Heartless Sinner (Empire of Sinners #5)

Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Scarlett

Mr. Dreamy ushers me toward the stairs and I swallow against the knot in my throat, suddenly aware of how close we are. One more step from him or me, or if he slipped his arm around me, and I’d be pressed up against him.

I push the thought out of my head and try to focus. Maybe that’s the alcohol whispering sinful things to me.

To my surprise, he leads me into one of the VIP rooms. The moment we step inside, my breath is stolen away by the lavish white leather furniture, the satin-covered walls, and the massive crystal chandelier casting patterns across the glossy black flooring.

I look around taking it all in, utterly fascinated. “Wow, this room is amazing.”

“I’m glad you like it. This is my favorite room in the bar.”

“I can definitely see why.” I smile up at him then look around again.

We make our way to the bar and stop by the crystal decanters sitting on the counter looking like they were waiting for us.

Mr. Dreamy moves behind the bar and my gaze drifts to the bottles of top-shelf liquor arranged in perfect precision against smoky glass shelves on the wall.

“So, I know you like cocktails. Is there anything specific you don’t like?” He does that thing again where he scans my face.

“No. I’m pretty open to trying everything and anything.”

“Perfect. What’s your limit?” He rests his hands on the counter and cocks his head.

“Four. But I’ve already had two.”

“Noted. Are you okay with me fixing you one of my specialties?”

“Sure.”

“Then be prepared to have your mind blown.” A confident smile slides across his lips, revealing deep dimples. As if he wasn’t gorgeous enough.

I lean against the counter and watch him as he gets to work by grabbing some lemons and limes from the fridge. The dim lighting bounces off the tattoos on his arms as he opens the cupboard above him and reaches for a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal Rosé that probably costs more than my monthly salary and a bottle of Chambord filled with deep raspberry liqueur.

“You strike me as a woman who appreciates something exotic and tasteful, but with a tangy twist." His voice is a low rumble that sends arousal crawling up my spine.

There’s a uniqueness to the way he speaks. A bit playful, a bit flirtatious, a bit self-assured. It gives him that sexy edge of confidence I always find attractive yet daunting because I’m not like that.

“You sound certain. Like you know,” I tease.

He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he measures out the raspberry liqueur and stares back at me. “Call it intuition.”

I laugh, the sound sounding foreign to me. At that moment I realize I can’t remember the last time I really laughed. I do sometimes when I speak to Lucy, but it feels superficial. Like I’m always stuck on autopilot reacting by default.

Mr. Dreamy mixes everything together in a champagne flute. The final touch is a mist of rose water and three rose petals, which he grabs from the cupboard next to the wines. They float on the surface of the drink, infusing it with elegance that looks so good it should be on the cover of some luxury magazine.

“Taste it.” Mr. Dreamy slides the glass toward me but keeps his finger on the stem. When his eyes meet mine, they're dark with something dangerous and sensual that lurks in the corners.

“It looks so perfect I don’t want to mess it up.” I smile, looking it over with fascination.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to. I need to see if my intuition is right."

“I’m sure it is. It looks like drinks I’ve tried before.” Just way more expensive and classy.

“This drink has a special kick to it.”

“What’s the kick?” I grin back at him.

“I made it.” His wink causes raw heat to stir in the pit of my stomach. I expected him to tell me some secret about one of the ingredients he used, but I like that the secret sauce is him.

“Go on, taste it.”

I reach for the glass and my fingers brush against his. The slight contact sends a spark of electricity through my nerves.

I lift the glass to my lips and drink. And my God, wow. It tastes fantastic. It has the perfect combination of sweet and tang.

“Wow, you were right. My mind is blown. What is it?”

“My version of the Ruby Rose.”

“I’ve never had that before.”

“Then I’m glad your first taste was mine.” His voice drops again and it makes me think he’s implying something else, something that makes me blush again.

“Me too.”

He quickly pours himself some wine and when he looks back at me, that spark returns to his eyes. “Let’s go sit over there.” He lifts his chin toward the sofa.

“Sure.”

We walk over to the sofa area and sit next to each other. As we do, I can’t help but notice how much bigger he seems sitting next to me. His shoulders are so wide he nearly fills up his half of the sofa.

He raises his glass and cocks his head, keeping his gaze trained on me. “Here’s to this meeting of ours.”

“Hear, hear,” I agree, clinking my glass with his when he holds it out to me.

We drink in unison, pausing our conversation to enjoy our drinks.

Nerves fill me when he sets his glass down and stares at me as if he has a million things he wants to ask me.

I’m sure he’ll have questions. Agreeing to get a drink with someone you don’t know opens the floor for the get-to-know-you part of the meeting. That’s where we are now.

The problem is he can’t know me. Not everything about me—why I shouldn’t be here and that by this time tomorrow, I’ll be a classified thief.

