Chapter 10 Trilby #2
Before I can stop her, she’s on her hands and knees, a nick of fabric from halfway up my thighs jammed between her teeth. I grip the vanity for balance as she tears a thick ribbon clean off the bottom of my dress.
I gape open-mouthed at the small amount of length leftover.
Sandrine spits out the fabric and holds it up, studying her handiwork. “Thou shalt not bend over in this, my lady,” she says.
“I bloody shall.” I grin despite the crazed butterflies zinging around my abdomen and turn to look in the mirror. “What about the neckline?” I tug it down to where my cleavage is visible.
“The neckline is fine,” Sandrine says, standing. “But you could do with showing off these babies.” She tugs the thick straps down over my arms, showcasing my shoulders and illuminating my collarbone.
Next she pops open her purse and squirts something iridescent onto my skin, until my cleavage shimmers under the lights.
“Holy crap. If he doesn’t jump you, I will.” She smacks her lips together and studies me with intent. “You need to put your hair up. You have such a gorgeous slim neck. Make him want to sink his teeth into it.”
I feel a surge of intention and fish a band out of my purse. I twirl the strands into a messy bun and turn my head from side to side.
Wow.
I like to dress up, and I have a tendency to wear slightly outlandish vintage garments, but I’ve never taken it this far. If Papa could see me now, he would actually kill me.
Out of the corner of my eye, a girl shakes a can of what appears to be hair lacquer. When it sprays out, her platinum strands turn a gorgeous baby pink. I catch Sandrine’s eye and know she’s thinking the same thing.
She confronts the girl. “Would you exchange that can of spray for a kidney?”
The girl darts her eyes between the two of us and laughs. “No body parts necessary.”
She holds out the can, and Sandrine swipes it from her hands, getting to work immediately. When she’s finished, I glance in the mirror, and my jaw drops. I still look like myself, but . . . I look like myself on acid.
Part of me can’t wait to show Cristiano what he’s driven me to. Another part of me is about to crap right here on the floor.
“You ready?” Sandrine says after she’s handed back the spray and exchanged numbers with the girl. It never fails to impress me how easily she collects friends.
I force a nod.
Her eyes narrow mischievously, and she takes my hand. “Let’s go.”
We walk out into the club and have to resort to shouting again over the music.
“Shots?” Sandrine calls over her shoulder.
I coast my gaze over the bar, and my heart sinks—way more than it should. He’s gone.
“Sure,” I shout back, my tone flat. If ever there were a time to succumb to the lure of a fluorescent alcoholic beverage, this is it.
We reach the bar, and I feel every single male pair of eyes on me. “Self-conscious” doesn’t even begin to explain how I feel. Maybe mix it with a bit of mortification and a dash of disappointment, and we’ll be on the right track.
Sandrine turns around brandishing four shot glasses filled with something pink. “To match your hair, baby doll,” she says with a wink.
We clink glasses and down them both.
My throat burns as the alcohol sears its way to my stomach, but as soon as the flame sizzles out, I feel calm. I feel invincible.
I feel . . . hot.
Before my brain has a chance to catch up with the message my skin is sending, Sandrine confirms my worst fear and my most dangerous bet.
“Babysitter. Ten o’clock.”
I slowly pan my gaze across the dance floor. He emerges from the men’s room and walks purposefully toward us. The crowd seems to part for him without him even sparing a glance. In fact, his focus is entirely on me.
A whole-body tremor racks me from head to toe.
Sandrine turns her head so the movement of her lips is indecipherable. “You show him inappropriate, girl.”
I reach out to grab her hand—I suddenly don’t want to be left alone with him—but she’s gone.
My heart thumps at the bottom of my neck, my pulse rivalling the heavy bass bouncing off the walls of the club.
Each step Cristiano takes toward me extracts a little bit more of my breath. By the time he’s standing mere inches away, forcing me to tilt my face up to his at an uncomfortable angle, I’m dizzy.
“What are you doing?” His lids are lowered, his irises almost black under the neon lights, and his voice is a low growl that rumbles beneath my skin.
I gulp warm air. “I’m enjoying a night out with my friend.”
His words are bitten out. “Where’s the rest of your dress?”
“The restroom.”
His pupils are like sharp stones, but I can still see a world of annoyance dancing behind them.
“You have ten minutes.”
My throat heats. “Until you leave?” I’m stunned at myself.
