Charming Like Us (Like Us Series: Billionaires & Bodyguards Book 7)

by Krista Ritchie

  I wish I could just show affection. Touch is my favorite love language, and I can’t wrap an arm around him like I did in the camp cabin.

  More tensely, we watch the ballet, and I worry my cautious ass ruined our first non-date that feels like a first date.

  Romeo leaps lithely across the stage. Have no idea the correct ballet terms, at all. I honestly think Donnelly knows more than me from attending so many of Beckett’s rehearsals and practices.

  And Beckett should have landed the lead role, but he lost out when he was stuck in Scotland with the rest of us.

  He’s still in Romeo & Juliet. Just as Mercutio.

  Jack slides a panel off the camcorder. He brought a little toolkit with his camera bag, and he sets aside the tiniest screwdriver. Once he captures my attention, he whispers, “How often does Charlie come here?”

  “At least once a week. Sometimes more. Can’t say he stays awake for every one.”

  Charlie bought out the box for a whole year…for the past four years. Same box. Same chairs. My ass probably has a permanent imprint in this one. And I explain how Charlie and Jane made a bet to see who can attend the most performances to watch Beckett dance.

  Some months, Jane wins. Other months, Charlie does.

  Jack curses under his breath as he messes with the camcorder.

  Now I’ve got to ask. “What is that?”

  He pops out the battery. “I thought you’d know.” Genuine confusion arches his brows. “Farrow gave it to me. He said the camcorder belonged to security, and he asked if I could fix it without damaging the footage.”

  Huh? “That’s…odd.” Usually I’d keep this uneasy feeling to myself since it’s security, but I’m destroying all kinds of boundaries with Jack Highland.

  His hand freezes on the camcorder. “What do you mean?”

  “I haven’t heard anyone in security using a camcorder or needing one, and I stay pretty in-tune on comms when I can.” I shrug. “I guess I could’ve missed something during one of the flights around the world.”

  “Farrow probably has a reason,” Jack says quietly, jotting something down in a spiral notebook. “It seemed important to him.”

  Weird.

  Farrow likes to do shit himself when he can. He doesn’t ask for favors that often. I skim him as he finishes note-taking and slips the pen behind his ear. “What’d you write down?” I whisper.

  “The type of battery.” He places the camcorder in a camera bag at his feet. “I need to order a new one before I can do anything else.”

  Our focus returns to the stage.

  Beckett Cobalt is in a sword fight, his nimble movements like silk as he dances and thrashes a blade against another. The audience sucks in a collective breath as he staggers back, wounded. He plays a pompous character and acts as though he’s fine.

  But he stumbles in his quest towards his foe, stumbles more, and fights one last time. All the while, he glides, as weightless as a human can be without actually flying.

  Effortless beauty and grace with the ferocity of a lion. Charlie read that review to me after Beckett’s first season as a principal dancer. He smiled at his twin brother’s success, and no matter how many hundred times I’m here seeing Beckett jump and twirl, I think of that quote.

  And how it’s the pretty sheen of the Cobalt Empire, the romantic one, but underneath it all, there are cracks. But like so many people, the romanticism is needed on heavy days, and sometimes I even try to let it help carry me through.

  Jack watches, enthralled. Gaze lit up. As Mercutio perishes, the dancers and their emotion reflect off his glassy eyes. And our gazes catch every few seconds in sensual, hot beats. We both drink in more than just the beauty on stage.

  His reverence drapes a fantasy over us. A moment so full of make-believe romance found mostly in medieval fairytales. I’ve wanted this type of heart-stopping moment for so fucking long that I almost can’t believe it’s real.

  Watch me accidentally blow it all up.

  My confidence has been shot to hell with Jack, but I clearly like a guy who humbles me.

  He edges closer, our thighs touching, his sandalwood beachy cologne filling my nostrils like a drug. I inhale for more.

  Jack tenses, and then he stretches his arm over my shoulders. My pulse is on a rollercoaster while my heart is playing bumper cars with my ribs.

  We’re in the dark. No one can really see or snap photos. More private than public, still working and on-duty, but blame the ballet, I’m sitting here trying to bask in the fantasy of him and me.

