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)
Their heels and makeup popped with colors matching the computerized futuristic music. Lots of techno flash brought to earth with a hip-hop silhouette.
Everything blurred together in the rapid tempo which made it easy to forget exactly what waited for him. Supersonic music filled the air and gave him life. Hop let go and danced. He swished and bent and tempted. He poured every ounce of filthy and crude sexuality into the movement. Tam had created a world where the taboo was the norm and the Sassy Boyz needed to bring his vision to life.
At the tail end of the song, the repetitive bridge melded into another psych-influenced dance track. Sofi Tukker’s “Fuck They” was a great soundtrack to showcase their confidence. It was full of rebellion with a wonderful blend of edgy playfulness.
Fuck pushing boundaries, with this dance there were no limits. At moments they hit hard with masculine hip-hop inspired steps but within the blink of an eye they were rolling their hips and eye-fucking their audience.
About halfway through the routine the choreography called for them to lick their fingers then grab their crotches while they thrust their hips suggestively.
That was the moment.
His gaze collided with Rafe’s.
But it wasn’t anger on Rafe’s face. It was lust. The atmosphere was charged with it, thick like syrup it poured over Hop until the room disappeared and it was just the two of them in a bubble.
Their history vanished and they were two blank slates with nothing in their way. Without that connection, only base instincts ruled them. And right then, Hop’s instinct was to appease the desire in those dark, commanding eyes. The part of him he’d struggled against for so long reared its head and roared, recognizing something Hop could not—the possibility of surrender. It was the answer to everything he sought.
Hop’s already quick pulse sped impossibly and he sucked in breath after breath. When he thought he might pass out from the mix of dread and desire, Rafe’s expression changed.
Lust morphed into confusion. And then...
Recognition.
* * *
It was his eyes.
Those insane blue eyes. God, Rafe had seen them so many times he’d recognize them anywhere. It didn’t matter how he’d disguised himself. Pastel hair, makeup, heels...none of it mattered when those eyes focused on him.
Hopkins Roland Lovette.
The menace was in Rafe’s goddamn club like he belonged there.
Confusion hardened the threads of desire that had wrapped Rafe in a hot cocoon the moment the music started. The cold shell it made was layered with years of resentment and a fresh new panic. His fists tightened on the armrests and he fought the irrationality threatening his sanity.
Jesus, Rafe had been all but eye-fucking him a minute ago. The kid who’d driven him mad with his foolish rebellion and immature risks was standing right in front of him dressed in glitter and heels, disrupting his well-ordered life. Hopkins had always been a storm of chaos sucking Rafe in and twisting him up. He couldn’t allow it to happen now.
Not again.
No. His eyes must be playing tricks on him. There was no way Hopkins would be here of all places. The guy might be a total wreck, but he wasn’t without some self-preservation. He’d know this was the worst place to show his face after close to a decade of lying low.
Rafe picked up the file and flipped through the contracts. Mark flicked a worried glance in his direction, but Rafe ignored it as he searched. Nothing stood out.
His friend must have sensed Rafe’s irritation, because he grabbed the file out of Rafe’s hands, then handed him the contract with a raised eyebrow.
Sassy Boyz.
No wonder Rafe had been clueless. He scanned the paper until he found Hopkins’s signature.
Not Hopkins, but Hop. Typical.
A new name for his new style? Like that would change anything. Rafe scoffed and crumpled the sheet in his hands. The music stopped abruptly and the house lights came up. Hopkins was already slinking backstage, the coward.
Rafe stood. “Wait.” His voice was a low commanding growl, and he felt a satisfying surge of adrenaline when Hopkins froze like a mouse caught by the cat, the way he’d always done before.
It was just a millisecond, but the instant stillness gave Rafe a powerful rush. Before he could blink, though, Hopkins had turned to glare at him, his chin lifted with pride and an irritating smirk firmly in place.
“Hello, Rafe.” Such animosity. Such contempt. It dripped off those two words like rocket fuel, lighting everything between them on fire.
It triggered a tsunami of nameless emotions in Rafe.
“You two know each other?” Mark asked. He stood too.
“Whoa,” the blond dancer said. He came up near Hopkins’s shoulder in silent support. Must be he could tell this wasn’t a happy reunion.
Did they know each other? All those years of cleaning up Hopkins’s messes flashed in Rafe’s mind. All those times he’d found the guy strung out and naked in a strange bed, the panicked calls, the begging and pleading, the mindless rebellion and useless bids for attention. All those years of being the middleman between Roland Lockwood and his bastard son.