Gimme a B, gimme an I, gimme a G.
Yeah… big dick energy.
Chapter Nineteen
Seraphina
Dirty Thoughts – Chloe Adams
Music pulses across the dance floor in a steady rhythm, vibrating up through the soles of my heels. The low thrum of bass weaves through the crowd, threading itself between bodies and the constant murmur of voices.
Zouk is wild—filled to capacity, people moving shoulder to shoulder. Lasers cut through the air, lights flashing, fog spilling across the room. It feels like no one is holding back. Everyone has their hair down.
There is one word for it.
Only one that comes close to capturing it.
Freedom.
The word feels fragile, almost too big to hold, but it settles around me anyway as I lift the slender flute of champagne to my lips and take another careful sip.
Beside me, Mac leans comfortably against the curved edge of the bar, her blonde hair falling over one shoulder as she watches the casino floor with the amused patience of someone who has spent years observing the chaos the men in our lives inevitably create. The bartender keeps our glasses filled without us even asking, and I suspect that has far less to do with his generosity and far more to do with the men sitting twenty feet away, taking a break from the press of people and apparent realizations of their celebrity status.
Our men.
The thought sends a quiet thrill of warmth through me, and I tuck one leg over the other on the tall stool, smoothing my hand over the black lace of the dress Trey gave me earlier.
The fabric hugs every curve of my body, soft and daring all at once. It’s shorter than anything I’ve ever owned, the hem brushing mid-thigh when I move, and every time I catch my reflection in the mirrored pillars around the room, I feel a strange, almost dizzying sense of disbelief.
It’s wholly improper. It’s indecent. It’s too extravagant. It’s beautiful.
I feel like I don’t belong in a place like this.
Back in my dismal room, hidden sheathes of paper, basic pencil, sketches scattered across old service guides from years ago…
But then my eyes drift back across the room, and the doubt melts away almost instantly.
Because Trey is there.
And when I am with him, belonging suddenly feels effortless.
He stands at the edge of the table with the loose, dangerous ease of a man who knows exactly who he is and has no interest in pretending otherwise. The black shirt he chose tonight fits him perfectly, the sleeves rolled to his elbows so the ink on his forearms coils and twists beneath the casino lights. Dark tattoos creep up the side of his neck, disappearing beneath the collar, and when he tilts his head to speak to the others, the small silver ring in his lower lip catches the light. His arms wave and flounder around in his retelling, I have no idea of what, but it brings a smile to my face. My heart softens my worries fade away.
His hair is longer on top tonight, pushed back carelessly, the sides shaved clean, and the sharp line of his jaw is shadowed with the beginnings of stubble that somehow makes him look even more dangerously handsome.
Even from across the room, I can see the bright green of his eyes.
He pauses, hesitant, surely feeling my attention on him, as he cranes his neck—and then he finds me.
Every time.
Women hover near them already, dressed in silk and diamonds, their laughter too bright, their smiles lingering a little too long.
I should probably feel threatened.
But the feelings he evokes from me; it’s anything and everything but.
There is some invisible thread that runs between us no matter how crowded the room becomes.