  For tonight, we are the kings.

  He grows more comfortable, his arm loose across me, but I hear his shallow breath in the pit of my ear. I sense the rise and fall of his chest.

  Juliet is distraught on stage. Lovesick and in mourning.

  I sink a hand onto Highland’s thigh. He shifts in his chair…closer. We steal hotter glimpses of one another. Tension stretches, and while we pretend to watch the ballet, he lets his arm fall off my shoulder and grazes his hand on my thigh.

  Fuck…I don’t shift like him. But I’m rigid, breath caught. I caress his thigh upwards, and his hand ascends up mine.

  I want to experiment with Jack like I would any new partner, but I don’t want to be an experiment. Squashing the thought, I let pleasure guide me.

  My fingers slide against his hardened bulge, and his palm rubs over mine. Muscles constricting, I ignite on fire, doing everything in my power not to initiate a kiss here.

  Ballet. Semi-public.

  I want to give that choice to him.

  His gaze caresses over the tension in my neck when he kneads me. Fucking ah, Christ. I shut my eyes in a long, aroused blink.

  I thumb the sensitive spot around his tip, and he swallows hard, his other hand flying to the back of his head. Got him.

  Jack bites down on the sucker stick to force back a noise.

  And then Charlie stirs, the program falling off his face. We both go rigid and retract our hands. Charlie is…still sleeping. Eyes shut.

  I touch my earpiece. Working. I’m working. Shouldn’t have fallen into that so easily. “Sorry, Highland,” I breathe.

  “Don’t be sorry.” He pops out the sucker stick, pent-up tension in his flexed shoulders. “I should get back to this too.” He unpacks his Canon to take more footage for the show.

  No one has ever been that understanding when I have to prioritize work. Hell, I’ve never been able to have a date on-duty—or a non-date. Whatever the fuck we’re doing.

  On occasion, his job can even be more grueling than mine, and I respect his tireless work ethic. But I’m just thinking about after. When I’m off-duty tonight. He’s put away his camera. I don’t really care what time it is or how long we’ve been awake. And considering he fought exhaustion before just to talk to me, I don’t think he’ll care either.

  So I whisper, “Highland?”

  “Hm?”

  “It’ll probably be another late-night. You can stay at my place, if you don’t want to drive back.”

  He smiles. “I’d like that.”

  20

  JACK HIGHLAND

  Oscar switches on a Phillies game and passes me a beer bottle. The leather couch bobs as he sinks down beside me. We undo our black bowties and pop a few constricting buttons of our white shirts. After the ballet, coming back to his studio apartment feels like the hottest romantic invite I’ve ever been extended.

  So I took it.

  There is no denying how attracted I am to him, or how badly I’d like things to progress upstairs. To his loft. His bed.

  But I can’t tell if that’s where this is going.

  Not yet, anyway.

  “Try these.” I pass him a bag of corn nuts, which I packed in my camera bag for him.

  Oscar reads the label. “Boy Bawang Cornick. Chili cheese flavored.” He grins as he rips open the snack-sized bag. “Are these your favorite, Highland?”

  “They’re up there, as far as Filipino snacks go.”

&nb
sp; He tosses a corn nut in his mouth, crunches, and my smile widens while he assesses. He blows out a breath and swigs his beer.

  “Too spicy?” I laugh and grab a different snack.

  “Should’ve warned you, I’m a baby when it comes to food that makes me breathe fire.” He takes another hearty swig. “And then you have my sister Jo who carries around a bottle of molho picante.” He explains, “Brazilian hot sauce.”

  I take the Cornick from him. “Looks like me and your sister are two peas in a pod.”

  Oscar gives me a look. “If all it takes is spicy corn nuts to get in the same pod as you, then hand them back.” He reaches for the bag, and I put a hand to his chest.

  We both flex, heat pulsing my veins, and I raise another snack bag. “Clover Chips. Plain cheese flavored.” I chuck them lightly, and he catches.

  While he tears the bag, I cut the taut silence. “Jesse loves the garlic flavored Cornick. Next time I see you, I’ll bring some.”

