My cock was a masochist.
“I will not sleep with you. End of story,” she said.
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to. It’s your loss. But you gotta let me be your boyfriend for the night, let me act like it and allow yourself to enjoy it, Gabriella. I won’t leave this car if you don’t promise me that.”
“Fine,” she said through her teeth.
I put a finger on the back of my ear and leaned in. “What’s that? I couldn’t hear you.”
“I said fine!”
“Fine what?”
When she sucked in an angry breath, I couldn’t help staring at her gorgeous tits and picturing the bad things I could be doing to them if she’d just loosen up a bit. “I fucking promise, stronzo.”
Mamma mia. I fucking loved it when she swore in Italian. “The name is Fabio.” I started the car, and she mumbled a few more swear words under her breath. “You got a bad mouth for a lady with your status.”
“Thanks to you. You obviously bring the worst in me.”
I winked. “I hope so.”
CHAPTER11
Gabrielle
“Oh my God.” My colleague Alberta was the first to be hit by the swoony Fab train. Well, maybe not the first as everybody, male and female, was staring at me—at the insufferable arm candy—the second we entered the ballroom, but she was the first to speak. Her awestruck squeal was too cheerful as she removed her mask. I had a feeling I’d be getting many overtly jolly mini-conversations all night, perhaps even all week, if not all month.
Zoey and Fletcher weren’t lying or exaggerating. Apparently, my moving on was an anxious expectation in our domain I was the only one oblivious to.
I supposed three years had passed at a different speed for them than it had for me. With grief and guilt, the laws of time were void. A single moment could become an eternity and yet never enough.
“Girl, you look amazing,” she said, her eyes glued to Fabio.
“Thanks,” I snorted. “Fabio, this is Alberta Peridot. She’s a fellow editor from Wild Hearts Press. Alberta, this is Fabio…Zappa. He’s a…an artist.” My heart raced. Shit. We hadn’t agreed upon how I’d introduce him or what story we’d give people when they asked how we’d met. We hadn’t agreed upon anything.
“Oh, an artist. You paint?” she asked.
“No, ma’am. I dance. I’m a dancer and a choreographer.” He smiled, and—even though half of his face was covered—she looked as if he’d put a spell on her.
“You dance,” she sang before she looked at me, her jaw low, an exaggerated fake shock on her expression. “He dances.”
“He sure does,” I said, sweating yet grateful he was as professional as he claimed to be and didn’t stammer as I had. He must have been doing this for a while.
“And he called me ma’am.” She bent for a whisper. “Does he call you ma’am, too?”
“No. Nope. And neither what you’re implying he would be doing if he called me that. We’re not…doing that.”
“Maybe not right away, but you will soon enough. Gotta keep a guy like that interested.” She giggled. “But take your time, girl. Enjoy the foreplay.” She leaned back, blatantly raking him from head to toe. “Very nice to meet you, Mr. Zappa.”
“Please, call me Fabio.” He took her hand and printed a kiss on the back. “Piacere.”
She fanned herself. “Hello hot flashes.”
Glad I wasn’t the only one getting them.
Flustered, she glanced back at me as she was ambling away. “You’re a lucky bitch. I should go kill my husband if that’s what widows get afterwards.”
I froze, a wave of coldness slowly washing over me. Then the sounds of chatter and clicking heels toned down as a ringing rose to my ears, dulling everything else, the rhythm of my heart worrisome.
