“Ma’am? Mr. Ricci would like to see you.”
My heart slams against my ribs.
Diana’s watching me, amusement in her eyes. “Go on.” She tips her chin toward the rear of the casino. “Don’t keep him waiting.”
I leave the whiskey untouched on the bar.
Chapter 3
Same elevator. Same hallway. Same plush carpet muffling my heels. Same brass nameplate on the door at the end: Antonio Ricci—Private.
But I’m not the same.
Last time, I stumbled down this hallway in a fog of desperation. Barely knowing what I wanted. Terrified of what I might find.
Tonight I’m walking with purpose. Shoulders squared. Chin up.
I know what’s behind that door, and I want it.
I knock.
“Come in.”
His voice lands somewhere low in my body, and I can feel my panties growing damp.
I push open the door.
Tony’s behind his desk. Wearing a black polo, sleeves straining against his muscular arms. That expensive watch on his wrist. Silver threading through his dark hair at the temples.
Same skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him. Same photo on the wall—Tony with the senator-looking guy.
He doesn’t smile when he sees me, just looks me over, slowly.
“You came back.”
“Yes.”
He stands and moves around the desk toward me. When he stops a foot away, he’s close enough that I can smell the woodsy pine of his cologne. Close enough that I have to tilt my head to meet his gaze.
My mouth goes dry and my breasts ache. My body knows what I’m here for.
“You dressed up.” His attention drops to my cleavage. “For me?”
“Maybe I dressed up for myself.”
He laughs. “I like that.” His fingers come up, brushing my jaw. “If you came back, that only means one thing.”
My breath catches at his touch, and I lean into it. Getting him to fuck me is going to be easier than I expected, but something inside me rebels at being so transparent.
“I could be here to gamble.”
“I’m just saving you the hassle of having to lose money to get fucked.”
He smirks, and I wish it wasn’t true. I just want him to bend me over his desk again and call me filthy names. If he spanked me again, I’d just beg for more.
“My mark faded.” His thumb skims my collarbone where his mark used to be. I notice a thin scar across the ridge of his knuckles. A story I don’t know, and probably never will. “I’ll have to fix that.”
“Tony—“