I’ve never spoken to another man this way.
I’ve never taunted someone like this or flirted so brazenly.
And don’t get me started on the fact I already belong to the most powerful man in New York, yet I’m toying with his brother.
If my nights weren’t already busy with recounting the hell I’ve lived through, this would be the stuff of nightmares.
His chest rises and falls with measured breaths. “Until I drag you the fuck out of here.”
I’ve gone too far already, and I’m in so deep I’m struggling to see the benefit in pulling back at this late stage. “Why ten minutes? Why don’t you just drag me out now?”
He leans forward until I can feel the bristles on his cheek against the side of my face. “Because I figured you’d want to say goodbye to your friend, and I just saw her disappear out the back with one of my brother’s soldiers.”
What?
She’ll have no idea who he is, and I can’t let her get involved with this family. If I can’t save myself, I can save Sandrine.
I step backward and hit the bar. His body seems to wrap itself around me, trapping me into the small space. He presses a hand to my chest, and heat radiates out from where his skin meets mine. He doesn’t push hard, but it’s a warning. Don’t fucking move.
His warm timbre rumbles in my ear. “He’s young. She’s hot. I give him five minutes max.”
Something inside me twists painfully. He thinks Sandrine is hot.
I mean, she is hot. She’s drop-dead gorgeous. He wouldn’t be a red-blooded male if he didn’t notice her in that way. But why does it bother me to the point I might need a painkiller to ease the tightness in my chest?
I draw my focus back to what he just said. “They went outside? Like, together?”
I feel his smile against my jawline.
“Yeah.”
Wetness collects in my underwear, and I blush from my breasts to my hairline. What on earth? She’s my best friend—why do I feel like I’m turned on? I don’t care a dime when and where she gets off, as long as she’s safe.
When he doesn’t withdraw his hot breath from my skin, I turn my head. I need air. I need to cool down. I twirl a few strands of pink hair around a finger and say the boldest thing I can think of.
“Why do you want to drag me out of here anyway? It’s not like I’m marrying you.”
His form solidifies, and heat radiates from him. “You may as well be.”
That knocks the wind out of me. My cheeks burn up.
His hand takes hold of my neck and grips it tightly. “You’re marrying a Di Santo. And not just any Di Santo.”
Irritation scratches at my patience. “If I have to hear one more time it’s because I’m marrying the don . . .” I start, but then the feel of his lips dragging across the shell of my ear makes my stomach collapse.
“You’re marrying my brother. My flesh and blood . . .”
A shiver travels down my stomach and lands squarely between my legs.
“You will treat our name—my name—with respect.”
My vision narrows to the veins on the side of his neck. They’re corded and throbbing. And for a man whom I’ve yet to see break a real sweat, his skin sure is glistening with a damp sheen.
I feel a depraved urge to reach forward and lick a line from his collarbone to the soft skin beneath his ear.
It’s not the first time I’ve thought about doing something so wholly inappropriate with this man, and these strange urges are making me feel untethered.
I can only hope they disappear once I’ve grown used to him being around.
When I’m a part of his family.
I lean back so I can look him in the eye. His jaw is as firm as his grip.
“How many minutes do I have now?” I ask with half-lidded eyes.
His teeth grind slowly. “Five.”
“Are you going to let me go?”
He breathes deeply. “Go where?”
I dart my gaze to the dance floor. “I came here to dance, so if you don’t mind . . .”
His grip loosens, but instead of withdrawing it completely, he lays it flat against my throat and strokes it down to my collarbone. It lingers there—only for a second, but it’s long enough to make me feel a chill when he removes it and pushes it deep into his pocket.
He steps aside and watches me as I strut past him to the edge of the dance floor. I don’t know anyone here except for Sandrine and her two friends, but I feel an unbridled need to let off some steam; rid myself of the tension that man coils inside of me.
As if by divine intervention, “Chandelier” by Sia kicks off, and I lose myself far more easily than I anticipated, with Cristiano’s gaze glued to my every move.
I close my eyes and let my hips swing decadently.
My legs part, and my skirt rises above the crease of my ass.
The skin around my thighs burns, and I know he’s watching.
I’m instantly addicted. I have his undivided attention, and it feels dangerous. For someone who loathes violence in all its forms, I suddenly want to feel his anger—or whatever it is that makes him treat me this way—in whatever form I can get it.