#Kissing (Rock and Romance #1) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Ellie Brixton
for you," I say.
Several drinks later, courtesy of Slade and various members of the satellite that perpetually hovers around the Halos nebula, we return to the hotel.
Niko picks me up, thrusting me against the wall of the elevator. My reflection is blurry, but I don't care about recognizing myself, not when the heat between my legs has been aching since he was onstage. When the ding sounds for our floor, we stumble out, onto the rug, tongues thrashing, hips grinding, and not caring that a couple has to step around us.
Drunk, we stumble, crawl, and carry each other toward the room, but the key card doesn't work. Niko slips it in again and jiggles the handle. I shove it in the other way. Nothing. I lean against the wall, the heavy liquid in my bloodstream shuttering my eyes.
"Is this the right room?" Niko asks, his voice a sexy British slur.
"If it has a bed, it's the right room," I say, slinging my arm around him and kissing his neck.
We switch places and he presses me against the door, but before clothing comes off or we're kicked out, Slade, Kat, and a few others appear.
"Looking for a party?" asks a guy I vaguely remember is named Malcolm, or Maxwell, or something.
I don't care what his name is, but the others do since he's Slade's buddy and the one that's been providing their substances of choice. I don't pay attention.
Without consulting me, Niko tugs me by the hand, and we proceed to the end of the hall where we board another elevator.
We get off on the suite floor and the door hangs open at the end of the hallway. Inside, Jill, topless, streaks by, barks a husky laugh, with a bottle of whisky in her hand. By the floor to ceiling windows, Kenji soaks in a hot tub, surrounded by his girls.
I lose Niko somewhere in the crowd of laughter and dissonance, a veritable Tumblr page for a lost weekend and identical to so many other nights.
Chapter 7
And so I lose myself. At first I keep it classy, rock star glam with a champagne drink the guy who appointed himself bartender dubbed the dazzler. It's as blue as a pair of eyes that captivate me, drawing me away from the moments when I should be concentrating on having an orgasm with my boyfriend.
The dazzler makes me feel strangely dazzled and rather dazzling, and I strut over to a floor to ceiling window and look up.
Jill ghosts next to me and follows my gaze. She silently passes me the bottle of whisky. I'm suspicious of her generosity. She's now wearing a tight-fitting gray shirt with a hand lifting the middle finger.
I pass her the remains of the dazzler.
"I didn't know you shared." I've perfected the disinterested and casually aloof lean, my eyes flat, my attention suited for far better things than whatever it is I'm doing. I excel at this only because for so many years I intimately knew the opposite—the keen interest of the perfect student.
She snorts. "It's that kind of night." Her smile is hitched and crooked.
I take a swig. As usual, the alcohol burns my throat.
We share an odd moment of companionable silence, our attention on the stars.
Jill hands me the bottle again. I lift it and say, "Let's drink to the F s. For fun, to forget, and to fuck."
She cackles.
The party guests, hangers-on, and those hoping to get contact high, or contact-famous, lounge lazily as though waiting for the band to break out the board games or beer pong. Even though my cultivated appearance says indifference, I'm so over this.
Just before I take another sip, I ask, "Does the bartender have any tequila?"
She laughs because it's well known that tequila and me is a risky combination.
"Crazy nights make good stories," I say with a wink.
Chapter 8
With my hand on my hip, I consider how to orchestrate mischief. The synapses that would otherwise channel comprehension to multivariable calculus problems and lines of Middle English obediently create chaos out of order, well, relative order.
I smile as I invent entertainment.
I stumble toward a door I'm certain
Several drinks later, courtesy of Slade and various members of the satellite that perpetually hovers around the Halos nebula, we return to the hotel.
Niko picks me up, thrusting me against the wall of the elevator. My reflection is blurry, but I don't care about recognizing myself, not when the heat between my legs has been aching since he was onstage. When the ding sounds for our floor, we stumble out, onto the rug, tongues thrashing, hips grinding, and not caring that a couple has to step around us.
Drunk, we stumble, crawl, and carry each other toward the room, but the key card doesn't work. Niko slips it in again and jiggles the handle. I shove it in the other way. Nothing. I lean against the wall, the heavy liquid in my bloodstream shuttering my eyes.
"Is this the right room?" Niko asks, his voice a sexy British slur.
"If it has a bed, it's the right room," I say, slinging my arm around him and kissing his neck.
We switch places and he presses me against the door, but before clothing comes off or we're kicked out, Slade, Kat, and a few others appear.
"Looking for a party?" asks a guy I vaguely remember is named Malcolm, or Maxwell, or something.
I don't care what his name is, but the others do since he's Slade's buddy and the one that's been providing their substances of choice. I don't pay attention.
Without consulting me, Niko tugs me by the hand, and we proceed to the end of the hall where we board another elevator.
We get off on the suite floor and the door hangs open at the end of the hallway. Inside, Jill, topless, streaks by, barks a husky laugh, with a bottle of whisky in her hand. By the floor to ceiling windows, Kenji soaks in a hot tub, surrounded by his girls.
I lose Niko somewhere in the crowd of laughter and dissonance, a veritable Tumblr page for a lost weekend and identical to so many other nights.
Chapter 7
And so I lose myself. At first I keep it classy, rock star glam with a champagne drink the guy who appointed himself bartender dubbed the dazzler. It's as blue as a pair of eyes that captivate me, drawing me away from the moments when I should be concentrating on having an orgasm with my boyfriend.
The dazzler makes me feel strangely dazzled and rather dazzling, and I strut over to a floor to ceiling window and look up.
Jill ghosts next to me and follows my gaze. She silently passes me the bottle of whisky. I'm suspicious of her generosity. She's now wearing a tight-fitting gray shirt with a hand lifting the middle finger.
I pass her the remains of the dazzler.
"I didn't know you shared." I've perfected the disinterested and casually aloof lean, my eyes flat, my attention suited for far better things than whatever it is I'm doing. I excel at this only because for so many years I intimately knew the opposite—the keen interest of the perfect student.
She snorts. "It's that kind of night." Her smile is hitched and crooked.
I take a swig. As usual, the alcohol burns my throat.
We share an odd moment of companionable silence, our attention on the stars.
Jill hands me the bottle again. I lift it and say, "Let's drink to the F s. For fun, to forget, and to fuck."
She cackles.
The party guests, hangers-on, and those hoping to get contact high, or contact-famous, lounge lazily as though waiting for the band to break out the board games or beer pong. Even though my cultivated appearance says indifference, I'm so over this.
Just before I take another sip, I ask, "Does the bartender have any tequila?"
She laughs because it's well known that tequila and me is a risky combination.
"Crazy nights make good stories," I say with a wink.
Chapter 8
With my hand on my hip, I consider how to orchestrate mischief. The synapses that would otherwise channel comprehension to multivariable calculus problems and lines of Middle English obediently create chaos out of order, well, relative order.
I smile as I invent entertainment.
I stumble toward a door I'm certain
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