She considers. "No. I suppose it doesn't."
"Wear that red dress you showed me," I order, leaning down to kiss her deeply. "No panties."
I leave her breathless and wanting—just how I like her.
The club is in Manhattan. Neutral territory. Not as edgy as the Williamsburg spot, but still off the beaten path enough to be interesting.
Gemma's wearing what I've requested. A red, silk number with no back, and as I press my fingers into her waist, I'm not surprised to feel a lack of panties. A part of me hates how on display she is, but as heads turn, I get satisfaction in knowing how much everyone wants what I have.
It's a childish indulgence I rarely engage in, but with Gemma I do a lot against the grain.
"You look delicious," I say, as I lead her onto the dance floor. I press my lips to the spot under her ear that makes her crazy. "And you smell even better."
I trail my hands up her thighs and under her dress.
"Saint," she moans.
I chuckle. "You're dripping. Already?"
I trail my fingertips over her clit, and she moans. I smirk. This is what I wanted. Another test. Seeing if she'd let me have her in a crowd.
I'm about to slip my finger inside of her when I catch sight of a familiar and unwelcome face.
I pull my hands out leaving Gemma panting and confused. "What?"
"Go to the VIP section and wait for me," I tell her, not even bothering to glance at her. "I'll be right back."
Her eyes are wide. "Saint, what's?—"
I grab her arm, my grip tight. She whimpers slightly. "Now, Gemma."
She's been in this life long enough to hear the warning in my voice, so even though she wants to argue, she doesn't. Instead, she listens and goes back to where I've left our guards.
I saunter over to the bar, my eyes not moving from the person leaning against it. His eyes were on me as well.
"Saint Marini."
The voice makes my blood run cold.
Alexei Morozov stands there, flanked by two of his men. He's smiling, but it doesn't reach his eyes. It never does. I've only ever seen this man happy when he's torturing someone. And while I'm not much better, I'd never consider myself part of the level of psychosis that Alexei adheres to.
"Alexei." I keep my voice neutral. "Didn't know this was your territory."
It's not, and I know that.
And while we are not expected to stay in our respective boroughs, the Russians tend to stay in their own clubs, Alexei particularly. So, if he's here, then, there's a reason, and I want to know what it is.
"I like to get out occasionally. See what's happening in the city." His gaze drifts past me to where Gemma is, and I want to gouge his eyes out for looking at her. "That your wife?"
Every muscle in my body tenses. "Yes."
"Beautiful girl. Adrian's sister, right?"
"What do you want, Alexei?" Fucker was at my wedding. He knows who I'm married to, so he can stop pretending.
"Just making conversation." He leans against the bar. "Aren't we allies?"
I snort. "Hardly," I say. "And you never just do anything, Alexei," I remind him. "How about you tell me why you are here, looking for me?"
