7. Chapter 7 #2
We squeeze between a group of girls hyped up on tequila and a guy who’s definitely doing something illegal behind a column.
I can’t help studying Dom’s little sister—the easy smile, warm eyes, the way she knows how to make you feel comfortable.
You’d never guess she was raised under the same roof as Captain Doom-and-Gloom himself.
We finally break through the dance floor and reach the stairs to VIP. Melody tosses her curls over one shoulder, still dragging me along.
“I’m really glad you came. ”
“I’m glad you kidnapped me,” I tease, squeezing her hand.
For a moment, I forget why my stomach’s been doing gymnastics. Then my brain, rude as ever, reminds me: Dominic is here. I have no idea where we stand. My heart kicks, my palms sweat, and my dress suddenly feels too tight. I’m nervous—did-I-put-on-enough-deodorant nervous.
Melody squeezes my hand, tugging me toward the velvet ropes.
The hostess steps in front of us with a clipboard, her eyebrow arched like she invented bad attitude.
The velvet rope blocks our path like it’s guarding the pope.
She plants a hand on her hip and looks us up and down, lip curling as if she smells something suspicious.
“VIP is full, girls,” she says. “You’ll have to go back downstairs.”
“We’re with the team.” Melody steps forward, still holding my hand.
That earns us a once-over. “Honey, go enjoy the dance floor. The team doesn’t want groupies up there.”
Groupies. As in we’re whores. Wonderful .
Before either of us can respond, the energy shifts and a familiar face appears—unfairly handsome, devastating.
Dominic’s in a fitted T-shirt that clings to carved muscle.
Veins on his forearms stand out like rope.
His hair is pushed back in that undone, devastatingly hot way.
Tall enough to block the hallway, broad enough to make the walls feel too close.
His eyes lock on mine, and my heart collapses.
He towers over the hostess, yet she still doesn’t notice him behind her.
Melody exhales, “Oh shit.”
“Is there a problem?” Dominic’s voice booms.
The hostess jumps, spinning so fast her ponytail lags. “Captain! No problem at all. These two,” she motions dismissively at us, “were trying to get in, but I told them the team doesn’t need any more groupies.”
Melody inhales sharply. I’m ready to jump the rope and make the hostess swallow that ponytail.
“Groupies?” Dominic’s voice is like ice. “Are you calling my girlfriend and my sister groupies?”
The hostess’s eyes widen, glancing frantically between Melody and me, clearly trying to figure out who’s who. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t realize who they were—”
“Let them in,” Dom tosses his chin at us, casual.
The hostess scrambles, almost tripping over her heels as she unhooks the velvet rope. Dom doesn’t wait for us to cross; he steps forward and slides a large hand around my waist, pulling me to his side. I bite my lip to keep from gasping at the sudden, electrifying contact.
Melody ends up on his other side, and he leads us into VIP—a huge balcony overlooking the club.
The second Melody spots Jace across the lounge, she gasps and shakes Dom’s hand off her shoulder. “Jace! I’ll be right back, Jess!”
She leaves me stranded with six-foot-seven inches of glaring testosterone who might or might not still be upset. Dominic’s hand at my waist is a good sign.
“Come here.”
He doesn’t wait. He guides me to the bar overlooking the club. The music thrums beneath our feet; lights flicker over the crowd below.
At the bar he turns, eyes dragging down my body slow and shameless. His gaze feels like a physical touch—caressing my thighs, the hem of my dress, my waist, my breasts, my neck. By the time he reaches my face, I’m certain I’m hyperventilating.
“You’re staring,” I say, trying to sound casual.
He leans in closer, eyes flicking right, left—quick, deliberate. A small smile pulls at my lips before I can stop it.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I say, fighting it.
His gaze drops to the hem of my dress. “That’s a short dress.”
“You don’t like it?” I tilt my head.
His eyes go molten. “I don’t want you flashing the entire club.”
“Maybe you’re the one looking too hard,” I tease.
“So is everyone else.” My heart flips; I laugh under my breath and shift so the slit shows more thigh. “So what? You don’t like competition?”
Dom’s jaw flexes, eyes narrow. He moves into my space, crowding me. “I don’t have any,” he grinds out.
“Scared you’ll have to fight?” I look up at him through my lashes .
He glances down at his bruised knuckles from earlier, silently reminding me he’s not scared of a fight. Every time I think about the raw power he gave off tonight, heat pools between my legs, and I push him a little more.
“I was almost sad you got back up after that hit,” I say, keeping my voice neutral.
“Is that why you looked like you were about to cry for me?”
I shrug, expression flat. “Acting. I can commit when the situation calls for it.”
“And what situation called for you to wear that dress?”
“Oh, we’re still talking about my dress.”
