42. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Rounding the back of the restaurant, I come up on the other side of the hostess stand.
A place like this has people waiting for a table at the bar, and others milling around outside in the sitting area I breezed through.
I don’t wait.
Smiling, I say, “I’m meeting…” My throat tightens. “…my wife.”
The hostess’s face falls hearing I’m unavailable and just waves me into the dining room down a narrow-carpeted hallway.
Wide columns separate the bar area and the modest dining room. It’s dimly lit, and the smell of garlic and basil stirs my stomach.
Jillian’s pin-straight blonde hair stands out and my fury lights up seeing her sitting with a man at a curved banquette.
She’s running a hand along the stem of a wine glass, her eyes heavy. She looks…bored. With tense shoulders, her lips form a tight, fake smile. She gives me that bullshit grin enough, I know it anywhere.
The guy is facing me but looking at her. He’s so enraptured he doesn’t see me. Or anyone. I lift my phone to snap a photo and text it to Balor.
Me: Who the fuck is this?
Wavy dots appear and I smile.
A Nevada License pops up.
Stephen Decker.
Balor: Employment records show he’s an attorney at Cantor McMillian.
One of the law firms Borgia fired.
What the fuck is she doing?
Me: Thanks, man.
Balor: You coming home tomorrow?
Me: Aye.
Balor: Safe travels.
The sound of a cocktail shaker catches my attention, and I notice another bar inside the restaurant. Crossing the dining room along the far wall, I approach the bar with stealth and find an empty barstool.
“Drink, sir?” A smartly vested bartender steps before me.
Glancing at the bottles behind him, I say, “Just a shortie of Crowne with a lime twist.”
“Yes, sir.”
With my arse planted on a stool, I keep my eyes on Jillian. I believe in the power of staring.
Sure enough, she looks my way and does an adorable double take.
Blinking hazel eyes scan my perimeter to see if I’m here with a woman.
“Eighteen dollars, sir,” the bartender says.
I reach for my wallet, my eyes locked on Jillian’s. With just a glance into the billfold, I drop a fifty on the bar.
Lifting my glass, I salute her.
She just slides her hand up and down the wine glass, not wanting to let her guest catch on that a mob boss is staring at him.
I take a sip, licking my lips and… Jillian does the same.
Fuck, that’s hot.
Putting the drink down on the bar top behind me, I take out my phone. Glaring at her, I send her a text.
Me: What the hell are you doing?
Jillian’s eyes hit the table where her phone is.
The guy, Stephen, prattles on as weasel lawyers do. I hate him because he’s in my seat.
Jillian mouths something to Stephen and then picks up her phone.
Jillian: Waiting for dinner.
She doesn’t return the question because she already knows I’m stalking her.
My brain misfires when I consider if Stephen’s the guy she’s going to have sex with so Johnny throat fucks her? She would have messaged Johnny to make sure he was watching, right? My mistake, I haven’t checked the app tonight.
Me: Start coughing and excuse yourself.
Jillian shakes her head.
Wench. Fuck, her defiance has my cock thickening.
Me: It’s either you start coughing or your date’s face hits that table.
How I’ll manage that I have no idea.
I wait to see the words, it’s not a date.
But no other text comes.
Just when I think I have to go do something incredibly reckless, Jillian coughs.
Me: Good girl. Follow me.
I finish my drink in one gulp and push the change from the fifty toward the bartender.
I hop off the stool gracefully and cross into the row toward her table. Her eyes widen as she’s coughing, looking at her phone, her mouth moving.
Slowly, measurably, I swagger past her table, not looking at her. At the end of the row, I stop and glance back.
Jillian climbs out from the booth, and when our eyes lock, I motion her toward the exit.
I get outside and push her against the brick wall, far from the lights so we’re shadowed. My mouth lands on hers, and I lay a heart attack of a kiss on her. Surprisingly, she kisses me back with a voracity I wasn’t expecting.
“No one touches you. You’re mine.” I keep kissing her.
Her greedy mouth gives back one hell of a kiss. “Uh huh. Uh huh.”
“Do you need me to remind you, right here right now who you belong to?” I reach for my belt.
“Not here.” She backs away, smoothing her skirt.
She’s a prosecutor and has a reputation. I respect the hell out of her for that.
I remember she loves the strip. Walks it often at night.
With hands in my pockets, I head that way. “Follow me, sparkles.”
“To… To your villa?” The want in her voice rearranges my soul.
