Chapter 2 Dillan
DILLAN
Controlling my mouth—that I can do.
Controlling my face—I gave up on that a long time ago.
—Dillan’s Secret Thoughts
“My pussy?” I question Rome as soon as we’re beyond the doors of West End, standing on the snow-lined street. “Seriously? That was the best you could come up with?”
An incredibly sexy smile stretches across his stubbled face.
A face that might as well have been chiseled by an Italian Renaissance sculptor, it’s so perfect.
“I just got you out of what I’m betting was a fucking awful date, princess. You really going to question my methods?” He tugs my hand, but I stand firm. “Come on. Let me get you to that . . . vet.”
“I can get an Uber,” I answer, frustratingly flustered, wondering exactly how this night managed to go this far off the rails . . . “It’s not a big—”
“My bike is right there, Dillan.” He motions to the shiny cherry-red motorcycle in front of us. “You’re not getting in an Uber alone.”
His bike . . . Of course Rome Beneventi has a motorcycle. How did I not know that? And why does it make my stomach flip? “We’re in Kroydon Hills, Rome. The crime rate—”
“Isn’t non-existent, so I’m taking you home. Now stop arguing and get on the bike.”
Bossy asshole.
“I’m in a dress,” I argue as we move closer to the pretty motorcycle. I’ve never been on one before, but I can’t even begin to act like I haven’t always wanted to try it. “And there’s snow on the ground. Is it even safe?”
Rome looks at me like I’m a pain in the ass, and I know the feeling. “You live ten minutes away from here, and it’s a fucking dusting, not the storm of the century.” He drops my hand and swings his thick thigh over the bike. “Come on, Ryan. Live a little.”
Black Doc Martens, dark blue jeans, and a dark-blue wool coat shouldn’t look this good on any man, but then you add the motorcycle between his thick thighs, and . . . well, damn, he looks fucking hot even before he holds his hand out for me with a wicked grin.
I drag my lower lip between my teeth as snow flurries float around us, wondering just how dumb of a move this is.
“Ticktock, Dillan.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him to fuck off. I mean, why would I get on the back of any man’s bike, let alone this particular man’s? But when I look at him, it’s like all my good sense flies right out the proverbial window. “Fine.”
Carefully, I move next to the man and the bike, a cloud of freezing-cold smoke slipping from between my lips with each word. “But I swear to God, Rome Beneventi, if you kill me, I will haunt your ass.”
The lazy laugh that rumbles from his chest warms me as I place my shivering hand in his, and for the second time in the past ten minutes, I ignore the electricity zinging between us. “I mean it, Rome.” I narrow my eyes on him and the small space left behind him. “Will I even fit?”
The words no sooner leave my lips than a slow, predatory smirk spreads across his face. “Oh . . . It’ll fit.” He winks and tugs me closer.
Now this is familiar territory.
We’ve danced this dance before.
Him chasing me, and me telling him to fuck off.
It’s kind of been our thing this year.
But tonight . . . something in the air tastes . . . different.
I look from him to the space at the back of the bike.
Unsure. Or maybe more sure than I want to be.
“Slide on behind me, princess.”
“Has anyone ever told you, you use too many nicknames?” I huff and run a hand along the black leather seat, stalling.
“We all use nicknames,” he argues—not exactly surprising since everyone in our circle of friends does have a nickname. They might as well be printed on the birth certificates, they’re used so often. Everyone except me.
“Not me,” I tell him. “You’re the only one who’s ever called me something else.” My words get lost on the whipping wind as the fat, wet snowflakes begin falling harder.
Damn it.
This is such a bad idea.
I know it, even if I’m trying my best to ignore the nagging little voice currently screaming it at me. My eyes dance between us again. Torn . . . but not.
It’s just a ride home.
A ride with Rome Beneventi.
What could go wrong?
Oh, fuck it.
I blow out a shaky breath and hold my dress down as I stretch a leg over the back of the bike as gracefully as possible, which isn’t exactly graceful, suddenly ridiculously thankful for twenty years spent in a ballet studio.
“Jesus, this thing’s huge,” I murmur and feel the rumble of Rome’s chuckle before I scoot back until the metal bar at the back of the seat presses against my ass.
“Okay . . .” I clear my throat. “Now what?”
Rome turns toward me and looks at the space between us before his nearly navy eyes drag up my body, from the tips of the boots pinching my toes to the top of my hair that’s going to look like hell by the time we get to my house.
His eyes narrow, and a muscle twitches in his jaw. “This isn’t gonna work.”
Is he . . . “Are you mad?”
Maybe I shouldn’t have left the bar.
