“Not without you.”
The honesty in his voice is intoxicating.
It’s also terrifying.
Because a man like Diablo doesn’t say that unless he’s either lying, or he’s ready to burn down his own life for the truth.
When we land again, the city feels smaller somehow.
The final stop waits on a rooftop in Brickell.
Candles flicker along the edges of a private terrace. A small band plays live salsa beneath the stars. The music drifts through warm air, smooth and sensual. The skyline behind them glitters like money.
“You always wanted to learn,” he says.
He takes my hand.
The moment the music picks up, he pulls me into the rhythm.
He dances the same way he fights.
Controlled.
Focused.
Dominant.
His palm slides along my back as my hips start moving with the beat. The band’s horns swell. The city lights shimmer beyond the edge of the rooftop.
“You’re staring,” I murmur.
“I’m remembering.”
Heat builds between us again.
The same tension from the yacht returns, thicker now.
Almost a kiss.
Almost surrender.
Then the waiter approaches.
He carries a tray of champagne flutes, but his attention is fixed entirely on me. His smile is smooth in that Miami way, like he’s flirting for sport and expects applause.
“You’re absolutely stunning tonight,” he says, very familiar.
Recognizing him, I realize he knows me from Little Havana.
“If you ever get tired of bikers…”
I try to place his name but fail. He’s just another server who apparently worked his way up the hospitality ladder.
Still, Diablo’s body goes rigid beside me.
I feel it before I see it, like a storm shifting direction.
“Careful,” I murmur under my breath, warning the waiter as much as I’m warning Diablo.