“Barely a dress.” His gaze drags over me. “I don’t like crowds having a front-row seat to anything attached to my name.”
He’s trying to make this about his image. I know better. “So I’m attached to your name now?” I raise a brow. “I’m not a keychain.”
I slide onto the barstool, cross my legs, letting the slit flash a little more, and raise a hand to the bartender. “Vodka martini,” I say. “Extra dirty. ”
The bartender nods, but Dom turns sharply. “No martinis.”
“I’m sorry?” I snap.
Dom looks at the bartender with the same cold focus he uses on the ice. “She’ll have something without alcohol.”
The bartender stammers. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I hiss.
Dom finally looks at me, one brow lifting. “You get…” He searches, tongue pressing his cheek, “…reckless when you drink.”
“I get fun.”
“You get hands-y.”
“So your solution is to forbid me from drinking?”
“Mhm.” He turns to the bartender. “A whiskey for me. Chivas if you have it. Royal Salute if you don’t. Twenty-one and up.”
“And you get to drink?”
“I know how to behave.”
I let out a sharp laugh. “You don’t get to tell me what I can or can’t have.”
He leans in close enough for me to feel his heat. “I’m not telling you,” he murmurs. “I’m telling him.”
The bartender slides Dom his drink, glancing at me with a wince. “Oh, absolutely not.” I turn to him. “I want a vodka martini. Now.”
“If you give her a martini,” Dom says, voice low and steady, “you’re done for the night.”
The bartender freezes, eyes darting.
“Martini,” I repeat, sugar-sweet and sharp. “Now, please.”
“No martini.”
The bartender swallows. “Whatever the Captain says goes.” He scurries off, uncomfortable.
“You’re welcome to be angry,” Dominic says, deceptively calm. “Just stay sober.”
“Sober?” I repeat. “So you can keep pretending I don’t get to you?”
His eyes flash when they lock on mine. He opens his mouth, but I don’t let him. “No,” I push. “Let’s say it plainly. You don’t want me drunk because you don’t trust yourself. That’s what this is.”
“Oh, I trust myself,” he drawls. “I don’t trust you.”
“Really?” I lean closer. “Scared I might touch you again?”
“Jessica,” he warns .
My heart slams; every nerve fires—and I smile. I’m done pretending I don’t see the way his chest rises faster when I push him. He thinks I need alcohol to touch him? Watch me.
I turn on the stool, letting my knee brush his thigh.
Nothing changes—except his eyes flick down where we touch.
I let my fingers drift lower, then trail up his leg, slow and deliberate, testing.
His lips part a fraction. I go higher, tracing lightly over his chest, following his shape beneath his shirt, up to his collarbone.
His breathing shifts. “What are you doing?”
“I don’t need a martini to make questionable decisions.”
“You’ll need one to get through the consequences,” he shoots back.
Someone calls from the couches. “Cap! Come here, you gotta see this!”
The moment fractures. Dom’s hand closes around my wrist—firm, controlled—and moves my hand away. “No alcohol for her,” he calls to the bartender.
The bartender nods. I roll my eyes.
Dom looks back at me. “Behave. ”
One word. No room for argument. Then he’s gone, cutting through the crowd.
“You’re not actually going to give me a martini, are you?” I ask the bartender.
He gives an apologetic smile. “I’m really sorry, miss. But… whatever the Captain says goes.”
“Coward.”
I glance back at Dom. His back is to me, teammates crowding in, voices loud in his ear—distracted. Perfect.
I slip off the stool, heels barely touching the floor as I move for the stairs. One glance over my shoulder—he hasn’t turned.
I descend the VIP steps with purpose, my pulse buzzing with rebellion.
The downstairs bar is packed, lined with bartenders Dom hasn’t warned.
Good.
I’m getting that drink.
The staircase from VIP shakes under my heels, each thud of bass vibrating through the metal railing like the whole club is breathing against my skin .
By the time I hit the bottom, the music is punching through my ribs—deep bass, sticky air, red lights rolling across the packed crowd.
I weave toward the long main bar, already tasting victory.
The second I plant my elbow on the counter and catch the bartender’s eye, a group of girls appears. Five of them.
They flank me on both sides, eyes bright, drinks half-finished, vibrating with the same look.
“Were you just in VIP?” one of them grabs my arm, excited.
“Uh… yeah.” I blink.
They erupt.
“I told you she came from upstairs!”
“They’re not letting more women up,” another slurs, sucking on a straw. “All the girls who got in earlier lucked out.”
Another rolls her eyes dramatically. “I’d let Mercer eat me alive right here. I just know that man fucks mean. ”
Mercer? Oh, right. The goalie. The huge, tattooed, silent one. I haven’t even seen him yet besides on the ice.