Chapter 17 Dillan
DILLAN
You know the complete confidence you feel when you’re about to sneeze?
You’re absolutely positive it’s coming. You’re prepared.
You’ve even grabbed a damn tissue. Your body is primed.
It’s ready. But after all the hype . . .
it never happens. Frustration overwhelms you as you struggle with your ridiculous need to sneeze.
Now you know how I feel after trying to get myself off, unsuccessfully, for the past thirty minutes.
Damn you, Rome Beneventi.
—Dillan’s Secret Thoughts
Rome sits entirely too close during the typically quick car ride into the city that feels insanely long tonight.
The heat of his body pressing against me in the cool car makes it entirely too hard to stop imagining him with his eyes closed, mouth open, and water trickling down over hard muscle.
It’s impossible to be this close and ignore it.
Ignore him. I almost burned myself with my own curling iron at least five times while I was getting ready.
I was so distracted by the thought of it all, and he was nowhere near me at the time.
This? Him here, next to me . . . ? It’s cruel and unusual punishment.
What did I do wrong in a previous life to be tortured like this?
I’m a good person.
Okay, I try to be a good person.
My mouth sometimes has other ideas, but for the most part—oh, fuck it.
I’m so screwed.
Between what I’m now referring to as the pregame show, hot as it was, and the amount of press I spot lining the street along the outside of the venue as the limo rolls to a stop, my nerves—what little I have left—are completely obliterated.
My breath leaves me in a whoosh, and my chest tightens.
I’m not sure I can do this.
Terror drags its sharp claws along my skin, looking for the softest place to dig in and hold on when I start to count the cameras. “I don’t think I can do this,” I whisper, this time as much to him as to myself. “Rome . . .”
Rome turns to look at me, and whatever he sees on my face must be pretty bad, considering the way his face reddens in return. Shit. Is he pissed?
“One more time around the block,” he tells the limo driver before putting the window between us and the driver back up and taking my face in his hands. Damn it. Why does he always do that? “Breathe, baby.”
The way he says baby is soft and sweet and pisses me off—because this man is none of those things.
My heart races, and my eyes burn as I close them and open my mouth to tell him I have a name and it’s not baby, but nothing comes out. No words. No sounds. Just . . . nothing.
“Look at me, Dillan.”
My eyes open, my gaze flying to his, and my breathing stutters as the rough pad of his thumb sweeps gently along my cheekbone.
I focus on the sensation, inhaling as slowly as possible and exhaling each deep breath even more slowly.
Intentionally. Trying desperately to calm my overacting nerves and control what little I can.
“That’s it. Deep, slow breaths. You’ve got this. ”
I absolutely do not have this, but I don’t tell him that.
I know my triggers and should have seen this coming.
“Sorry,” I finally manage to tell him after a few more deep breaths, my skin prickling with the fine sheen of heated humiliation. “I’m okay.”
“You sure?” Rome almost sounds like he cares as he drops one hand, leaving just the hand rubbing my cheek, holding my face. And damn it, I really hate how much I find comfort in that single touch.
What I don’t hate is how much that pisses me off because the fire it stirs in my stomach makes me feel alive. Alive and pissed off, and pissed trumps scared all day, any day.
Okay, maybe I can do this.
One deep breath in. One slow breath out. Then another.
I repeat the actions a few more times, then shake out of his touch and sit straighter, letting the cool leather of the bench seat seep into my skin. “Positive.”
“Want to talk about it?”
Do I want to? Absolutely not.
Do I need to give him a heads-up? Unfortunately, I should, but I just don’t know if I can.
“Why? So you can use it against me?” I blurt out before thinking it through, my emotions too raw for this conversation. Not now. Not here.
The window between us and the driver lowers. “We’ve arrived.”
Of course we have.
I have two options, and neither works for me, but absolutely nothing about this forced arrangement works for me, so why would this be any different?
Is it better to dance with the devil you know or take your chances with the one you don’t?
I lift my eyes to the beautiful devil in a designer tux sitting next to me and, for just a single moment, let myself believe he’s not my enemy. That he won’t use this against me. “Just do me a favor . . .” I lace my fingers with Rome’s. “Stay close, please.”
Guess tonight, I’m picking the devil I know.
The stunning room at the Ballroom at the Ben looks like something out of a turn-of-the-century painting, with soaring arches and ornately decorated pillars lit with sconces.
Tonight, it’s been transformed into a beautiful winter wonderland.
Crystal snowflakes and white-and-silver flowers adorn the black silk-covered tables.
