Mr. Wright & Mr. Wrong: A BWWM Romance Read Online Free Page B

they wandered through the crowd of people, Alex reached back to grab her hand and lead her through the crush of bodies. She kind of liked the feel of it, being led around by this handsome stranger through a club where everyone who worked there seemed to know and like him.
    As if to drive the point home, they were stopped by another gorgeous waitress, this one a brunette, who also smiled prettily up at him. Brooklyn couldn’t hear what the woman leaned in to whisper into Alex’s ear, but she did see the waitress nod her head over toward a set of stairs blocked off by a velvet rope, and no-nonsense looking man in a black suit.
    Brooklyn followed the stairs up with her eyes, and saw the seating area above with what were no-doubt, spectacular views of the throng of dancers below them. Already some of the booths were filled with a few A-listers she recognized.
    The granite-like statue guarding the area didn’t break character by offering the two of them a smile. He did nod deferentially and, without a word, unhook the rope for them to enter the VIP area.
    Alex held on tight to her hand and she used the moment to watch his back muscles work underneath his t-shirt. It was just snug enough to show that he worked out. Her eyes wandered down to the back of his jeans, which also provided an informative glimpse of his impressive anatomy.
    As he led her past the VIP patrons, she noted a few players from the game they had just come from, one well-known rapper, and a group of Wall Street types already getting rowdy. Alex came to a stop at one booth and the darkly handsome man in a slick suit popped up out of the nest of bombshells he was nestled in to reach out and give him a bro hug.
    Who are you, Alex Smith?
    As the two men stood there exchanging greetings, which Brooklyn only caught bits and pieces of, she felt the group of girls in the booth scrutinizing her. Sizing her up. Comparing. Critiquing. Condemning. She turned her attention to the dance floor below. The strobe lighting and dancing bodies were almost mesmerizing.
    She felt the tug of his hand as he led her to the last booth.
    “Who was that guy?” she shouted.
    “Owner,” Alex shot back at her.
    As soon as they had settled in, the blonde waitress from downstairs was in front of them placing two shot glasses on the table with a glowing smile. Brooklyn couldn’t tell what was in them, with the blue and pink lights flashing around them, but it looked light and creamy and there was a dollop of whipped cream on top.
    “What are these?” she shouted, looking at them suspiciously.
    He moved in closer to her to avoid shouting. It crossed her mind that this had been his plan all along. He leaned in toward her ear. “Happy Endings. House specialty.”
    He picked them up and handed one to her. She watched him shoot his down, his tongue running over his mouth to collect the remnant of whipped cream. The move stirred something in her, and for the second time tonight she clamped her thighs together.
    She shrugged and shot hers down. No stranger to clubbing, or doing shots, she instantly recognized the familiar taste of Baileys Irish Cream, Kahlúa, and Amaretto. “This is a Blow Job!” she shot back at him.
    He grinned and shrugged. “Same difference,” he said with a wink.
    Brooklyn laughed as she licked the whipped cream off her upper lip.

    * * *
    A n hour —and five “Happy Endings”—later they were knee to knee, head to head, talking to one another as much as the music would allow, which wasn’t much.
    The shots had gone down a bit too easy and now they were on to their second round of beers. Alex was rapidly replacing Michael in Brooklyn’s mental priority of men. In a certain light he even resembled the man. They were both tall, well over 6 feet. Both had thick, wavy black hair and that noteworthy chin. That’s where the similarities ended. Michael was sophisticated, always in a well-tailored suit, with an air of firm, but pleasant, authority. This guy? Well, for