“Aren’t you going to compliment my dress?”
“There’s not much dress here to compliment,” I say, stalking closer.
She lifts both brows, playing innocent.
I stop behind her. Two fingers brush the fabric at the hem, tracing the edge, knuckles skimming bare skin.
“You didn’t seem to mind while you were staring at me.”
“I mind plenty.” My thumb presses in slightly.
She swallows, shoulders pulling back as if regaining ground. “So what, you’re going to tell me to change?”
“No.” I lean in, voice low and dangerous. “You can wear whatever you want. It’s in your… conditions, after all. As long as you don’t leave my side.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“And if someone tries something?”
“It’d be the last thing they do.”
Chapter fifteen
~JESSICA~
Bass thumps through the floor, up my legs and into my chest, rattling my ribs in time with the lights. Red and blue strobes cut through smoke, catching flashes of skin. It’s been at least an hour since we got here—long enough for my head to feel light, my body loose, and my thoughts pleasantly unguarded.
I’m tipsy. The kind of tipsy that comes with warmth pooling low in my stomach and a sweet, aching soreness between my thighs that I’m painfully aware of every time I shift on the velvet couch. It’s not uncomfortable. It’s the opposite—a quiet, delicious echo that makes my heart kick every time I think about it.
And I keep thinking about it.
Dom hasn’t left my side once. Not really. Even when he’s talking to someone, even when his attention looks elsewhere, I feel him: his hand at my back, his knee angled toward mine, his presence like a wall I can lean against without asking.
I take a slow sip of my drink, ice clinking softly, and try not to smile into the rim of the glass. My head is full of questions I don’t have answers to yet—about last night, about what changed, about whether the way he looks at me now means anything more than lust.
Dom leans in, murmurs something about the VIP bar, about Jace waving him over. His mouth brushes my ear when he speaks, and my heart does a little jump again.
“I’ll be right there,” I tell him.
“Don’t be long.”
Dom steps away, drawn toward the VIP bar where Jace is already holding court, gesturing with his drink like he’s conducting an orchestra.
I watch him talk to Jace, then notice who he’s talking to next.
The goalie.
Zed.
I’ve seen him on the ice—hard to miss—but this is the first time I really see him. He’s a lot: massive, black clothes, heavy tattoos crawling up his arms and neck, black hair falling into a face that feels like a trap.
The man is beautiful, no denying it, but there’s an edge that makes your instincts itch. His eyes are unnaturally light, his brows sit low, giving him a permanent, intimidating intensity. Even standing still, he looks coiled.
There’s something else, too. Something…wrong—not bad, but hurt. Pain sits behind his eyes, something broken and sealed. I catch it for a second when he looks down at his drink; it’s gone as fast as it appears.
All night I’ve noticed women trying to approach him—brave, given how unapproachable he seems. They lean in, touch his arm, smile, say things I can’t hear over the music. He never reciprocates; they drift away, bruised egos if nothing else.
