A few hours ago, Janie tried to prepare me for New Year’s Eve at a Dallas nightclub. Hands on my shoulders, she said, “Repeat after me, I, Maximoff Hale…”

“I, Maximoff Hale,” I said with crossed arms. Ready for an apocalyptic ending tonight. It’s what Donnelly said: the Hale Curse. What goes wrong will go wrong to the Hales. Now there are two Hales on this trip, and I was alright with catastrophes happening to me. To my sister?

No fucking way.

“…will trust Jane Eleanor Cobalt,” she continued.

That was easy to say. “…will trust my best friend.”

She smiled. “To be the best wing-woman to Luna Hale, which includes copious amounts of fun, a midnight kiss from a stranger, and safety of the highest caliber.”

I scowled. “Janie—”

“It’s a girls’ night out, old chap.” She lifted her chin. “I’m partying with Sullivan and Luna, and you’re not allowed to hover or protect. They’re my responsibility, and that’s that.”

I trust Janie with all my fucking heart. So I nodded and gave in.

Spoiler Alert: I lost sight of the girls within twenty minutes. The nightclub is gigantic. Three-stories of balconies overlook a packed dance pit. Colorful strobe lights stroke the swaying and gyrating bodies. A DJ spins on a table, amps blasting my favorite electronic music.

This could’ve been a disaster zone for security and our bodyguards, but the public has no clue we’re in Dallas. Plus, the strobe lights obstruct our features. Becoming nameless, faceless humans. None of us have been spotted.

Not once.

I’m not even rigid or alert. I’m in the pit, dancing as much as anyone can with jam-packed bodies. Bright pinks, oranges, then purples bathe the club. Light sweeping the crowds.

Like I’m in a fantasy world. Music pumps and magnifies my pulse.

I let go.

A hand slides across my neck. Farrow is in front of me. Pressed up against me as we move to a hypnotic beat. In public. We’re in public.

The fact elevates this euphoric, light-as-air feeling that dizzies me. Heady, intoxicating—and I pull him even closer. My strong hand on his abs, rising up his back.

His gaze drips in a scorching trail down my body. Sweat blisters on my skin, and even with people all around us—someone at my back, my sides—I only see him.

Right here. Now.

NYE sunglasses with the year rest on his hair, pushing back the white strands. He’s fucking beautiful. Blue lights cast over his face. Then red, then fuchsia.

I devour him and this moment. Our eyes dance along our bodies, and when they meet, they caress over and over again. Kiss me, man.

His hand warms my skin and clutches tighter. Foreheads almost touching, we move with carnal force. And my mouth parts in a shallow breath, a raspy noise stuck in my throat. Farrow hones in on my lips, his hand shifting to my jaw.

Am I dreaming?

Christ, this feels like an exhilarating, out-of-body dream. Emotion overwhelms me to a point of no damn return. My eyes sting. My pulse speeds. Never in my life did I think I could experience this.

A man to call a boyfriend. A man to dance with in a crowd. To wake up to. To go to bed with.

To love.

And be loved.

But here he is.

“Farrow!” I yell over the music.

He reads my heady gaze, and a taut, earth-turning beat passes. Words lose meaning. He fists my shirt, leaning even more into me.

His lips brush my ear, and he breathes, “Me too.”

Goddamn.

Cannons of glitter and confetti explode from the vaulted ceiling. Showering the dance pit and his hair, my shoulders. Paper streamers thwart our view. My body thrums with untapped energy that dancing won’t release.

Our hands seem to clasp at the same time.

Both of us on the same page, we push out of the masses.

* * *

I can’t touch Farrow. Not while we stand at the check-in counter of a five-star hotel.

Marble flooring, gold chandeliers twinkling up above, guests in swanky cocktail dresses and suits congregate at a nearby speakeasy-style bar.

Bet you think I go to these ritzy places a ton. I don’t.

Not really.

We’re not dressed for an uppity establishment. Me, in dark jeans, a white long-sleeve shirt, and a small travel-duffel is slung on my shoulder. Farrow, black pants and a black Ramones V-neck. He leans on the counter and texts Omega that we left the nightclub.

From behind the counter, the concierge—a well-groomed, tuxedo-clad man—scrutinizes my features. He knows who I am, but he’s not positive. Maybe I’m a Maximoff Hale lookalike.

I take out my wallet. “One night, your best suite.” I don’t want to hear the cost. Trust me when I say, I almost never spend money this flippantly. But I slide a black Amex and my ID to the concierge.

Farrow catches sight and surprise lifts his brows.

The concierge perks up at the cards. “Right away, Mr. Hale. I believe our very best suite is available. Let me check with management. It’ll only be a second.” He glides away to alert staff that a celebrity is here.

Farrow pockets his phone, his surprise still there. “You have a black Amex?”

Since he’s been my bodyguard, I haven’t taken it out before now. “For the travel benefits,” I explain. “I don’t use it a lot. Definitely not for strangers or…” one-night stands. I check the time on my canvas watch. “It’s not a big deal.”

He smiles and scans the chandeliers, the marble statues that flank the revolving entrance, the bellhops, and then me. Knowingly.

I have the means to treat my boyfriend to something other than a crammed bunk bed or a bland room, and so I’m fucking treating him.

Abruptly, the concierge returns, and while he talks, he hands me keycards in an envelope, smiles pleasantly, and describes the hotel’s many amenities. But I’m thinking only one damn thing.

Don’t look in love with the guy next to you.

I force myself not to turn. Not to meet Farrow’s strong gaze. I could be swept up in him. Fucking easily.

