Before I can speak, Gabe spins me around, backing me against the brick wall beside the club’s entrance. His mouth claims mine. His kiss is hard enough to bruise, teeth scraping my bottom lip. I whimper into his mouth, my body arching instinctively toward his.
His hand tangles in my hair, fisting the strands and pulling enough to force my head back, exposing my throat.The slight pain makes arousal pool between my legs. I gasp, clutching at his shoulders.
“Next time,” he murmurs against my mouth, voice dark with promise, “I’m not letting you leave.”
Headlights sweep across us as the Uber pulls up. Gabe releases me reluctantly, opening the car door. My legs are unsteady as I slide into the backseat. I’m wet and trembling, my body vibrating with need. As the car pulls away from the curb, I watch Gabe through the window, his silhouette backlit by the blue neon of his club sign.
I press my thighs together, seeking pressure, relief. Before I can think better of it, I slip my hand beneath my dress, touching myself through damp fabric. I bite my lip to stay quiet as my fingers circle slick, sensitive flesh. The driver keeps his eyes on the road as I rock against my own hand, imagining whatnext timemight entail.
12
GABE
Iwake with a start; sheets twisted around my waist, and my cock aching hard. Fragments of dreams linger—Amelia’s soft moans, the way she trembled against the piano, the taste of her on my fingers. I drag my tongue across my lips, chasing the phantom flavor that’s haunted me all night.
My phone buzzes. The name on the screen wipes away any lingering pleasure.
Vincent Caruso.
Three missed calls since 5 AM. Fuck.
I shower, ignoring the urge to take myself in hand with thoughts of midnight blue silk and paint-stained fingers. No time for indulgence when a problem like Caruso is circling.
Adrian’s chocolate boutique is empty when I arrive, the CLOSED sign still hanging. He’s waiting in the back room, tempering chocolate with the same meticulous focus he applies to everything.
“Caruso’s asking questions about the basement,” I say without preamble.
Adrian doesn’t look up from his work. “What kind of questions?”
“The wrong kind. One of his renovating crews hit a water main near The Blue Room yesterday. While they were fixing it, a health inspector mentioned the smell complaint from the other night.”
“And now he’s curious.” Adrian slides the thermometer into the glossy chocolate. “You need to deal with this, Gabe. Properly.”
“I know.” I pace the narrow workspace. “He’s connected. If he disappears, people notice.”
“Then don’t make him disappear.” Adrian looks up. “Make him lose interest. You have the perfect distraction—your artist. Invite Caruso to see you looking normal. Happy. Involved.”
“Use Amelia as cover?” The suggestion makes my jaw clench.
“Unless there’s a problem with that arrangement?”
I turn away, unwilling to let him see my expression. Last night plays through my mind—Amelia’s pulse beneath my lips, the way she yielded to me, trusted me. The fierce possessiveness that seized me when I tasted her.
“She’s not just cover,” I admit.
“Then you have a bigger problem than Caruso.” Adrian’s voice hardens. “You’re getting sloppy, Gabe. The smell. The inspector. Now Caruso. These are mistakes you shouldn’t have made.”
He’s right, and that terrifies me. For the first time in years, I’m taking risks. Making errors.
Errors get people killed.
I text Amelia before leaving Adrian’s shop.
Dinner at The Blue Room tonight? 8pm. Full club experience this time.
Her response comes quickly:
I’ll be there. Should I dress up?
