Page 132 of Pack Me Up
I take Brittney’s hand, warm and small in mine, and we slip into the tent.
Inside, it’s even better than I hoped. It’s a perfect circle of lights, three rings, and a sea of strangers who don’t give a single fuck who we are. We find our seats, high up and near the edge, perfect for a quick escape if we need it.
Brittney peels off the sunglasses, glances around, and lets herself relax for the first time all day. “Nobody’s looking at us,” she says.
“Told you,” I say. “All eyes on the ring.”
The show starts. There are clowns, acrobats, a guy in sequined pants balancing twelve plates on his nose. Brittney’s laugh is bright and loud, cutting through the crowd, and I can’t stop watching her. The way she crinkles her nose, the way she claps for the tightrope walker, the way she leans into me when the lights go out dramatically.
I slide my arm around her shoulder. She tucks her head under my chin, and I rest my cheek against her hair.
“I’m glad you came,” I say, quietly.
She smiles, voice barely there. “Me too.”
We stay like that until the end of the show, when the crowd erupts.
When the lights come up, Brittney’s eyes are bright and alive.
Outside, Saint and Hunter are waiting, standing sentinel at the edge of the lot. I catch the little nod Saint gives me, a rare, silent approval, probably based on how happy our mate is right now.
We pile into the car, Brittney pressed close against my side, and drive back to the hotel in a haze.
I promise myself I’ll make her laugh again tomorrow.
And every day after that.
When we return to the lobby, I see a dozen eyes flick our way, but none of them recognize us; none of them care. It’s fucking perfect.
We dodge the elevators in the main bank and slip around to the service lift. I punch the button and lean against the metal, still buzzing from the sugar high and Brittney’s laugh. She stands close, tiger plush under one arm, biting her lip and watching the floor numbers flick by.
When the doors slide shut, she exhales all at once, the tension draining from her shoulders. I can’t help myself; I press her back against the mirrored wall, bracket her with my hands, and just look at her. Not the careful, stage-ready her, but the real one—face still a little flushed from the night, wig messy, hoodie bunched at the collar.
“I’ve been dying to do this all night,” I say, and I kiss her. My lips are hard and hungry, with just enough pressure to make her gasp. Her hands go to my hips, fingers curling through the denim, pulling me closer. We’re not even trying to play it cool anymore. We’re fire, pure and simple.
The elevator dings, and we stumble out, barely holding it together down the hall. Our suite is at the end, just past the icemachine, and I fumble with the keycard while Brittney hides her face in my shoulder, giggling.
I know my brothers are planning on giving us the night alone, and right now, I couldn’t be more grateful.
Once the door’s shut, I spin her into the room. She drops the tiger and launches herself at me, legs wrapping my waist. I catch her, stagger back until we collapse onto the bed in a tangle of limbs.
She’s on top, straddling me, and the look in her eyes is all challenge. “You said you wanted to touch me,” she says. “So do it.”
I run my hands up her thighs, slow at first, then under the hem of her hoodie. Her skin is warm and electric, goosebumps chasing my fingers. She shivers, but doesn’t look away.
I tug the hoodie over her head, taking the wig with it. She’s in a faded t-shirt, the kind that hangs loose in all the right places. I run my thumb over her stomach, her ribs, feeling every little muscle jump.
She leans down, mouth at my ear. “Is this what you wanted?” she whispers.
I bite her earlobe, gently but enough to make her gasp. “No,” I say. “I want all of you.”
She sits up, pulls her shirt off, and tosses it to the floor. No bra. No hiding. I stare, greedy, at the soft curve of her breasts, the dusky pink of her nipples, the way her mate marks stand out on her body.
“You’re beautiful,” I say, and I mean it. Every inch of her is perfect.
She grins, then grabs the hem of my own shirt and yanks it up. I help, peeling it off, exposing my chest and the scar from the time Colton and I tried to race each other through the living room window. She traces the scar, slowly, then kisses it.
I groan, deep in my throat. “You know that’s a dangerous game.”