“No,” I struggle to speak. “I’m showing you another kind of good time first.”
The wide sidewalk gives me room to stroll freely and a few seconds later, I glance back.
Jillian is following me.
A sign for a piano bar catches my eye, and I hook left to duck inside.
The smell of smoke jars me, suggesting this place is old-school. But the man tickling the ivories sounds top-tier and everyone is well dressed like me.
The hostess seats me, and when Jillian slips in, I stand up and signal for her to join me.
Those damn tight pencil skirts hug her shapely arse and nip at her tiny waist, making her boobs look even bigger. She’s a bombshell, a pin-up girl, a curvy goddess.
Mine.
Tugging her purse against her shoulder she says, “That wasn’t a date. I told you it was a colleague.”
“Sit.” I kick out the chair with my foot and motion with my eyes.
She stares for a second and exhaling, she takes a seat.
“What were you drinking back there?” I pull out the wine menu, which is as thick as a best-seller. “I’ll buy you the same drink to make up for the one you didn’t finish at the restaurant.”
“Sauvignon Blanc.”
I find the whites, and scan the list for the most expensive SB.
A server comes up to the table. “Can I get you anything?”
“A bottle of Mondavi Sauvignon Blanc.” I glance at Jillian with her arms folded. “Are you hungry?”
“I was waiting for dinner.”
“We’ll have the tapas sampler for the table.”
The music drew me into this place, not the food.
“What did Stephen have to say?” I ask her.
Her jaw drops. “How did you know who that was?”
I answer with a head tilting.
“I’ve known him for a few years, but he says he didn’t work the Borgia case.”
“Have you been out with him?”
Thick lashes coated with black-as-fuck mascara lift to me. “He’s asked me out before.” She fidgets. “He’s married now.”
That fucking enrages me, her sitting with a man who once wanted her. Not to mention he would probably cheat on his wife to get into my woman’s bed. What a disgusting betrayal.
Keeping my focus on her face, I ask, “You thought you’d ask him about why Borgia dumped his firm?”
“Yes.” She smiles. “I figured if he didn’t work on the case, he might be willing to talk.”
Fuck, I like her.
“And?”
“He said he didn’t know anything, and I’m glad you rescued me.”
“Rescued,” I laugh. “I like that.”
“Why did you say no to meeting me later and then drag me away from dinner?”
I smile at her. “Repeat that in your head and see if you can figure it out.”
She looks down at the table and laughs. “You didn’t want to be seconds.”
“Nope. Never.”
“Then why didn’t you say something?” She throws her hands up.
“I have a flare for the dramatic. I’d rather show you what I’m capable of, than just warning you.” I glare. “You have to start taking my threats seriously, sparkles.”
“Noted.” Glancing around, she says, “This place is nice.”
“A lot classier on the inside than the outside.”
“That’s on purpose. Keeps tourists out.”
“I didn’t fall for it.”
The server returns with the bottle and pours two glasses. A burning desire to lick the sides of her glass eats at me.
“Your sample platter is coming right up.”
“You didn’t ask if I’m allergic to shellfish.” Jillian sips her wine.
“I know you’re not.”
“How?” She wrinkles her nose.
“Because I’m fucking obsessed with you. I’ve dug into your education, your medical records, dental cleanings, you’re due for one, by the way.” I watch for shock to register on her face. “I read the insurance claim from a fender bender you had last month, I saw your online food delivery orders because you don’t want anyone to see you shop or eat, I know how often you get that damn gel manicure, and I’m convincing myself not to kill that doctor who put his fingers into your cunt. The one who gave you a prescription for birth control. Which you haven’t filled yet.”
Shaking her head, she puts down her wine. “Bullshit. You’re just trying to scare me.”
“You should be scared of me.” I grab her hand. “That’s just the tip of the iceberg for me.”
“Sorry to pop your little bubble of fun. I. Am. Not.”
“I popped your cherry so we’re even.”
She wiggles her fingers at me. “I’m surprised you didn’t notice. I got my nails re-done to match the color of your eyes.”
My fucking heart swells, and I’m hit in the chest with waves of emotion I’ve never felt before.
“This, I like,” I admit, keeping my shit together.
God, I love that she marked her body with a piece of me.
“And you didn’t know I had this done, did you? See, I’m not on your radar 24/7.”
I sip the wine and lean in. “I can change that and be all over you 24/7.”
“I don’t need you to change that. I have a vibrator. Oh wait…you broke into my apartment and stole my batteries.”