Once my exchange with the concierge ends, Farrow and I enter the nearest elevator. He stands right beside me, a fucking breath away. Don’t look at him. I press the highest number and take stock of the security cameras.

Don’t look in love.

The doors slide shut. Ascending.

My muscles flex; I can feel him shifting, his breath deepening. The elevator a sauna, his casual confidence radiates like molten sex. Don’t look at him.

Jesus Christ.

The numbers tic upward too unhurriedly, and alone, in this elevator, my willpower just plummets. And I look to my left. Right at Farrow.

His head slowly turns to me, and his eyes burrow into mine, our chests rising in a taut breath. Burning. Up. Tension winding to an unbearable, unsound degree.

I ball my hands into white-knuckled fists. Don’t move. Don’t touch him. Blood pools, pulse hammering in my cock. God, I want him.

I eye Farrow again.

He hooks his NYE sunglasses on his V-neck and then combs his fingers through bleach-white hair. “You’re fucking killing me.” He tries to look away, but after a millisecond, he looks back at me. “Fuck, Maximoff.”

I have no clue what kind of eyes I have. Kiss me, fuck me, love me—something greater than all three.

My biceps flex as I rest my palms on my head. I imagine Farrow coming up behind me. His hands raking down every damn inch of flesh: my arms, my abs and chest, lower…gripping me—and my head tilts back.

Fuck me. I blink out of a brief fantasy. I’m holding the back of my neck, and I’m actually, for real, staring up at the elevator’s ceiling. Glaring.

I glance at Farrow.

He smiles and gives me a slow-burning once-over. “Never thought I’d be jealous of the imaginary version of myself, but I’m getting there.”

Elevator dings.

The hallway is a blur. I tap into a one-track mind that says, door, unlock, fuck him, my cock, his cock, come.

So by the time we’re inside the luxury suite, Farrow kicks the door closed, and I instantly push him up against the wood.

“Fuck,” he curses huskily. Closer. More. Our fevered hands work like we’re dying and welding together is the only way to survive.

Body against body, our mouths collide like a car crash. He bites my lip, and a wolfish noise rumbles inside my ribcage. Fuck yes.

He clasps my jaw as I part his mouth with my tongue. Heat exploding inside and outside and everywhere between. Farrow fists the fabric of my shirt.

I touch his neck, his arms, his chest, his waist, his ass. My palms don’t know where the fuck they want to land anymore.

They just want all of him.

Farrow hooks his arms underneath mine. Spinning me in one movement, my back hits the door. A grunt expels from my throat, nerves lighting up like the flick of a switch.

He stretches my arm high. Over my head, pinned to the door, and my fist unbinds to lace his tattooed fingers with mine. Farrow sucks on my neck, my jaw, and my head tilts. Fuckyes.

My free hand dives down his back, beneath his waistband and boxer-briefs. I grip his ass hard. He mumbles my name and a curse against my shoulder.

Gathering strength, I draw our arms downward and then walk him backwards. Slowing us, and we stay attached. My hand still on his ass. He clasps my neck, his mouth hovering close to mine. But his gaze drifts around the suite.

No bed near.

We’re in the spacious, glitzy living room of the humongous suite. Oleanders perk in slender gold vases. A crystal chandelier hangs above two emerald chairs and a midnight-blue, velveteen couch. And a tinted window spans the entire wall, Dallas skyline glittering in the dark.

A sort of New Year’s Eve magic crackles the air.

“Wow,” he murmurs, then his eyes touch mine, and his smile takes shape. His tattooed fingers unbutton my jeans while I walk him backwards to the midnight-blue couch.

Our tounges wrestle, and I slide mine sensually, slowly along his, and I hear his choked groan before I ask, “I’m the better view, huh?”

“You’re definitely the cockier view,” he whispers against my mouth. His piercing brushes my lip.

We pass the mini-fridge, and I break our mouths just to ask, “Need a drink?”

Farrow smiles. “No. Do you?”

I skim him, fucking gorgeous sparrow tattoos on his waist. Drawing my attention downward. I lick my lips. “Replace drink with your cock.”

He unzips my jeans. “You need my cock?” Christ, his husky voice is practically stroking my erection. “Looks like we want the same thing, wolf scout. Because I need yours.”

Fuck. I yank his Ramones shirt off his head. Our movements stronger, faster. Starved. My hand descends the ink along his chiseled abs, then I unbuckle his belt. Hurried.

His back hits the full-length window. He pulls off my shirt, collar tearing. We’re limbs and skin and breath slamming together as we both fight to make the other bare.

He kicks denim down my thighs, and I’m going to lose this struggle because he has on high-laced boots that’ll take me a goddamn century to undo.

I slide my hand down his waistband. Finding him aroused beneath boxer-briefs, and I fist him with perfect pressure.

His muscles contract, and he grits down, hot breath through his nose.

“Fuck,” he curses, his hand holding my face, then my throat. Careful, he’s always careful about that.

Farrow palms my cock over my boxer-briefs, then squeezes—fuck me. I growl out a deep noise, my hand in a fist on the window by his jaw.

He whispers against my ear, “You liked that.” He rubs me.

Fucking Christ. My waist moves. Thrusts. Wanting more. And more. And more.

“Fuck, Maximoff,” he grunts.

I clutch the back of his head. “Just fuck me, man,” I groan. Dying.

His cock stirs beneath my hand. “You want to try? Tonight?”

I nod, assured. “Yeah.”

A smile edges across his mouth.

I’ve been impatient at the other hotel stops, and we’ve needed sleep. Though, I’m aware that I usually wake up to him working. But we haven’t progressed me warming up to bottoming in a while. Not since back in Cleveland.

Tonight, that changes.