Chapter 27

Because Tyrone was watching, I pushed De’Andre away and shrugged off his hand. “Get off me,” I barked, even though my whole body ached for his touch. His laughter washed over me, a deep, sensual sound that I felt in my balls. I wanted to tear into him and couldn’t—wanted to rage against him, beat him, hit him, grasp him, clench him in my fists. I could imagine my hands, so white against his dark skin. I could see myself impaled upon him, wrapped in his arms and held down as he plowed into me with a timeless rhythm, like night into day. It was the music, I told myself, the smoke and the haze and the close bodies pressing all around that had me so riled.

Long after he disappeared into the crowd, I still felt his hand on the back of my neck, his arm around my shoulders and his body tight against mine. Who was I kidding? It was him.

* * * *