TMZ—breaking news: nearly dead rockstar fingers bombshell wife at club…“Take it easy,” they said…Nah, I’ma dick her, even if it kills me. Her pupils are blown wide, dark and hungry, swallowing up the gray of her eyes until there’s almost nothing left, her lips parted on a shallow breath like she’s still caught somewhere between the music and what we done on the dancefloor.
Shoulda put down a wet floor sign…
I watch the way her throat moves as she swallows.
The way her chest rises, just a little too fast. The way her thighs shift together like she’s trying to ease an ache.
The way she doesn’t look away.
Every inch of her is giving herself away, even in the stillness of this confined space, even surrounded by steel walls and our Mafia escort.
And she knows I can see it.
Knows exactly what it does to me.
My jaw tightens slightly, a slow exhale leaving me as I shift just enough to close the space between us without touching, not yet, not when the anticipation is already riding the edge of unbearable.
Whoever decided the best way to act was nonchalant was a fucking sadist.
“Careful, baby” I murmur, low enough that it barely carries beyond her, my voice roughened by restraint. “You keep looking at me like that in this confined space…”
I let the words trail, my gaze dropping to her mouth before dragging back up to her eyes, holding her there.
“…and I’m going to forget we’re not alone.” I don’t touch her. Not yet. Because the second I do, restraint becomes a liability.
The doors slide open onto our floor, and Niko’s men are already in position—four of them in sharp suits, probably armed to the balls. Worse still, I don’t recognize any of them. Just how many fucking people does he employ? Where is my best friend and confidant, Igor? One steps forward immediately, lifting his hand just enough to halt us—and definitely not to offer a high-five.
“Hold,” he grunts, his accent thick and foreign. I lift my hand and smack it against his, since he left it hanging. I mean… it would be rude not to.
Seraphina glances at me, something flickering in her expression. Anticipation, curiosity, maybe even a quiet kind of awareness, but she stays close, her arm brushing mine again as we wait, that small contact enough to keep every nerve in my body lit and restless.
With a grumble, the suite door opens, and two of the men move inside, sweeping through with efficient precision while murmured updates filter back through the comms, the seconds stretching longer than they should, longer than I have patience for, because now that we’re here—now that there’s nothing between us but a door and a handful of men doing their jobs—every instinct I have is locked onto her.
On the way she shifts her weight. On the way her fingers curl slightly at her sides. On the way she knows I’m watching her.
“Clear.” The word cuts clean through the tension, and everything shifts.
Another guard steps aside, gesturing us forward. “Mr. and Mrs. Baker.”
My hand settles at the small of her back as I move her inside, the door closing behind us.
I don’t move straight away. Instead, I let myself drink her in, really look, like I’ve been denied the right all night and I’m making up for it now. Her hair a wild spill of red curls, her lipsstill swollen from my mouth, her chest rising and falling beneath that black lace dress that’s been testing the limits of my control since the second she put it on.
“Do you have any idea,” I murmur, my voice lower now, roughened by everything I haven’t said, “what you do to me?”She probably thinks she causes memory loss the way you keep fucking saying it to her…She doesn’t answer. She just steps back, slowly, acting like prey caught in the den of a predator. My jaw tightens, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth as my fingers move to the buttons of my shirt, undoing the first one without breaking eye contact, then the next, then another, the fabric loosening as the heat between us climbs another notch.
“Running from me, baby?” She takes another step, her breath catching just enough for me to hear it.
“You weren’t running five minutes ago,” I add, quieter now, the words threaded with promise. She shakes her head, and there’s a softness there beneath the tension, a flicker of something that almost looks like play.
“I’m not running,” she says, her voice quieter than usual but steady. “I’m making you work for it.”
A low chuckle leaves me, the sound dragged from somewhere deep in my chest as I shrug the shirt open fully, letting it fall just enough to expose skin, ink, everything I know she reacts to.
“Careful, Dove,” I murmur, my tone dipping, darkening, “you might not like what happens when I start taking.”
She backs up again, each step measured, each breath a little heavier than the last, until her back meets the glass of the balcony doors and the faintest sound slips from her as there’s nowhere left to go.
Exactly where I want her.