  His mouth lifts, almost grinning. Almost because he seems to stare off for half-a-second while he digs into the cheesy melt-in-your-mouth chips. It’s not surprising since Oscar has been hot and cold towards me.

  But it is alarming.

  Fuck, my leg nearly bounces. That hasn’t happened in a while. When I was ten, eleven, my leg would jostle, I’d break out in a sweat, my throat would close up—all because a teacher called on me to answer a question or I’d need to recite a poem in front of the class.

  I look at myself in the past five years—speaking to network heads, interviewing celebrities—and I feel like a different person. My parents paid for a tutor to help me with public speaking when I was younger, and after a while, my anxiety retreated.

  I learned to breathe.

  Inhale. Exhale.

  I learned to believe that I can. Even when it feels like I can’t.

  Breath and confidence have guided me without a stumble for years, but with WAC filming starting, plus the stress of Charlie’s show, and the newness of what’s happening between me and Oscar—my anxiety has made a slow but mighty return.

  I exhale.

  My leg stays stationary. “Verdict?” I ask him.

  He pops a chip in his mouth, and a satisfied noise rumbles out. “So good,” he expresses as he shovels a handful between his lips.

  I smile in a sip of beer. We eat Clover Chips, drink, and talk about the Phillies. After Oscar groans when the Braves hit a homerun, bases loaded, I ask him, “Baseball is your favorite sport?”

  “To watch, yeah. What about you?” He washes down chips with beer.

  I hang my arm on my leg, beer loose between my fingers. “To be honest, I’ve never really liked watching baseball.”

  His face drops. “Fuck, bro. I can change the channel.” He reaches forward for the remote.

  I clutch his shoulder. “No, keep it on. I’ll watch it now.”

  “Why?” Oscar slowly leans back.

  “Basta ikaw,” I say in Tagalog and translate casually, “as long as I’m with you, because it’s you.” I swig my beer. “Baseball isn’t so bad in your company.”

  Oscar grins, one that feels as overwhelming as the smile on my face. We’re in the hot phase of hot-and-cold, and I love it here.

  “Soccer,” I tell him, reaching into the Clover Chip bag that’s in his hand. “That’s my favorite sport to watch.”

  He nods a few times. “My mom and sister are big into soccer. They’ll go all out for the World Cup and wear jerseys for Brazil and America, even if the teams get knocked out of the bracket early.”

  “Your sister likes soccer too?” I swallow more beer with a bright smile. “She’s already becoming my new best friend.”

  I expect Oscar to make a light joke about me and best friends. But he’s rigid, his arm splayed tensely over the back of the couch behind me.

  He takes a tight sip of beer, brown eyes plastered to the TV.

  I have too many questions. My head is spinning. But before I can ask a single one, he turns to me and speaks.

  “This pea pod you’re in with my baby sis—”

  “It’s a figure of speech, Os,” I say with a frown.

  He goes quiet when I call him Os. We stare deeper, our edged breaths timed together.

  Oscar rests the bottom of his beer bottle on his thigh. “Look, I just have to ask…are you interested in Joana?”

  My brows shoot up. “She’s nineteen. She’s your sister.”

  He groans at himself. “I know. I know.” He rubs a hand down his face. “I’m just reexamining this”—he motions between us—“way too much.”

  He’s reexamining us?

  I set my beer on the coffee table and stand up. I’m wading in a rougher ocean with him, and maybe I need to offer better reassurance. “If Joana asked me to spend the night with her after the ballet, I would’ve politely declined.”

  I could be asleep in a bed right now, but Oscar is the only person I want keeping me awake.

  He nods repeatedly, rising to his feet. “I can’t lie, I have reservations and hesitations right now—”

  “Why?” I question, breathing harder.

  “Because you’re Jack Highland!” he shouts in frustration. “You’re too captivating, too hopeful, too sexy, too determined and bold. You’re the total package—you’re a knockout, bro, and maybe I’m afraid you’re going to knock me out.”

  Pulse racing, I step closer. “You think I’m not scared too? I’m running at a half-open window that you almost keep closing!”

  He chokes on emotion. “What do you have to lose?”

  “You!” I yell from my core, eyes stinging. “I could lose you!”

