“Love you,” he mouths.
I nod and soften my eyes with all the things I want to say but can’t on a stage in a crowded dining room.
He strides toward the exit and joins Trace. Together, they vanish beyond the door, taking all the air with them.
Love is a deep breath with wings. It flutters in the chest, swooping and dancing to the beat of the heart. Without it, I feel strangled and lifeless.
Without them, I might never breathe again.
I slip off the stage at midnight, physically exhausted but emotionally energized. Dancing clears my head and breathes life into my soul. I feel blissfully empowered and eager to talk things out with Trace.
I haven’t seen him or Cole since they left Bissara. I assume Cole went home. Trace could be anywhere on the property.
Rather than heading to my dressing room, I swerve toward the main floor of The Regal Arch Casino and Hotel. Past the clanking, flashing slot machines and around the crowded gaming tables, I veer down a quiet corridor and punch in my access code to call Trace’s private elevator.
Inside the lift, I press 31. After a short ride, the doors open, and I step out.
The penthouse is quiet, seemingly vacant. Dim lights illuminate the open kitchen on the left. Straight ahead, the living room is dark, drawing my attention to the glittering St. Louis cityscape beyond the windows.
“Trace?” I make my way down the hallway, stopping at the first doorway and poking my head into the workout room and indoor pool area. “Are you home?”
Silence.
Dang it. He must be in one of the bars downstairs, hobnobbing with clients.
The humidity and aroma of chlorine swaddles me in a vapor of tranquility, and I suddenly feel like swimming.
I follow the exposed brick walls to his bedroom and find it as tidy and vacant as the rest of the penthouse. An industrial warehouse theme dominates the top floor of the hotel, but the soft red and charcoal textures in this room give it a welcoming, cozy feel without losing the masculine ambiance.
His maid service comes three times a week. Today is an off day, yet his king-sized bed is made, accented with coordinating pillows. I smile at the image of him straightening and fluffing. He’s such a damn clean freak.
I take a quick shower, washing off make-up, glitter, and eight hours of sweat. When I finish, he still isn’t back.
In his ginormous closet, I dig through drawers in search of my favorite pink bikini. It’s no secret I’m a little disorganized and a lot messy—the complete opposite of Trace. His suits and shirts hang in color-coded rows while my shit rarely makes it onto a hanger.
He cleans up after me constantly and never complains. For a man who tolerates very little, he puts up with my quirky, annoying habits like a champ.
Now where did he put my bikini?
I find it in a drawer labeled swimsuits—imagine that—along with a few others I’ve never seen before. He doesn’t have a personal shopper. He’s too controlling for that. Picturing him standing in a clothing store and picking out these skimpy things makes my heart smile.
I pull on one of the new suits, a strappy silver monokini, which is essentially a few tiny pieces of fabric webbed together with dozens of spaghetti strings.
Making my way down the hall, I cross the workout room and enter the glass enclosure on the roof of the casino hotel. In the warmer months, the windowed panels slide back, bringing the outdoors inside. But October in St. Louis is chilly. With the pool area sealed up for the winter, it feels like a sauna in here.
I stop at the digital panel beside the pool entrance. I love how the smart home system plays music in any room in the penthouse. It also does security stuff and other things, more important things—Trace’s words—but I only access it for the sound system.
With my playlist already loaded, I select Don’t Let Me Down by The Chainsmokers and crank up the volume.
Gathering my damp blonde hair, I knot the waist-length strands on top of my head and bounce my legs. I can’t help it. I’m a slave to the music, and within seconds, I’m dancing beside the rectangular pool.
The catchy lyrics spur me to sing along and wriggle my hips. By the time the chorus hits, I’m straight-up grooving, belting the words like the singer I’m not, and completely caught off guard when an arm snakes around my waist and spins me around.
Devious blue eyes illuminate my horizon right before strong lips swallow my gasp.
Trace grabs the backs of my thighs and lifts me up his body, kissing me so passionately the world tilts and infinity stands still.
I hook my legs around his hips and melt against him, matching the sinful strokes of his tongue. He tastes like warmth and love and feels like sex. His hunger vibrates beneath the crisp suit, and his fingers dig unapologetically against my backside. Impatient. Greedy. Carnal.