“Oh, I don’t know.” I’m gripping the phone hard, I realize suddenly. “Maybe the fact that you tried to have your way with me in a hospital when we’d only known each other for a couple of minutes? Seems like sufficient grounds for the charges levied.”
“Fair enough,” he acknowledges. “Give me your address. I’ll send a limo. A princess like you deserves nothing less.”
“Wow, just—yeah, that’s real flattering.”
I can hear him grinning, that jerk. “I never said I wanted to flatter you.”
“I’m not giving you my address. Tell me where we’re meeting. Not to be paranoid or anything, but I don’t know you. So, no address.”
He sighs. “The stubbornness of women. Fine.” He gives me the address. “Ten o’clock, don’t be late.”
I hang up before he gets the chance to do it first, laughing. Then I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the car. I look deliriously happy. I won’t let myself feel anything, of course. Because the last thing I need right now is a boyfriend or anything even resembling that. I’m too busy with the things my life is full of.
But a few drinks to get this steam well and truly blown off?
Who could it hurt?
Here’s the thing, though: if I get all dressed up for him, it’s like admitting that he can just swagger over to me in the corridor and start putting his cheeseball moves on me and be rewarded for that. So I decide on some tight-fitting jeans and a normal cotton white top instead, not even wearing heels, which might be considered a felony in some circles of women in this city.
I park down the street from the club, a place called Sole Nero. Then I walk up and find my place in the back of the line—which is absurdly long, even though it’s not even ten p.m. yet—when a man in a suit approaches.
“Are you Dani?” he asks.
I nod hesitantly, confused. “Uh, yeah.”
“This way, please.”
I ignore the glares of everyone else in line as I walk to the front of the line. The man in the suit leads me through the club, across the dance floor, through a side door, and then up a flight of stairs. Music is pumping all around us, but when I walk into the room it becomes dim, thudding quietly through the floor. The man in the suit disappears, and then Angelo walks out from behind a silk wall partition at the far end.
“Impressed?” he teases.
“No,” I lie.
He stalks close to me. He’s not wearing his jacket. The fabric of his blue shirt is slightly see-through in the flashing disco lights. I can make out the ridged muscles of his abs. Placing a hand on my hip, he leads me to the bar. His cologne is strong, musky. His hand is firm.
I never react like this to men. But Angelo is different, and suddenly, I have to resist the urge to squeeze that rock-carved arm.
“Champagne?”
“I’ll take a beer,” I counter, trying to sound cool and calm, but worried it comes out dorky. Not gonna lie, I’m a little out of my element here.
He arches an eyebrow. “Two beers, then.” He grabs the bottles and nods to a booth in the corner. I try to focus on the coldness of the glass in my hand, on the condensation, basically anything to distract from his eyes moving up and down me.
“So are you friends with the person who owns this club or something?” I ask.
He cracks his beer open on the side of the table. “What makes you say that?”
“Uh, I don’t know. How about the royal treatment?”
He gestures at my beer as if wondering if I need him to open it. I give him a look and then crack it on the table, just as he did, but the problem is I never really do that. I normally use bottle openers when I drink beer, like a civilized person. Somehow the beer goes everywhere, frothing all over the table.
“Ah shit,” I say, leaning back. “I blame that on you. You made it look too easy.”
“I own this club,” he says casually, sliding his hand along the table, through the beer.
“What are you doing?” I laugh.
He lifts two fingers toward me, dripping with beer. I feel a thrum deep in my belly. My sex is pulsing in tune with the music.
“Don’t waste your drink,” he says, black eyes regarding me hungrily.
“Are you kidding me?” I say, but my voice is breathy.
I want this, I realize. Oh fuck, I’m in deep now.
“I am in no way kidding you, Dani.”
“You want me to—”
“I think it’s clear what I want you to do,” he growls, with the barest hint of a smile.
I have to say this is weird. But, at the same time, my body is giving me not-very-complicated signals. I feel warm, dizzy. I lean forward, hardly believing I’m doing this, as I grab his wrist and bring my lips to his fingers like it’s the tip of his dick.
And I suck.
He slides his other hand up my thigh and this time I don’t stop him. The denim is furious heat against my center now. I can hardly stand it. I just want more of him.
He sees this, sliding his fingers out and leaning in. Our kiss makes both of us moan, and then he leans back with captivated eyes. “You want to watch me?” I moan.
He smiles slightly. “How could you tell?”
I shift my hip, forcing my sex down on his hand. His body is just as tight as the tension moving through me. His muscles are strained. We’re in this together. “You want to feel me, playboy?” I tease.
He can’t hold back his smile now. He whispers close to my neck, breath tickling, “I want to feel your pussy get hot and wet for me. I want to feel your jeans get fucking soaked, Dani. And then I want to feel you come. Your whole body shaking. Your eyes rolling back in your head. Then, when I’m so hard I can’t take it anymore, I’m going to tear those jeans off and fuck you like my life depends on it.”
I go to answer, but before I can even form the first words, he moves his hand even quicker and my voice is seized in my throat. I can’t take it anymore. I’m ignited.
I grab his wrist for dear life as I ride his hand like a bucking bronco. Then everything gets tight and close and so hot I can’t take it.
I come, hard.
“I need to feel you,” he snarls as I’m still tumbling head-over-heels in the throes of my orgasm. Somewhere back on earth, I’m distantly aware of Angelo tugging my jeans down. “You’re wild, Dani. Fucking wild.”
“Save the pick-up lines for someone else. You’ve already got me. For now.”
Soon, I’m bottomless and he’s naked. The reason for this mismatch is that I sort of tear his shirt off, and by ‘sort of’ I mean I freaking rip his shirt off. I can’t help myself. Buttons go flying as I straddle him, rubbing my bare lips up and down his length. He’s huge, at least nine inches, a bulging rod slipping closer and closer to my wetness. My lips are soaked. Everything is tingling electrically.
I brace my hands on his chest. His see-through shirt didn’t lie. Hello, muscles straight from my wildest fantasies: bulging pecs, ridged abs that trace down to a V so sharp you could slice your hand on it. He has a few scars, too, lightly tattooed across his bronzed skin. He lifts me off my feet and carries me to the bar.
I wrap my legs around him, hooking my heels under his firm ass. The bar is cold, but it doesn’t matter because he’s burning up. Sweat is sliding down between his pecs. He arches his back and, oh-fuck-oh-shit-oh-no…