The word— thief —wraps around my insides like thick rope, pulling, tightening, and twisting.

Thinking fast, I mask the inner turmoil brewing within me with a smile, hoping Mr. Dreamy can’t see straight through me. It would be another cruel joke if he could see the devious plans in my mind and alerted the police. Or worse—Micah Delarosa.

“How long are you staying in New York?” he asks, leaning close enough that I catch the undertones of his cologne. It’s a blend of musk, sandalwood, and something darker and alluring that reminds me of burning cedar on a winter night.

“Just until tomorrow night.”

“That’s a shame, bellezza. Are you here for business or pleasure?”

Be creative, Scarlett . I think of the best thing to tell him and settle on a half lie and a half truth. “Business. I’m an actress. My agent/best friend lives here. I’m hoping to find a job soon.” Perfect. And he looks intrigued. That kind of answer can keep us talking for a while without specifics.

“Never met an actress before.” He runs his thumb over his lower lip and gives me a thoughtful stare.

“People say there’s a first time for everything.”

“They were right.” Dimples flash again as he grins. “What kind of job are you hoping to get?”

If I were asked that question a year or so ago, I would have answered with movies, but right now, I’d take anything. Anything that would get my foot back through the door. “Movies are always great, but I like TV shows, too. Or plays. I’m versatile.”

“Sounds that way.”

“What about you? I don’t believe you’re just a bartender.” I allow myself the pleasure of looking him over. Scanning him from the top of his stylish head to the leather Santonis covering his feet.

I know this is a classy hotel. Even so, none of the bartenders I know could afford shoes like that.

An easy grin slides across his face. He picks up his wine again and takes a bigger sip. “Bartending is something I do sometimes on the side.”

“A side hustle.”

“Something like that. Let’s just say I’m working my way up in the world.”

“Me too. Or at least I’m trying to. It’s a struggle sometimes. The acting world changes more and more every year.”

“Sounds like you’ve been in that world for a while. You can’t be older than twenty-one.”

I give him credit for the clever, subtle way he’s asking my age. And for the compliment that he thinks I’m twenty-one, even if it was part and parcel of the ruse.

“I’m almost twenty-six.”

“You look younger.” He seems to have genuinely believed that.

“Thank you. You look young, too.” I’m not as quick thinking as he was in finding a better way to ask how old he is.

“ Almost thirty-four.” He borrows my words.

“Wow, you look like you’re still in your twenties.”

“Thanks. That feels like several lifetimes ago now.” He smirks. “Tell me more about your acting.”

Good. Back to a safe topic I can definitely talk about. But within reason. I can’t leave breadcrumbs about who I am. It’s imperative that I remain a nameless, practically faceless person while I’m here. The job may be simple, but then there’s the aftermath that I want no part of.

“I love playing characters who are either strong or deeply flawed,” I begin, summoning my inner Vivien Leigh, the inspiration behind my dream. It started with a broken leg the summer after Mom left and I found myself watching Gone with the Wind with my grandma, who was obsessed with Hollywood classics.

We enjoy our drinks and I find myself telling Mr. Dreamy about my acting experience without being too specific. So, I tell him about college without letting him know where I went. And I tell him about my favorite acting jobs without letting him know where they were.

Mr. Dreamy is so intrigued he doesn’t seem to notice the things I’ve purposely left out. And it doesn’t escape me that from time to time, his gaze drifts to my lips and lingers there like he’s studying the curve of my mouth.

I also notice that he listens and engages, but he seems to like listening to me more. By the time I finish talking over an hour has passed.

A quick glance at the clock on the wall across from us shows it’s nearly ten. I’ve already been out for a lot longer than I planned.

“Tired?” he asks, looking at the clock, too.

“Strangely, no.”

“Does that mean I get to keep you for a little longer?” Mr. Dreamy gives me a wistful grin with mischief lurking in his eyes.

“Maybe I’ll have one last cocktail before I head out.”

“Or you can have more water.” His voice drops, and I feel it in the pit of my stomach.

“Water again?” I smile.

His eyes spark with mischief as he leans in, closing the space between us until his breath mingles with mine. “I want to make sure you have a clear mind when I take you back to my room.”

My pulse thunders against my throat, and goose bumps ripple across my skin where his words caress it. Heat blooms in my chest, spreading outward until even my fingertips tingle with awareness of him. His closeness and his words have me caught in a spider's web of desire and hesitation.

I stare back at him, my mind racing even as my body betrays me with its response. He wants me to go back to his room.

The weight of my inexperience with situations like this presses down on me. I never actually saw this coming. Yet I know I should have. There's something magnetic about the way danger clings to him like a second skin, the way his smile promises both pleasure and pain in equal measure.

So, what do I say to him?

No?

