Page 228 of Enemies

Every movement of his arm, his jacket, feels like he’s tugging on a string wrapped around my core. I'm so fucking turned on in this moment, I think I might come for real.

His jaw is tight, his hand working his cock like he’s my dream fantasy come to life. I’m breathless, my reckless smile impossible to hold in when I pick up the pace of the track.

His gaze narrows, but he does the same with his strokes.

The music moves every person in this club, but he’s moving me.

I can tell when he’s getting close. I can’t look away.

I want to watch him come.

I want to feel it.

His head tips back.

He’s close.

His hips jerk. Once. Twice. Then he groans—I can’t hear it over the pounding bass, but I see it.

When he comes, I do fucking feel it. The wave grips me, and I reach for the desk in front of me to steady myself as if I’m coming too.

His unsteady breathing is mine.

When confetti rains down from the ceiling, I realize this is the best time I’ve had in a long time. Maybe ever.

It’s because of Harrison, but also because of this place. It does feel like home.

The crowd is chill and happy, content to take selfies at Debajo with me, with each other. Then the crowd parts, and my breath catches.

Harrison King walks toward me, his tuxedo jacket unbuttoned and his mouth pressed in a hard line.

When he reaches me, I say, “I thought it wasn’t a good idea to be seen together in public.”

“It’s not, which is why you’re in trouble.”

He’s cool, cold even, as he gestures for me to go ahead and follow security. I head down the hall toward the VIP room. Leni’s there, along with the bartender. Harrison shuts the door before turning to face us.

“Whose bright idea was this?” His voice is deadly calm.

“I called her,” Leni admits. “We had a cancellation last minute. And Cam’s a terrible fucking DJ.”

The bartender ducks his head.

“Cam?” I call. “Mr. King could use a whisky.”

He fixes one immediately, bringing the glass over. His gaze slides to my legs, and his throat bobs.

Harrison sends the guy scurrying away with a look.

“Cam, I’ll drink the whisky.” I cross to the bar and take it from him before sipping the golden liquid.

Harrison paces the room. “Mischa isn’t supposed to know we’re talking. Tonight you all but announced it.”

“We announced that Debajo had an opening,” Leni cuts in, “and a former DJ in residence picked up the slack for an impromptu—and a fucking fantastic, might I add—show.”

Adrenaline surges through me again. It was fantastic.

“You’re the one making this worse by marching her down here,” Leni goes on.

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