HIS FIRST LADY(SANDRO MARCOS)

Chapter 2: He's A DJ

My heart pounding loudly in my ears. My cheeks and every inch of my skin that comes into contact with his warms sensually as soon as I realize how long I've been staring.

I push against this man's rock hard chest, but he doesn't loosen his hold.

"Let me go," I say once, and then again louder, to be heard over the pulsing music." I can walk on my own,"

His face turns skeptical.

Before I can ask again, he swoops me up into a bridal carry and takes me away from the dance floor. Instinctively, I wrap my arms around his neck, holding on as he carries me toward the edge of the room, when several u-shaped booths are set up along the wall. He lowers me down onto an empty seat.

As soon as his arms are away from around me, I start to stand up. The man holds up a hand, palm flat, right in front of me. I stop to keep from pressing into it.

"Stay," he says.

He drops to his knee in front of me just as I'm about to lose it—I'm not a dog. He puts both hands gently around one of my calves and lifts my heel into his lap. His hand moves slowly, methodically removing my shattered shoe. The ball of my foot is enlarged.

Now that my focus isn't fixed so singularly on this handsome man, the pain starts to creep up inside me.

The man carefully inspects my ankle."It's looks strained m." I can hear him more clearly here on the outskirts of the club.

He look up at me again, and those piercing eyes of his take my breath away. He has such an intense focus , I can't help but wonder what he sees, looking at me.

He's probably like Samuel, and sees a not so young woman. A tired, worn-down expression.

The thought makes my heart sink.

"I suppose this is why I shouldn't hang around in young people's places," I try for a joke. I'm not sure it lands.
"It's too dangerous."

The man doesn't laugh. He just looks at me more closely, narrowing his eyes ever-so-slightly.
"I'm lucky my ankle didn't break," I say. My first joke didn't make him laugh, so I double down. "I probably already have osteoporosis."

" You don't look any older than me," he says, frowning slightly.

"How old are you?"

"30."

A laugh bubbles out from my chest.

As I'm laughing, Cloudine makes her way over to me. " There you are! And-ah! You are here too."

She smiles, first to me, then to my unlikely savior.

The man lifts a brow.

"I have the hotel room key..." Cloudine digs through her purse and retrieves a flat room key.
She hands it to the man still kneeling at my feet.
"Here we are."

The man takes it, even though he looks confused.

He can't possibly be more confused than me.
"Cloudine. Why are you giving this stranger a hotel key?"

"Oh. He's not stranger. Well, I mean I suppose he is. But he's one of the famous dj here." Cloudine steps closer to me and fixes my hair. It must have gotten tussled in my near-fall.
"He's a Marcos"

The man straitens somewhat. He mustn't like to be called that here.

I wish I could say I'm surprised, but I'm really not.

"Your husband wants an open marriage, but he expects you to stay home while he struts around like a fucking peacock. That's not how it works Rafha. An open marriage means you get some too."

Cloudine points at the man still kneeling, who now looks at the hotel key like it's some kind of prize.

"You will go back to the hotel room with this hottie and do what you want to do. Is that clear?" Cloudine says.

The man never once looks away from me. "I won't rest until she's satisfied."

My cheeks burn with a fresh blush.

Cloudine laughs. "That's the spirit! Have a good time, you two." She winks at me as she turns and disappears right back into the crowd she sprang from.

Embarrassed, I duck my chin and look down at my ankle. The hotel name written on the key is two blocks away.

"Maybe this is a bad idea..." I begin. Cloudine was convincing, as are the man's deep eyes. But this is so out of my routine that I don't know where to begin. Any hindrance, like my ankle, seems reason enough to stop it.

"Are you kidding? It sounds like an amazing idea."

The man's enthusiasm draws my attention back up. Those eyes are somehow even deeper, churning like a storm. I'm pulled in right away. I never stood a chance.

"My ankle..." I say, weakly.

"I've got you." He hands my shoe to hold, then once more scoops me up into his arms. He lifts me like I weigh nothing at all. Holding me close, he carries me from the club and down the sidewalk.

We receive some attention, cat calls and whistles.

I bury my red face in the man's shoulder, but not before I catch his wide grin. He's enjoying the hell out of this.

His chest is hard, and his arms firm. He must work out, all muscle.

Oddly, he doesn't take me to the hotel Cloudine reserved. Instead, he shoulders the door open for an exclusive pub with an inn attached.

The place is as high class as high class comes, with wait-staff in tuxedos, thousand dollar chandeliers hanging every three to four feet on the ceiling, and rich wooden tables and chairs.

A valet waits at the bottom of the stairs. He does not question my date, or why he might be holding a strange woman in his arms. The valet simply bows in greeting as he steps to the side.

I thought this hotel reserved for the top elites in the nation. Even as a CEO's wife, I could never dream of booking a room here.

For my date to simply be waved through...

What is his regular clientele? Can I even afford him?

That should bother me more, maybe. I might have to max out my credit cards for one night of bliss. Samuel is sure to be furious when he finds out.

After everything I've sacrificed, all I struggled with, and all I have faced today, I deserve this. It may only be for one night, but I fully plan on enjoying every single second of this one night.

"What's your name?" I ask on the way up the stairs. At the top, the man carries me down a hallway without having to check the directory for directions.

"Sandro Marcos," he says. The name rumble in chest under my ear.

"I'm Rafha."

"I know."

Cloudine must have told him.

While still holding me, Sandro withdraws a different key from his pocket and uses it to unlock the door.

I lift my head to look at the handsome curves and planes of his face. He has a prominent jawline, a straight, dignified nose. He doesn't need to be called dj. He could be a artist.

But at this moment, I'm incredibly grateful for his chosen part time.

He kicks the door closed behind us, plunging us into darkness.

Before he can lower me, I grab him by the collar and tug him close as I lean forward.

Our lips ghost across one another, not quite touching. Not yet.

"Fuck me, Sandro," I whisper