Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98909 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98909 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Sure enough, after three more paces, my boys get a glimpse of the stage, where four men wearing only G-strings and chaps are bucking across the stage to whoops of encouragement from the female audience.
Seven fraternity brothers go rigid with surprise.
“See? Punctuation saves lives,” I call to them just as the song ends.
“Oh, shit,” Tanner says.
“Are we in the wrong place?” Owen asks.
I really hope his tutors are on point this semester. We need him to keep his GPA up so we can advance in the postseason next year.
Seven guys hustle by me and out the door before two seconds pass.
Laughing, I pause in front of the hostess again. “That was totally worth it. Thank you for that.”
“Happens at least once an hour,” she says with a grin. “I suppose we could change the names to make things more obvious.”
“But where’s the fun in that?” I point out.
We high-five each other just as a new song starts up. It’s that Sam Smith song, “Promises.” I turn toward the stage instinctively. A very loud, very female shriek of joy rises over the music as a hot guy with dark hair saunters onto the stage in a crisp white shirt, skin-tight gray trousers, a matching suit jacket and a red tie. And then I do a vicious double-take.
Unless I’m losing my mind, it’s Luke-fucking-Bailey.
I’m vaguely aware of my jaw hanging open as he saunters, barefoot, toward a desk and chair that have been rolled onto the stage. Sam Smith is already singing about all the things he wants to do for me as Luke begins to move his hips to the sensuous beat.
Jesus. The music runs through his body like a current. He’s barely dancing, and yet the movements are somehow a hundred and ten percent sex as he sheds the suit coat and flings it over the chair. Then he loosens the tie. It’s almost casual, as if he’s alone with the music and the swing of his hips to the sexy beat.
The women shriek like they’ve all won a car from Oprah.
And I can’t look away. I’m rooted to the floor as Luke slides the silk tie from his collar with a slow, sensual pull. A shiver runs up my spine, as if I can feel it myself—the slide of the silk over cotton.
On stage, his gaze is distant. There’s no eye contact with the crowd. He doesn’t pander, because he doesn’t need to. Every eye in the room is already fixed on his fingers as they slowly unbutton that lucky shirt, while his hips circle and grind.
The effect is entirely voyeuristic, as if I’m watching his private thoughts as he prepares for sex.
Then he casts the shirt away and springs into action, hopping onto the desk with one gravity-defying leap. A spotlight illuminates those golden abs as they ripple and flex. And he slides a hand past his cock as if he can’t quite stand how sexy he is.
I can’t quite stand it, either.
The crowd loses its mind as he rotates, showing off those tight trousers as a hundred women sigh. It’s fucking genius, because this is some serious wish fulfillment right here. Luke is playing the role of the hot CEO. He can provide for you, and then come home to make you scream.
Oh, and now we can also appreciate that he’s well hung, because those skintight pants reveal every ridge and bulge of his gorgeous body.
Take them off, my libido begs. And then take mine off, too.
I told Luke that most of me wants to hook up with him again. That’s not the case anymore. All of me wants it. Right here, right now—I’ve never wanted anything, or anyone, more.
Goodbye, sexual confusion. Because confused is the last thing I’m feeling at the moment. There’s no other way around it—I like dudes. Especially that one onstage.
While I’m having this eureka moment, Luke takes a deep breath, and then turns in the direction of a metal pole that’s maybe six feet from the desk. My poor little brain is just doing that math when Bailey leaps through the air like a sideways Superman, arms first, catching the pole in both hands.
And then he just sort of hangs there, legs out straight, body perpendicular to the pole. The maneuver requires either incredible core strength or a special insider’s arrangement with gravity.
“Get the fuck out of here,” I sputter, wondering how that’s even physically possible.
A throat is cleared beside me.
I whirl around, but it’s only the hostess watching me with an amused expression on her face. “Maybe you’re in the right room after all?”
Shit. “Sorry.” I feel blood rushing to my face as I try to recover myself. My frat brothers are long gone.
But I can’t resist one more look at the stage. Bailey has a leg around the bar now. He’s spinning slowly, almost casually, his muscles rippling while the women scream. Dollar bills are falling on stage like a blizzard.