s early still, but that’s OK. We’re gonna get drunk too.

The Corinthian Club is on the eleventh floor and it’s billed as a Corinthian Club-level guests-only bar, but that’s not entirely true. Two hundred locals pay an exorbitant fee for twenty-four seven access. Because let’s face it—the whole point of New Orleans is New Orleans. Travelers staying in the hotel couldn’t even begin to create the kind of atmosphere this place gives off.

It’s got a speakeasy vibe going, gentleman’s rules and everything. Ladies are in charge here. You’re not allowed to approach a woman. You must let her come to you. You are not allowed to raise your voice. There is no fighting in this bar. You’re not even allowed to drop your name. These rules are printed on the keycard required to enter the floor. And you are reminded as you enter.

When we arrive, there are only about two dozen people sprinkled around the tables in clusters. The performer for tonight won’t even start for another hour and a half and no one is sitting at the bar.

But that’s OK. I lead McKay to a reserved booth elevated above the rest and with a view of everything but the stage. Let’s face it, no one is coming here for the music, even though our talent can match any other club in New Orleans.

This is a place for hookups.

Discreet hookups.

And not just any kind of hookup, either.