“I came for my girl.”
My heart drops into my stomach. My girl. Me.
The girls go silent.
When Dom’s attention returns to me, my pulse is everywhere—neck, wrists, thighs.
“Upstairs,” he growls.
It isn’t a request.
“Ask nicely.” I lift my chin.
A heartbeat passes before he threads his fingers through mine and pulls me with him, leaving no room to argue.
The girls watch us go with wide eyes.
And I? I let him lead me.
Because my chest is molten, my pulse is chaos, and something about the way he said my girl rings in my bones.
Dom doesn’t walk me back toward VIP.
He drags me.
One big hand wrapped around mine, his pace unforgiving, fury rolling off him so thick it feels physical. I stumble once and he tightens his grip, pulling me closer without slowing.
Inside, I’m grinning. My stomach does stupid flips I will absolutely deny later.
He pulls me past the velvet rope and through the dim hallway that leads to the VIP bathrooms. He pushes open the bathroom door, drags me inside, and lets it slam shut. I rip my wrist out of his grip the second he lets go.
The bass becomes muffled. The room shrinks. His presence expands.
He points to the spot in front of him. “Stay where I can fucking see you.”
The command cracks through the air like a whip.
My chin snaps up. I don’t know if it’s the music still buzzing in my bloodstream or the fact that he just manhandled me through the club, but fire flares inside me—sharp and reckless.
I take a step closer and tilt my head. “You planning to put me on a leash?”
“Don’t tempt me,” he mutters, stepping in. “I might.”
Heat punches through me so fast I almost sway.
“I went downstairs to get a damn martini,” I bite out, ignoring the heat between my legs, “because you scared the bartender upstairs.”
“Don’t disappear on me again,” he fires back, pointing at me like I’m a misbehaving child.
“I didn’t disappear!” I throw my hands up. “I went downstairs. To the bar. To order a drink. Because, newsflash”—I jab a finger into his chest—“You. Don’t. Tell me what to do.”
Dom catches my hand firmly. “You went downstairs,” he repeats, “into a packed club full of drunk assholes, with a dress up to your fucking ribs—”
“My dress is none of your concern—”
“It is,” he says calmly, stepping into my space, “when every man in that room is staring at you.”
“That’s not your problem.”
