Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 91507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
So, yeah, he knew how much this new contract meant to them. Rafe had given them authority to create their own schedules and had basically given them headlining privileges, which was a lot for a club that advertised variety instead of featured artists.
Hop couldn’t do anything else that put their place at Switch in jeopardy.
* * *
Rafe didn’t know what drove him to watch the show that first night. Whether it was the nagging thought that Hop was holding something back or his original interest stemming from the first time he’d seen Hop dance—before he’d known it was Hop. It could have simply been the fact that he’d been bored.
Whatever it was, it’d been his downfall.
Now that he knew his cotton-candy princess was, in fact, Hop, now that he knew Hop wasn’t the same irresponsible kid, now that he knew there was a very real possibility Hop would enjoy bending to his will...
Everything was different.
With the first glimpse of pink hair and heels, Rafe had become addicted. It came close to being an obsession, really.
Every night for the next week, Rafe stood in the dark and watched Hop dance and then he’d go home and have crazy lust-fueled dreams. It took all his self-control not to jerk off with visions of pastel and heels. In order to avoid exactly that, he’d kept his cock locked the fuck down. He hadn’t even rubbed himself through his boxers. And he definitely hadn’t scheduled a session with Dalia. Of course, he told himself it was because he’d been too busy.
The truth was he was afraid he’d close his eyes and picture Hop’s vulnerable blue eyes while Dalia was on her knees obediently sucking his cock.
By Friday, Rafe was nearing his breaking point. Something had to give.
Though he’d been sleeping more than he had in years, it wasn’t restful. All through the night, he tossed and turned so much that he woke up with his sheets and covers tossed to the floor and his skin covered in sweat. He barely ate despite a gnawing hunger. His appetite craved something he didn’t have any right wanting.
But, fuck, he was hungry.
These little glances he allowed himself each night had become the scraps that he fed on to pacify his tendencies. They only served to tease him.
Still, he waited in his customary spot for the second time that night with bated breath while Hop took his place. In all his years, Rafe had never found true pleasure in S&M, but his masochistic side had discovered its hook. And damn, it wasn’t letting go anytime soon.
Resigned, Rafe gripped the railing while his eyes were glued to Hop. Stunning was too weak a word to describe the elegant way he moved across the floor. And when the choreography turned dirty, as it always did, Rafe held on for the erotic ride. Shit, he’d probably wake up covered in jizz tomorrow morning.
He sucked in a shaky breath and tore his gaze away from the Sassy Boyz’ retreating backs. It was over. He’d survived another night.
Miracle.
He jumped at the clearing of a throat and whipped his head to the side only to find Mark staring at him with an odd look.
“What?” Rafe’s voice was rougher than the corrugated steel they stood on.
Mark raised his brow but kept whatever he was thinking to himself. Thank God. Rafe wasn’t in the mood for his friend’s insight.
“There’s a kid making a scene trying to get into the VIP section, says he knows you.”
“Blond? Named Malcolm?”
“Nope. Brown hair and a strip of pathetic chin dirt.” Mark rubbed his thumb under his bottom lip. “Looks like he tried to grow a soul patch but lacks the testosterone to pull it off.”
Rafe’s first thought was one of his brothers had shown up, but they would have sent him a text and they wouldn’t have made a scene. They knew better. Rafe wasn’t opposed to kicking ass, if necessary. He’d had to do it a number of times since their dad died.
They headed toward the stairwell together. “Underage?”
“I checked with the bouncers, they were positive his ID looked legit. Punk wouldn’t hand it over to me, though, major superiority complex, that guy. Said he didn’t have to explain himself to the help.” Mark used air quotes to highlight the last word. “Not even fucking joking, man.”
“Surprised you didn’t deck him.”
“Wanted to, believe me.”
Mark followed him down but veered off when Rafe approached the roped entrance to the VIP section with a quick “Good luck.” And an evil laugh.
Rafe eyed the guy currently arguing with Sam, the muscle employed to keep idiots out. Recognition bloomed slowly and when it finally came to him, Rafe groaned. Last thing he fucking needed was one of Malcolm’s asshole friends hanging around the club.
“There you are,” the guy said when he finally noticed Rafe. “Will you tell this moron who I am?”