She was already inside, standing near the velvet rope of the VIP lounge, half-listening to a security guard while her eyes flitted across the room. Like she was casing the place for exits. Classic Moretti.
But it was her outfit that damn near knocked the breath out of me.
Black leather pants hugging her hips. A red, backless top tied at the nape of her neck, dipping low enough in the front to make me dizzy. And heels to match—scarlet, sleek, lethal. She turned slightly as she laughed at something Lucia said, and I swore to God?—
My heart actually hammered.
Hard.
Like it was trying to punch its way out of my chest.
We moved past the crowd, ushered into the private lounge with ease, drinks already waiting at the table. It was all dim lighting, bass thumping, lights flashing in time with the music, like the place was alive and hungry. Lucia threw back a shot with a grin. Alexander saluted the table before tossing his down. I sat down beside Nicola, close enough that our knees brushed when she shifted.
She glanced at me, that familiar mix of suspicion and challenge in her gaze. “You’re staring.”
I smirked. “Hard not to when you wear red, Princess.”
Her eyes rolled, but her lips twitched. “It’s the Moretti color.”
“Then I’ll need to see this outfit in the garage next weekend.”
She scoffed and lifted her glass. “In your dreams.”
I leaned in, letting my voice dip lower, just enough for her to hear over the music. “Fuck, I hope so.”
Her breath caught, barely—but I caught it. Every little flicker. Because I was watching her like she was the only one in this entire place. We drank. Laughed. Someone ordered another round of shots and Nicola made a face but took one anyway.Her cheeks were flushed, her pupils blown wide, and there was something in her smile that was looser than usual. Unrestrained. Alexander and Lucia went to the dance floor, getting consumed by the crowd.
The music shifted, bass thick and rolling through my spine as I stood, holding a hand out to her. “Dance with me.”
She hesitated.
But then—God, those eyes.
She finished her drink, set the glass down, and placed her hand in mine like a dare. “Don’t step on my shoes.”
I pulled her into the crowd, the lights swallowing us whole. Bodies swayed around us, a pulse of heat and noise and motion, and when I slid my hands to her waist, she let me. Her hands found my shoulders, fingers brushing the back of my neck like it was nothing. Like she wasn’t slowly setting me on fire. We moved with the beat, chests close but not touching—until we were.
My hands drifted down, thumbs brushing over the curve of her hips. She leaned in just enough for her mouth to brush my ear, the scent of her perfume sending my already weak self-control into freefall.
I pulled her closer, our hips aligning and the music drowning out everything but the heat of her against me. I felt the glide of her fingers up my chest as the dance became something else. It was a slow, deliberate kind of torment. Our hands roamed under the cover of the crowd. Her nails scraped lightly under the collar of my shirt. My fingers slid over the bare skin of her back.
Everywhere I touched, she shivered.
I was a man possessed, wanting to memorize every curve of her body. It took everything in me not to take her chin in my hand and pull her in to kiss her. Right there.
“Nic!”
My sister’s voice sliced through the moment like a bucket of ice water. She grabbed Nicola’s wrist, breathless, laughing, tugging her toward the lounge for more drinks.
Nicola glanced back once. Her eyes met mine. Wide. Lit.
But she went. And I stood there, fists clenched at my sides, still tasting her heat like it was seared into my skin.
I need to fucking relax.
7
NICOLA
