3. Chapter 3 #3
After a few jokes back and forth, I find myself relaxing. It seems I’ve survived the initiation. A man in a navy suit recounts a story about a puck knocking him out, and he’s telling it to me specifically. Even Dominic cracks something close to a laugh beside me.
These guys are not what I expected. They’re not stiff or intimidating, not shutting me out. Each story they tell at the table is for me, meant to make me laugh. This isn’t polite tolerance; they’re welcoming me.
I’m still nervous, but now it isn’t fear. It’s adrenaline from sitting next to their captain.
He leans in, his cologne invading my senses again. “White or red?” he asks, holding eye contact.
What? Oh, wine. Right.
“Vodka,” I say, raising a brow .
“Neat?” He watches me for a second, lips tugging into the ghost of a smirk.
“Neat,” I confirm with a small nod.
He waves a passing waiter down with two fingers. “Vodka for the lady. Neat.”
The server nods and vanishes.
Forty minutes into dinner, and I’m not sure if I’m drunk or just fully possessed. My skin feels too tight, my lungs too shallow, and my blood thick with heat.
It’s him.
Dominic hasn’t said a word in ten minutes. He hasn’t even looked at me. But his thigh keeps brushing mine—light and barely there—the kind of contact you could write off as accidental if it hadn’t already happened four times.
Every time it happens, my spine stiffens. And every time, he doesn’t react, which somehow makes it worse.
He’s focused on the speaker on stage while I burn alive beside him, pretending to listen. His thick arm is relaxed on the back of his chair, the other resting on the table, fingers inches from mine.
Questions have been burning through my mind for the past twenty minutes. Why am I here? Why was it so important I sit next to him?
I was hoping for some kind of explanation, some mention of that night at the club, the photos going viral. But there’s none of it.
I can’t take it anymore.
I push my chair back quietly, offering a soft excuse to no one in particular. “I’m just gonna get some air.”
No one protests. People are too focused on the stage. Jace gives me a distracted smile. Melody’s deep in conversation.
But Dominic turns his head and his eyes follow my hand as I take my glass from the table.
I slip through the tables and the glass double doors leading out to the balcony—a sprawling stretch of stone and ivy overlooking the gardens below. The doors close behind me, muting the sounds of the event.
Finally, I breathe .
The air outside is cooler, but not cold. Still, I wrap my arms around myself, half from the breeze, half from the fact that I’m unraveling like a cheap thread.
I lean on the railing and try to slow my heart. I should be enjoying this. I should be proud. Somehow, I made it here—to this ridiculous marble palace full of money and cameras. But I still don’t understand why I’m here.
The door opens behind me, sound spilling from inside before being muffled again as it clicks shut.
I don’t even need to turn. The temperature changes first, then my skin prickles with that same awareness he always causes whenever he looks at me.
“You don’t have to play bodyguard. I wasn’t planning to steal any silverware,” I say without looking at him.
I wait for his reply, but it never comes. Starting to think no one’s actually behind me, I turn, glass in hand.
He’s standing by the doorway, watching me. The light from inside slides over his face, cutting sharp angles.
“You planning to glare at me from over there?” I ask .
One corner of his mouth twitches as he steps closer. He closes the distance, slow and steady, until the air between us thickens. The scent of him wraps around me again, and he’s still not saying anything. Why isn’t he saying anything?
I take another sip just to do something with my hands. The vodka burns on the way down as I look up at him, tilting my head. He looks different from that night at the club. The amusement is gone from his eyes, but the heat isn’t.
Without warning, he reaches for my glass. Our fingers brush, and heat shoots straight through my arm.
He brings it to his mouth, eyes locked on mine, and drinks from the exact spot my lipstick smudged. My breaths become shallow as I watch him behind the rim of the glass—the act so strangely intimate it sends a spark low in my belly.
He lowers the glass, thumb tracing the rim where my mouth was. “I hate vodka,” he murmurs as if to himself.
“You’re welcome to get your own drink if you’re unhappy with mine,” I say, raising a brow .
He places the vodka back in my hand, leaning in with the faintest curl of a smile. I arch my neck farther, suddenly feeling small beside his towering frame.
“Sharp tongue,” he says quietly. “Careful where you point it.”
My heart is beating so fast I’m worried he might hear it. But I square my shoulders and fight to keep eye contact. “If this is your idea of small talk, it’s terrible.”
“I’m not into small talk.”