  His face twists with raw feelings.

  Please fucking believe me.

  Oscar seizes my gaze and moves closer like a bullet of desire. He cups the back of my neck, and my fingers dig into his traps as our legs thread. As our firm chests weld together—and we’re kissing. Starved, aching kisses that feel as raw as our sudden declarations.

  We rip apart each other’s white button-downs. Opening them to touch skin on skin, his body warm and heartbeat fast.

  I want to know Oscar more intimately. What he likes in bed. I want to feel the answers until they shatter me.

  He walks backwards while I slide my tongue against his, but he’s the one coaxing a groan out of me. “Oscar,” I breathe, winded against his lips.

  Our eyes connect with deeper longing. “We’re going upstairs, Long Beach.”

  I’ve leveled up. I’m too hooked on him to say the line. Right behind him, I follow Oscar up to the loft. The ceiling is lower here, and I feel like I need to duck.

  While we’re no longer kissing, our bodies no longer touching, we watch one another yank off our black slacks and nerves bubble up. Along with excitement, which I try to grip more strongly.

  Oscar studies my face. “You sure you don’t want to talk first?”

  Am I sure?

  Yeah.

  But he makes me stop and question myself. “Do you usually have in-depth talks before getting into bed with a guy?” I wait to strip down since he’s taken a pause, his dark-gray boxer-briefs mold his length and ass. The more I stare, the more my dick pulses.

  Blood pumps harder.

  Pulse speeds faster.

  “Not really,” Oscar admits. “But I’ve also mostly been the less experienced one. You’re like a vulnerable, delicate little hatchling, and I’m trying not to squash you.”

  I think he’s vulnerable too, just in a different way. And I ease more with the cemented knowledge that Oscar cares about me. About whether I’m ready and okay to do more and explore.

  “You won’t squash me,” I say strongly, a smile edging. “I know I’ve never thrown a punch, but I can hold my own.” I tug off my boxer-briefs, and his eyes trace the cut of my muscles on my waist, the V-line that leads to my hardened cock, begging for friction.

  I’m breathless already, just seeing Oscar devour my body from four feet away. His nose flares, and swi
ftly, he sheds his boxer-briefs and closes the distance between us.

  His mouth crashes against mine, shooting adrenaline and pleasure in my veins. I grip his curls and he leads me to the bed. My ass hits the mattress, and his knee sinks next to me. Oscar clutches my waist and lifts me further up the bed.

  God. I choke on a groan. My head meets a soft feather pillow, and he spreads my legs further apart with his knees so he can fit between them. I’m not used to anyone lifting me like he did. I grip the back of his neck. Wanting him closer and closer.

  I have extreme difficulty catching my breath around him. In bed together, it’s even worse. I’m suffocating under the intensity as we kiss, as our hands roam. My palm travels over the dark hair along his firm chest, and I feel the hair on his legs as our limbs tangle. He grinds against me, our erections rubbing together with the movement.

  God, fuck. “Oscar,” I groan, water cresting the corners of my eyes. I squeeze his ass that flexes beneath my palm, and he sucks the nape of my neck.

  We’re not having sex, but nothing has ever felt this intimate to me. His hand glides up the back of my head. Arousal pools in hot waves. We’re muscle on muscle, and I watch as his palm dives south between our abs. He wraps his fingers around my cock and creates mind-numbing friction. Up and down, up and down. Lighting up the sensitive places.

  “Fuck,” I choke.

  The more amped I feel, the more I realize I’m not giving enough. But the thought fades as he digs forward, our kisses hungered, his biceps flexed near my jaw. I run my hands up and down his bare ass. Our muscular thighs slick with sweat.

  Oscar grunts against my mouth, “Christ.”

  A hand soars to my head. Dude. I cannot, for the life of me, catch my fucking breath.

  And our lips are finding each other again. Tongues wrestling. His facial hair scratches against my jaw, brewing more heat. I buck up, and he pushes me back down with his build.

  That felt too good. I tear our mouths apart. “I can’t,” I choke.

  He freezes.

  Shit.

  No. “No,” I pant. “I meant…” He’s already sitting up off my chest. “Don’t stop, Os.”