Page 21 of Tell Me You Want Me

The real show begins when the rare, limited-edition Patek Philippe watch is brought onto the stage. Across the room, Dom raises his paddle, casting a smug look in Dante’s direction. My husband raises his paddle instantly, outbidding Dom by nearly fifty thousand dollars. Dom’s jaw tightens, and he raises his again. I roll my eyes and laugh when I see Cory shaking her head.

“Dante,” I whisper, stifling a laugh as Dom goes well above what I could ever imagine spending on a watch. “Don’t you dare. You’re only doing that to be a pain in the ass and piss off Dom.”

“And it was worth every single second,” Dante rasps, bringing his mouth to my ear as the auctioneer shouts,Sold!

The evening slowly begins to wind down. Some people move to the dance floor, others to the open bar, and a good portionof our friend group takes their leave. Dante must have the same idea as them. He slides his hand into mine, guiding me away from the ballroom and straight toward the private elevators.

“I can’t wait to take my heels off,” I say as we enter the bank.

“I can’t wait for you to take it all off,” Dante murmurs, backing me up until I’m pressed against the metal. He dips his body, allowing me to feel his hard length.

“Dante.” I tilt my head, close my eyes, and sink my nails into his chest. The dinging of the bell interrupts us just as he’s about to kiss me.

“Come on, wife. Time to relax for the night.” We walk into the hotel suite directly from the elevator. I’ll never get over the view, not here, not in the penthouse, and definitely not the view when we’re in Medina. The Seattle skyline never gets old.

“I have something for you,” I say softly. Dante is unbuttoning his jacket; his eyes track my every movement as I walk over to my purse sitting on the coffee table.

“You most certainly do.” He arches an eyebrow, leaning casually against the edge of the couch.

“Get your mind out of the gutter, for now.” I reach into my bag and pull out the small piece of hard plastic, slipping it between my fingers before walking back to him. “Close your eyes and give me your hand.” Once he does what I ask, I place his gift in his palm. “You can open them now.”

Dante looks down at it; it’s my brand-new driver’s license. It’s the final piece to make me officially his. Amber eyes sweep over the text. The address is updated to the house in Medina, and right under my photo, printed in clean, official text, is my new legal name:Alexandria Holland Lombardi.

“I figure it was time to have my husband’s name. Officially.” I dropped my middle name to keep my maiden name.

“Alexandria.” Dante says my name in a low, growling tone coming from the back of his throat. He tosses my license to thetable, his hands lock around my waist, and he lifts me off my feet. Then he marches us across the room, into the master suite, and doesn’t let me go until the backs of my legs hit the mattress, bringing us both down together.

“Dante,” I whimper when his lips land on mine, his hands slipping to the back of my designer dress. A quick, sharp tug, and he’s completely ripped my several-thousand-dollar designer dress, utterly unbothered by the destruction he left in his wake.

“Christ, my wife is beautiful.” I gasp, reaching for his shirt, shoving, yanking, and pulling to get it off him. His mouth leaves mine, trailing down my neck, sending a jolt of electricity straight to my pussy. “You’re mine, Alexandria.” He worships every inch of my exposed skin with each piece of clothing that leaves my body. “You’re mine to love. You’re mine forever. Fuck, I love you.”

“I love you, too. Forever.”

I hope you enjoyed Alex and Dante’s story and will consider leaving a review.

Coming Next is Tell Me It’s Forever, Gennie and Gavin’s story

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Prologue

Gavin

A Few Days Earlier

The air inside the grand ballroom at The Whitmore is thick with the cloying scent of expensive perfume, alcohol, and desperate social climbing. Crystal chandeliers hang low from the ceiling, swags of fabric line the walls, and the floral arrangements are on the verge of ostentatious. Millions of dollars are floating around the room in the form of designer clothing, expensive diamonds, and whoever can outbid the other.

I’d be concerned about this being a guise for childhood cancer research except I’ve worked with the family who holds this event. It’s rooted deeply in them to help others when they’re own child couldn’t be helped. They’re good people, it’s a good cause, even if the event costs a ten grand, and that’s not including what you’ll bid on for auction.

I lean against the high-top table near the back of the room, adjusting my cufflinks in my Tom Ford tuxedo. I’d already written a check for half a million dollars before I even stepped through the doors tonight. I didn’t need to be here, in fact, I hate these events—the fake smiles, the surface level conversations, the endless parade of people trying to talk business.

Yet here I fucking am.

In my left hand, I hold a low-ball crystal cut glass filled with two fingers of Macallan 25, the amber liquid swirls lazily against the ice. In my right hand, I loosely grip an auction paddle with the number 15 in bold black color.

“You look like you’re about to execute someone, Gavin,” Nolan mutters coming up beside me, a drink of his own in his hand. His eyes scan the crowd with practiced detachment of a man who deals in high-stakes corporate takeovers for a living. I would know considering we’re one in the same.

“I’d rather be executing a deal,” I grunt, taking a slow sip. The smooth burn of the alcohol hits the back of my throat. “Or sleeping.”