Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
“Do you make a habit of entering every open door you come across?” The guy rested a hand on his hip and cocked his head so the long blond locks fell to the side.
When Fitch smiled at his catty tone, he gritted his teeth and scowled.
“Not usually, but this was a special occasion.” Fitch tucked his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans. The dancer glanced down at the motion and subtly checked out his goods. Hell, that was hot. Experimentally, Fitch widened his stance and adjusted his fingers to better frame his crotch.
The bob of the blond’s throat made him itch to push further, to see where this attraction might lead.
The blond squinted angrily. Oddly enough, his stare was just aggressive enough to make Fitch pause. With his bulk and muscle mass, he could easily overpower the other man, but his size didn’t seem to faze the dancer. Then again, the heels gave the guy a good four inches on him. Maybe the height gave a false sense of superiority.
The dancer ground his teeth and took a threating step forward. “What do you want? An apology? I’m sorry, okay? I got carried away last night. Do you want to hit me? Is that it? Not gonna happen.” He waved a hand in front of his own face. “This is my money maker, you got it? I will fucking cut a bitch if—”
“I’m not gonna hit you. Jesus.” Fitch cut him off. Did his dancer get threatened so often that he thought it was the only possible outcome?
The blond bit his bottom lip and his brow furrowed.
Fitch held his hands up, palms out. “I came to find a lost purse, that’s all. But since I’m here, maybe I could get your name?”
Instead of calming the guy, though, this seemed to agitate him even more. He took a step back and tensed. “My name, why?”
That was a good fucking question. At a loss for a plausible lie, Fitch went with the truth. “I’d like to think of you as something other than the dancer.” He left out the part where his brain had claimed ownership.
Those green eyes scrunched in suspicion. “Why think of me at all?”
Fitch’s stomach came alive with jitters. Everything in him screamed for another sample, another touch, one more—just to be sure. If he loved it just as much the second time, he’d need to face his fears. His perception of himself could need a drastic renovation. He might not be so straight after all.
So what if he wasn’t?
He was caring less and less with each passing moment.
He exhaled anxiously and took an awkward step forward, closing the gap between them. The blond didn’t move, but his green gaze did flick down when Fitch licked his lip. Fitch’s heart began the tango against his sternum and his palms grew damp. “I tried not to,” he admitted. “Not fucking possible.”
With a trembling arm, he reached out and clutched the back of his dancer’s neck. Then, with a tentative breath, he tilted his head up so their lips met.
As soon as they touched, the tension in his stomach exploded in a cascade of fireworks that ignited every nerve in his body. He forgot everything but the contact, the man’s taste, the odd feel of a stranger’s scruff against his own. He swept his tongue into the welcoming heat and groaned at the spicy flavor. His dancer kissed him back, wrapping strong, slender arms around his waist.
Fitch plundered and rocked his hips, while the other man clutched and groaned and met each move with a purposeful counter move. His limbs grew heavy even as his nerves tingled with unspent energy.
So good.
Better than last time—which didn’t seem possible, but there it was. Every cell came alive as their tongues entwined and their lips caressed.
They kissed for so long he became lightheaded. Fitch ended the kiss on a bitter sigh, but he didn’t pull away. They both remained where they were, staring into each other’s eyes, panting. Beneath his thumb, he counted the rapid pulse of the man’s heart and was thrilled to note it beat just as fast as his.
“Ansel.” The dancer’s tongue peeked out to wet his kiss-swollen bottom lip. “My name is Ansel Becke.”
“Nice to meet you.” Fitch breathed and forced his fingers to release their grip. “I’m Fitch Donovan. Can I give you my phone number?”
Ansel bit his lip and the carnality of the act made Fitch want to kiss him all over again.
“Get a move on. My shift starts in forty minutes and we still have to work out the transition sequence.”
A dark-haired guy yelled from the stage, and Ansel stepped out of Fitch’s hold and flipped the guy off. When he looked back, he wore that addicting smirk. “All right, Grumpy Bear. I’ll take your number.”
Grumpy bear? He wasn’t going to argue, not when he’d accomplished his goal. He handed over his business card and said his goodbyes. And if he strutted out the door with a little extra swagger, who would blame him?