The tension between us thickens until it’s so thick it threatens to choke me, and I swear this man growls like a feral fucking dog.
What the hell?
Before I get to question the sound, my breath hitches as his hand wraps around my waist, his big palm gripping me as I’m dragged against him.
“Now plant your feet on those pegs and don’t move them,” he orders and waits for me to find the pegs and press my boots against them. “Okay, Ryan, I don’t wear a helmet, so I don’t have one for you. Try not to fall off,” he warns, and my eyes widen.
“What do I hold onto?” I ask uneasily.
With a quick look back at me, he grins the kind of grin that makes smart women do stupid things. “Me.”
Oh hell . . . Tentatively, I grab his waist, but that’s not good enough for Rome. No . . . why would it be? He takes my hands in his and forces them around his waist until they’re wrapped completely around him, tucked under his warm coat, and my face is pressed against his back.
Oh yeah . . . Such a bad idea.
Worse yet, ten minutes later when we stop in front of my place, my face chilled, my hair a wind-whipped mess, and my body nearly numb yet somehow still vibrating with awareness, am I positive it’s not the only bad decision I’ll make tonight.
Rome cuts the engine, but the vibrations continue to rock me, and my legs feel like Jello beneath me. “You okay back there?”
Am I okay?
Great question.
“I’m not sure yet,” I tell him honestly as his gaze swings to mine. “I feel like my legs are going to give out when I move to get off this thing.”
That gaze turns molten with my words, and my freezing-cold body heats like someone just struck a match and lit my blood on fire.
Well . . . hell.
I look from it to him, trying to pinpoint exactly what I’m feeling and failing stupendously.
What the fuck? This man is gorgeous—sure.
He’s always been sexy in that bad-boy Beneventi kind of way that only he and his brothers and cousins can pull off.
But this . . . This whole demanding, take control, kind of swoony man standing in front of me and offering me his hand for like the millionth time tonight—yup. He’s new.
I debate whether to take the hand he’s holding out for me for a hot minute before realizing there’s no way in hell I’m getting off this thing without his help and press my palm to his, damning my mother again for my short legs.
“Avert your eyes,” I tell him.
“What?” he chuckles.
“Your. Eyes,” I warn him. “Keep them off my legs. I didn’t exactly plan on riding on the back of a motorcycle when I planned my outfit for the night.”
Rome sits there, staring dumbfounded before he looks away. “Whatever you say.”
I try to slide off the damn thing as gracefully as I tried to slide on it, but I’m pretty sure that’s an epic fail, and judging by the look on his face, Rome thinks so too.
Stupid. Gorgeous. Asshole.
I straighten my dress and try to get my bearings before I drop his hand. The ice-cold air numbs my cheeks and maybe my good sense . . . just a tiny bit. Because I’d swear Rome Beneventi is looking at me differently than he ever has.
And worse . . .
I’d swear I like it.
Not good. Okay, time to say goodbye and cut that train of thought off before it gets going.
Rome and I flirt. We’re good at that. But that’s all we do.
All we can do. My sister is married to his cousin and best friends with his brother.
Our parents are friends. And Rome . . . Well, he’s Rome. ’Nuff said.
But if it really was enough said, why do a swarm of butterflies feel like they’re taking flight in my stomach?
“Thanks for the ride,” I stutter, my words coming out in short, frigid, smokey staccato puffs of smoke. “And the save. I’ll see you around.” I wiggle my frozen fingers goodbye as I take my first step away.
Rome hits the kick-stand, and the bike settles beneath him before he swings his leg off and stands, offering me that damn hand again. “Invite me in, princess.”
Oh. Shit.
This is what happens when you talk a good game but have absolutely no actual game to back it up. Eventually, you get called on it. Shit. Shit. Shit.
I lift my chin and hold his stare.
You know what they say about faking it till you make it?
Maybe someone should tell me when they figure it out. In the meantime, I’m going to go with what I’ve got. “And why would I do that?” I ask with an extra oomph of confidence that’s 100 percent fake.
“Because I saved you from wasting your night with a boring finance bro—”
“He’s in the music industry,” I correct him.
“He’s an asshole,” Rome answers.
This—arguing with Rome—this I can handle. This I excel at. “And you’re not?”
“Invite me in and find out, Dillan.” He pulls the two sides of my pale-pink coat closed and holds me there. Like he’s giving me time to decide. Like there’s any real decision to be made.
I lick my lips as a shiver runs down my spine. “I think I’ve got a bottle of tequila in my freezer.”
“To Don Julio and bad decisions,” he almost whispers as I watch the freezing air leave his lips.
And I can’t help but think he’s got at least half of that right.
To bad decisions.
Very, very bad decisions.