“And what are you into, Captain?” I manage through the thrill coursing through me.
His answer doesn’t come right away. His eyes search my face like he’s deciding how much to confess. “Jessica,” he drawls—my name slow as a warning.
I blink, pulse skipping. Was that a dodge? A reprimand? A confession?
Whatever it is, my name on his lips lands hot and low, like heat curling deep in my abdomen. I shift slightly, thighs pressing together.
I tilt my head, letting my lashes drop, my voice dripping with mock sympathy. “You can tell me. I won’t judge your kinks.”
The corner of his mouth barely twitches .
“I don’t partake in premarital fornication,” he deadpans.
“What?” I blink up at him, somewhere between shocked and confused.
“I’m a virgin,” he adds, clarifying.
There’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes like he’s enjoying watching my brain short-circuit.
I gape at him, caught somewhere between horrified and hysterical, before a laugh escapes me as a snort. “Same way you’re a dolphin trainer?” I ask, raising my brows.
That earns me the smallest reaction—a one-sided grin, dark and delicious, tugging at the corner of his mouth. The glint in his eyes is wicked and sharp as he cocks his head. And that glint paired with his smile tells me everything I need to know.
This man fucks.
And he knows exactly what he likes.
And what he likes? I don’t know if I’m scared to find out, or dying to.
His gaze drags down the line of my body, slowly taking inventory—lips, neckline, waist, legs—like he’s weighing each part against whatever twisted thoughts live behind those amber eyes.
I feel his gaze like a hand, like he’s stripping me without touching me.
When his eyes find mine again, they burn. “Smart move,” he murmurs. “Showing up in your own design and turning the event into your little runway.”
“Would you prefer I’d shown up in something to match your forty-thousand-dollar tux?” I arch a brow, pulse hammering.
“Quite the evaluation,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t deny it.
“I know Desmond Merrion when I see it.” I let my eyes skim the sharp lapels of his suit, the gold stitching at the cuff, the custom fit that screams money. “Is that what the Blazers’ budget is going toward?” I press, sweet and biting.
“I like things that fit me perfectly,” he says, not breaking eye contact.
The double meaning hits, and so does the heat. I keep my spine straight, my mouth curled, refusing to be the first to look away .
“And here I thought you were saving yourself for marriage.”
A small smile is all I get as he studies me before looking out toward the skyline. “You had the entire ballroom’s attention,” he finally says, eyes flicking back to me.
I roll my eyes and drag my gaze to the glittering skyline. “Maybe it has something to do with our viral theatrical number at the club,” I mutter, lifting the heavy crystal glass to my lips.
“It has everything to do with it,” he says, making me glance at him. “You know it, and you’re using it perfectly so far.”
His gaze drops to the curve of my shoulder, then trails back up to meet my eyes, knowing.
I resist the urge to shift under his stare, or do anything to hide the flicker of shame trying to claw at my throat.
Because he’s right. I knew exactly what I was doing when I stepped into that room. My fingers tighten around the glass, and I glance away. Suddenly, everything I’ve done tonight feels silly and obvious—like I showed my cards too early and he’s been reading them in silence.
But then I inhale, hold it, and set my shoulders back. “I’m not going to apologize for using an opportunity,” I say, calm and clear.
When I look back at him, there’s something new in his expression. “Good,” he says simply. “You shouldn’t apologize for using it.”
He takes a step closer, breaching the space I thought I still had, and my body reacts before I can control it. Every nerve tightens as I crane my neck to look at him.
“Or me, for that matter,” he murmurs, looking down at me.
My brows dip together in confusion. Use him? The words don’t hit like an accusation. He says them like an invitation—to do just that: use him.
I search his face, trying to find a hint of what he’s thinking, but there’s nothing. His poker face is too good.
“Is that what you think I’m doing? Using you?”
He lifts one shoulder in a slow, deliberate shrug. “This situation is convenient for both of us. Using someone isn’t necessarily a bad thing,” he says. His gaze holds mine. “As long as that someone knows they’re being used.”
So it is an invitation to use him? For what? My mind conjures more than a few options, but judging by his look, I don’t think he means any of them.
“Why would someone let themselves be used?” I ask, trying to understand.
“Because an opportunity like this falling into your lap,” he explains softly, “isn’t something you throw away.”
His eyes flick down to my mouth. The glass in my hand suddenly feels too heavy, my limbs growing weak just from the sound of his voice. “This is a story people are ready to believe.”
Wait.