“You’re trembling,” I murmur against her ear, my lips brushing the delicate skin.
“Am I?” Amelia leans her head back against my shoulder, exposing the long, vulnerable line of her throat. I resist the urge to bite down, to mark her as mine. Plenty of time for that later.
My fingers trace up her arm, feeling goosebumps rise in their wake. “Cold?”
“No.” She turns in my arms, her eyes meeting mine with startling directness. “Not cold at all.”
The saxophone player hits a long note that seems to vibrate through both our bodies. I slide my hand lower on her back, grazing the swell of her ass, testing her boundaries. She doesn’t pull away. Instead, she presses closer, her breasts against my chest, her thigh slipping between mine.
“People are watching us,” she whispers, but there’s no shame in her voice—only a dark excitement that mirrors my own.
“Let them watch.” I cup her face with my free hand, thumb brushing across her lower lip. “I want them to see who you’re with tonight.”
Her pupils dilate further, those hazel eyes nearly black with desire. My cock hardens against her hip, and I make no effort to hide it. She knows exactly what she does to me.
“Take me somewhere private,” she says, her voice husky. “Show me more of your world.”
I lean down, my mouth a breath away from hers, denying us both the satisfaction of a kiss. “Not yet.” My fingers tangle in her hair, tugging enough to make her gasp. “When I finally take you, Amelia, I want you desperate for it.”
She makes a small, needy sound in the back of her throat that sends heat straight to my groin. “And if I’m already desperate?”
My laugh is low and dangerous. “Then I’ll make you wait anyway.”
Amelia’s eyes flash with something dangerous—a challenge, perhaps, or recognition of the game we’re playing. She bites her lip, the slight indent of her teeth against thatplump flesh making my cock ache. “You enjoy this, don’t you?” she whispers, her fingers trailing up my chest. “The control. The anticipation.”
“Almost as much as you enjoy surrendering to it.” I capture her wandering hand, bringing her fingertips to my mouth. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Her breathing stutters. “You’re not wrong.”
The music shifts to something slower, darker, with a bass line that vibrates in my chest like a second heartbeat. I pull her closer, my thigh pressing between her legs. The heat of her core burns against me even through layers of fabric.
“I’ve thought about you every night,” I confess, surprising myself with this truth. “What I’d do if I had you alone. Truly alone.”
She arches against me almost imperceptibly. “And what would you do?”
I trail my fingers up her bare arm, watching goosebumps follow my touch. “I’d take my time. Learn every inch of you. Find out what makes you beg.”
Her pupils dilate further, nearly swallowing the amber of her irises. “Maybe I don’t beg.”
“Everyone begs eventually for the right person.”
Over Amelia’s shoulder, I spot Vincent Caruso entering the club, his eyes scanning the crowd. Perfect timing.
“Wait for me until closing,” I murmur against her skin. “I have something special to show you in my office. Something no one else has seen.”
Her smile turns wicked. “Is that a promise or a threat, Mr. Dawson?”
“With me,” I say, tracing the line of her jaw, “it’s always both.”
13
AMELIA
The last patron stumbles out, leaving nothing but empty glasses and the lingering scent of spilled whiskey. Gabe locks the front door, the sound of the deadbolt sliding into place sealing us inside together.
“Come.” His voice drops an octave lower than it’s been all night. He extends his hand, and I take it without hesitation.
As Gabe leads me through the darkened club, I notice a forgotten paper heart tucked behind the bar—some remnant of a Valentine’s promotion.