I sit back. “Any other woman would be throwing that wine in my face and calling the cops.”
“Clearly, I can’t...” She shakes her head. “Not when you’d have me tied to your bed in eight seconds flat.”
My sip is ill-timed and sends my mouthful of wine down the wrong pipe. I gag for a moment before I get out, “You make me sound like a mechanical bull. But I don’t finish in eight seconds.”
“I had the sore vagina to prove that.”
“Why do you sound intrigued by my sexual advances and not disgusted?”
“Because I know how good you are.”
“So, let’s get out of here.” I sit back and exhale.
Those fingers with long nails colored the same as my eyes, glide up and over the curve of the wine glass. “I’m hungry. I’ve ordered food twice tonight, but you haven’t let me eat a bite of it.”
Fuck. That wasn’t a no or go fuck yourself.
The platter comes and starvation has my back sweating, ogling the open face crab empanadas, bruschetta, chorizo-filled dates wrapped in prosciutto, and hand-cut, homemade sweet-potato chips with aioli dip sit in a warm white platter.
Before the waitress leaves, Jillian touches her arm. “Can I get an order of the warm pretzels with the beer cheese, too?”
Fucking Christ, she is so my type.
I make a plate for her, and hand it over, our fingers brushing. “Eat.”
“This is blowing my diet. The pretzels will have to count toward my calories for next week.”
“Fuck your diet. You’re gorgeous.”
She looks up at me. “You really think so?”
“I can’t get you or your curves out of my fucking mind, Jillian.” My eyes move to her plate. “Eat, now.”
She lifts an empanada and brings it to her mouth. Baring teeth that I want on my cock, she takes a bite, and her eyes roll back into her skull.
“Goddamn it. I’m taking you for ice cream after this.” I almost mention the pistachio speech. “I want to see you lick a cone, even if it kills me.”
“That’s what I want,” she giggles, inhaling another empanada. “A mafia bounty on my head.”
I’m not even sure I taste my food, I’m too enraptured watching Jillian eat. It’s the fucking sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
The people around us clap, and I’m drawn back to the music I heard earlier outside this place. A dark-haired woman in her fifties wearing a floral wrap dress sways in front of the microphone. In a velvet voice, she sings the opening salvo to… At Last…
Nothingcan write my story with Jillian better.
I wipe my hands on a napkin and stand. “Let’s dance.”
She catches something that adorably falls out of her mouth. “Dance?”
“It’s a one syllable word.”
After a sip of wine, she says, “I only know the Macarena.”
I throw my head back and laugh. Not liking to wait, I go to her chair and practically lift her out.
“Ack,” she bellows. “I’m too heavy, put me down.”
“I can lift you with one arm. Shush.” I steer her toward the dance floor with my hand on her arse.
“Shush?”
“I’m mafia. Mob, really, if we’re getting technical.” I pull her close. “I’m in charge, I lead. Just relax.”
The feel of her against me lights up every cell in my body. She fits so sublimely in my arms, and molds into me as I move to the only dance steps I know. Somewhere between a cotillion and tango.
I twirl her and snap her back into my chest, our lips hovering. When she licks them and they part, I take that as an invitation. I gently kiss her, trying out a new side of me. Calm and seductive. Romantic.
My softness brings out a fury in Jillian’s kisses and she devours me.
I roam my hands down her back until her luscious arse fills both my palms. There are enough people around us, hiding my inappropriate touching.
“Feel that?” I grind my hard length into her stomach. “I can lift you and fuck you right now.”
“I bet.” She sounds breathless.
“Let’s get the check and go back to my place.”
She stiffens and looks around.
Christ, it hits me. She’s playing the goddamn game.
I take her face into my hands and peer into her eyes. Every instinct to read a person’s mind fires up. Is this all an act? Was that kiss even real?
More frighteningly, do I care?
Fuck, I care. This woman consumes my every damn thought.
“Jillian, what’s the problem? I want to fuck you and you want to fuck me, right? Me?” The stress in my voice pulls her eyes in more.
“Um.” She bites her lower lip.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “You want this, I know you do.”
Yeah, she wants to bang someone for the Sinners app guy to see.
“But your place…” She begins.
Smiling, I go in for the kill.
“Are you afraid of walking out of the Charter Hotel looking good and fucked with your hair all messed up, lipstick smeared, mascara stains on your cheek, your clothes wrinkled, and goddamn limping from the way I can bang you for hours?”