“I can’t. We can’t,” Seven panted before fucking his tongue back into Enzo’s mouth.
Enzo gripped his hips, dragging him down onto his thigh as he pressed forward, pulling another low throaty noise from him.
Enzo huffed out a breath through his nose, abandoning Seven’s lips to drag his mouth along the length of his neck, his beard scratching his skin in a way that had Seven’s eyes rolling in pleasure.
Seven bit his bottom lip to fight back the sounds threatening to escape as Enzo rasped, “God, you’re already hard for?—”
The sound of someone loudly clearing their throat fractured the illusion like a hammer through a mirror. Seven shoved Enzo off him, the tips of his ears on fire as he dragged in ragged breaths, trying to smooth out his clothing.
Vince.
He studied the two of them with interest, particularly his brother. Enzo didn’t attempt to hide his hostility over the interruption.
Vince was unfazed. “Ma’s looking for you.”
Enzo gazed at Seven with a look Seven could only describe as frustrated longing.
Vince gave him an exasperated look. “Go. I’ll bring Seven back to the table after”—his gaze dropped to Seven’s crotch briefly—“he’s calmed down.”
Enzo looked at Seven once again. “I don’t?—”
“Just go,” Seven begged quietly. “Please.”
Enzo gave him one last look, then shook his head, turning on his heel and heading back the way he came.
When they were alone, the man said, “I’m Vince. We were never formally introduced.”
“Seven,” he managed, the tips of his ears burning bright.
“I know.” After a moment, he asked, “You alright?”
Seven huffed out a heavy sigh, then let his head thud against the wall. “Fuck if I know.”
“He’s not as bad as he seems,” Vince said. “He dominates in the courtroom and—I’ve heard—in the bedroom. But outside of that, he’s faking it.”
“What does that mean?” Seven asked, frowning. “Faking what?”
“All of it.”
Vince reached into his pocket and handed Seven a card. It was black with an expensive matte finish, and on it was a golden apple pierced by an inverted baroque cross and the words Lost Eden, followed by Vincenzo Conti along with a telephone number.
“Here’s my card. That’s my cell phone number. If you ever want to talk, call me.”
Seven shook his head, his frown deepening. “Talk? About what? Enzo?”
Vince shrugged. “Among other things,” he intoned vaguely.
“Like…” Seven pressed, his head still foggy from too much red wine.
Vince arched a brow. “Like why my brother is so set on only playing with ‘trained’ submissives. He said you weren’t really part of the community. You must have questions, right? Don’t go looking for answers on the internet. Just call me. Or, if you’re really feeling brave, come see me at the club. Drinks are on me.”
“Why would I do any of that?” Seven asked. “We’re never going to be a thing.”
Seven wasn’t sure which of them he was trying to convince.
Vince shrugged. “One, I know you’re curious. Two—and this is the most important one—it will drive my brother crazy to know you’re at my club without him.”
Butterflies erupted in Seven’s stomach at the thought of making Enzo jealous.
