The bartender slides Dom his drink, glancing at me with a wince. “Oh, absolutely not.” I turn to him. “I want a vodka martini. Now.”
“If you give her a martini,” Dom says, voice low and steady, “you’re done for the night.”
The bartender freezes, eyes darting.
“Martini,” I repeat, sugar-sweet and sharp. “Now, please.”
“No martini.”
The bartender swallows. “Whatever the Captain says goes.” He scurries off, uncomfortable.
“You’re welcome to be angry,” Dominic says, deceptively calm. “Just stay sober.”
“Sober?” I repeat. “So you can keep pretending I don’t get to you?”
His eyes flash when they lock on mine. He opens his mouth, but I don’t let him. “No,” I push. “Let’s say it plainly. You don’t want me drunk because you don’t trust yourself. That’s what this is.”
“Oh, I trust myself,” he drawls. “I don’t trust you.”
“Really?” I lean closer. “Scared I might touch you again?”
“Jessica,” he warns.
My heart slams; every nerve fires—and I smile. I’m done pretending I don’t see the way his chest rises faster when I push him. He thinks I need alcohol to touch him? Watch me.
I turn on the stool, letting my knee brush his thigh. Nothing changes—except his eyes flick down where we touch. I let my fingers drift lower, then trail up his leg, slow and deliberate, testing. His lips part a fraction. I go higher, tracing lightly over his chest, following his shape beneath his shirt, up to his collarbone.
His breathing shifts. “What are you doing?”
“I don’t need a martini to make questionable decisions.”
“You’ll need one to get through the consequences,” he shoots back.
Someone calls from the couches. “Cap! Come here, you gotta see this!”
The moment fractures. Dom’s hand closes around my wrist—firm, controlled—and moves my hand away. “No alcohol for her,” he calls to the bartender.
The bartender nods. I roll my eyes.
Dom looks back at me. “Behave.”
One word. No room for argument. Then he’s gone, cutting through the crowd.
“You’re not actually going to give me a martini, are you?” I ask the bartender.
He gives an apologetic smile. “I’m really sorry, miss. But… whatever the Captain says goes.”
“Coward.”
I glance back at Dom. His back is to me, teammates crowding in, voices loud in his ear—distracted. Perfect.
I slip off the stool, heels barely touching the floor as I move for the stairs. One glance over my shoulder—he hasn’t turned.
I descend the VIP steps with purpose, my pulse buzzing with rebellion.
The downstairs bar is packed, lined with bartenders Dom hasn’t warned.
Good.