That would be the most sensible answer, although I'd be willing to bet this man has never heard the word no in his life for anything . Let alone coming from a woman he's just propositioned.

So... what if I said yes?

It's not like I don't want to. I won't lie to myself. I like him. It's been a while since I liked anyone. And I haven't been with anyone since Anton.

I also have time. But outside the rationale of sensibility, could I really say yes? I've never slept with a stranger before. Or had a one-night stand.

“Silence again.” He tilts his head, studying my reaction, his dark gaze dissecting every micro-expression that crosses my face.

“I’m just…”

“Just what, bellezza?” His fingers brush my jawline, feather-light yet commanding. “Please don’t tell me I have to compete with your bed for your attention.”

“No. It’s not that.” I chance another smile. My lips part to give him an answer, but my breath hitches as the words scramble in my mind, caught in the tug of war between my thoughts and desires.

Damn it . Just once I’d like to do something I want. But now isn’t the time for wanting such things. I feel like I’ve already stolen selfish moments from my trip.

Taking more from the evening would be asking for too much.

I’d be no different from Cinderella edging too close to midnight knowing if she overstays her time, the prince will learn she’s not who he thinks she is.

“What is it, then?” The dangerous heat radiating from him wraps around me like a promise, and when he shifts even closer, the musky notes of his cologne flood my senses.

“I… haven’t been with anyone since my ex.” I didn’t need to tell him that, but it feels like a good enough excuse to be hesitant.

“And when was that, bellezza?”

“Over a year ago.”

“Do you still love him?”

That’s a very important question. One I’ve considered a lot. I know he’s asking because he’s checking. But no one has asked me that question yet.

“No.” My answer is the most confident thing I’ve said all evening.

“That’s good for me.” The corners of his lips dip with a cocky smile.

“I…I’ve never been with a stranger before.”

The look in his eyes is suddenly raw and feral. “Like you said, there’s a first time for everything.”

“Yeah. I did say that.”

“You did. So, I could be your first.”

“You could.” I bite back a smile, liking his playfulness.

He gives me a menacing grin. "I have another idea, bellezza." His breath fans against my neck as he tilts his head, inching even closer.

“What?”

“Why don’t you taste me? Then you can decide if you want to come back to my room or not.”

My mouth falls open and I stare back at him, stunned.

Taste him?

I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like this guy. Cocky and sexy. Confident and relentless.

Trapped by his body and the intensity of his presence radiating off him in waves, my thoughts dwindle, and desire wins—because damn, I want to taste him.

“Sound good?” he checks, searching my eyes.

“Yes,” I answer on the edge of a breath, my voice barely there.

“Come here.” He crooks his finger, beckoning me to come closer, and I do.

His fingers slide up to my jaw and across to the back of my neck. My heart thunders from the heat of his touch.

We both lean in at the same time, then his mouth claims mine, dissolving logic from my mind.

He kisses me softly at first then hard and hungry, and I melt. A trail of fire pulses across my skin as his tongue pushes into my mouth, tangling with mine.

I have to fight to suppress a moan. Then I’m clenching my thighs because the pang of his kiss is right there in my core, rushing over me like he licked my pussy. And I’m wet.

Wet from a kiss. A kiss that feels like I’m being possessed and he’s stealing the essence from my soul, leaving me drunk on the taste of him.

But suddenly, he breaks away, leaving me starving for more.

We're both breathing hard and I can feel his heart hammering against my palms. I don’t remember putting them on his chest. Now that I’m aware, I feel solid muscle beneath my fingertips.

“How am I doing, bellezza? Am I changing your mind yet?”

“Yes...”

He catches my throat and presses his lips to the edge of my jaw, licking my skin. A shudder zips down my spine.

“What am I going to call you? You haven’t told me your name yet,” he whispers over my skin and into my ear, that deep timbre in his voice lulling me to my damnation.

“My name…” I’m stumped again, logic reminding me that I can’t leave a trail. “I like bellezza.”

He brushes his nose over mine, grazing my cheek with the scruff of his five-o’clock shadow. “Okay, bellezza. What are you calling me?”

“Mr. Dreamy.”

He pulls back and smiles down at me. “I like Mr. Dreamy.”

I blush and the heat spreads over me, but it stills in my core when the seriousness returns to his face. “I’m clean.”

“I’m clean, too.”

“Are you on the pill, bellezza?” His possessive hold sends sparks through my entire body.

“Yes,” I manage in a breathless voice that hardly sounds like me.

“Come to my room.” His thumb traces my now-swollen lip, and his eyes are dark with sinful promises. "Let me show you all the filthy things I've been thinking about doing to you when I fuck you."

The last threads of my resistance snap and all I can manage is a single nod.

The smile he gives me is filled with pure sin. Without another word, he takes my hand, and we stand. Then he leads me out of the room with that same ease that tells me he knew I was going to say yes.

He was right.