Page 77 of Manhattan Secret

Making her blush is a gift I won’t take for granted.

Hooking her waist, I kiss her temple. “You look amazing, mouse. Now finally, let me show you off as my girl.”

I think Laney and I can agree by the time we get home and fall into bed, dragging each other’s clothes off, biting—eating kisses, wet and naked and desperately fucking until only the raging climaxes shared in each other’s bodies sates us.

Best. Date. Ever.

C H A P T E R 22

Delaney

I get another glaring shock of how different Lachlan and I are that night, a week after our date when he takes me to one of his dad’s nightclubs in the heart of Manhattan.

It’s the day after his birthday.

He spent most of yesterday with his family up until just before midnight when he surprised me with his gorgeous face at my door. I made him his favorite food, he opened gifts and then I got down on my knees and wished my nineteen-year-old man-boy a happy birthday in the way that he likes best.

Today is all about partying.

“Stop looking so nervous, my dad isn’t gonna pop out from behind somewhere,” he teases, holding my hand, he leans in and kisses my forehead. “You’ll have to meet them some time, you know.”

I swallow my distress. He still thinks we have a longevity future.

But that’s for tomorrow’s worry. I want to enjoy tonight.

We don’t queue like all the other normal people outside of the club.

He walks me to the front, slapping hands with the doorman and we are shown inside. Not only inside, but up to a VIP roped off section where we have our own waitress.

It’s obvious from the clothes on his back and the car he drives, not to mention all the perks of walking into a place like this with no waiting, that Lachlan has privileges more than any other nineteen-year-old does.

But he doesn’t flaunt it.

It doesn’t make him big headed.

It’s his normal.

He told me once that his parents raised him and his siblings to be grounded and not entitled, to work hard for what they want.

Every day he shows me his maturity.

My pulse is a flutter under his roaming fingertips on my neck.

He likes to hold me around the neck, like a momma dog with her pup.

I should hate it, feminism and all that, but the way his hand curls around the back of my nape, is intimately suggestive.

All night he cups a hand somewhere on my body like letting me go is the last thing he ever wants to do—his touch belongs on my body and with each passing hour under the strobe lightening and intense focus of my boyfriend, I fall so much harder.

We dance and drink.

His heat burns through my dress.

We dance some more and mentally eye-fuck each other the entire fun night.

Lachlan doesn’t keep to just fucking me with his eyes, he roams his hands all over me in the darkened club, sending my pulse sky rocketing.

By the time we fall into my hallway, well after 2 am, I’m more than tipsy as I giggle when he lifts me into his arms before I can face plant the tiled floor in my 5-inch sex-me-now heels.

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