Waiters walk around the room, passing out black-and-white sparkling cocktails, and flashes go off even more inside the ballroom than they did on the long white carpet we walked outside the venue.
“You okay?” Rome whispers as he offers me a flute of champagne with a silver ribbon tied around the stem that he’s effortlessly swiped off the tray of a passing waiter.
Inwardly, I snarl.
Outwardly, I keep myself tucked against him like the doting girlfriend I’m supposed to be and accept the drink. “Stop asking that.”
“Sorry, princess. But you lost your shit in the limo. Am I not supposed to care?” His dark hair is just a tiny bit too long tonight, hanging in his eyes just a touch, and it looks so tempting, my fingers itch to slide through it. The fucker.
“Don’t act like you care,” I basically growl through a gritted smile as his parents come into sight.
Could this night get any worse?
Internally, I laugh at that stupid question because my parents move next to them before I can even blink, and if I’m not mistaken, my mother, the romance author, has literal hearts in her eyes replacing her pupils.
Fuck. Me.
Rome’s lips brush my ears in what has to look like a sweet, sexy gesture. “Showtime.”
I ignore the brush of awareness that touch awakens and smile at our parents like I don’t want to crawl out of my skin, wrap it around Rome’s neck, and choke him with it!
“Oh, Dillan. Don’t you look stunning,” his mom, Amelia, kisses my cheek, then looks Rome up and down. “And you even managed to get this one out of his sweatpants. Good job.”
My cheeks burn as both our fathers choke on their laughter and my mom snickers at Amelia’s words. But Rome just plays along and wraps his arm around my waist, tugging me closer. Someone kill me now.
“Leave them alone, Snow,” Rome’s dad says, eyes narrowed on where his son’s hand sits on my hip. Watching, and if I’m not mistaken, he’s not necessarily buying our farce as easily as everyone else has. “Let them enjoy their night.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Sam Beneventi was taunting me.
Daring me to either play into this or tell him he’s right and that I’m not in love with his son.
Which I’m not.
I look up at my boyfriend with as much fake adoration as I can muster. “He does a surprisingly good job of dressing himself when he actually bothers to wear anything besides sweats, but I don’t mind the sweats either.”
“I bet you don’t,” Mom laughs. “I’ve told your father I fell in love with him in his sweats.”
“Too much, Mom.” I’m not sure when she turned into an over-sharer, but eww.
She and Amelia whisper something between themselves as the hand resting on my hip squeezes, reminding me it’s there. It’s strong, and it’s probably all I’d need to relieve the ache I’ve had between my legs for hours.
My body is strung so tightly, I swear to God I don’t know the difference between anxiety, fear, and unquenchable need in this moment. Yet another thing that’s this man’s fault.
That same hand slides from my hip to the small of my bare back, and it takes every single ounce of strength and restraint in my body not to react to the jolt of electricity that singular touch sends skipping through my veins. With. One. Touch.
Our parents continue their conversation, but I don’t hear anything they say.
Or more accurately, I hear the words. The sound of their voices. But I don’t comprehend any of it. Don’t actively listen. I’m too busy concentrating on the feeling of rough fingers drawing circles against soft skin.
The way my core clenches.
My body heats.
The tease.
The touch.
The promise of more.
More that won’t come. Can’t come. Because this isn’t real. We’re playing a part.
Rome
Dillan steps out of my hold. A smile as sweet and fake as sugary syrup is plastered on her face, and she looks about five minutes from snapping.
Fuck.
“Come with me, principessa,” slips from my mouth before I can think better of it, and my mother sucks in a sharp, fucking audible breath I ignore as I take Dillan’s hand in mine.
Her eyes flash nearly green instead of her usual aqua as she tries and fails to tug out of my hold. “Where are you taking me?”
This woman . . . “You worried I’m adding kidnapping to my crimes?”
“Nope. Blackmail is enough.” Her face tightens, and she purses her lips like she just sucked on a lemon, but she doesn’t say anything else as I guide her through the bowels of the venue, not stopping until we’re tucked into a quiet, dimly lit corner.
Close but not touching. I’m not sure I trust myself to touch her now. “What the fuck is going on with you?”
“Excuse me?” Heat creeps up her body, engulfing her chest, then her face, as anger rises to the surface, thank fucking God. Angry Dillan is better than whatever the hell has been tripping her out tonight. “With me,” she gasps, sanctimonious outrage fueling her words.
“I swear to Christ, I don’t know what you’re thinking or how you’re feeling, and I’m pretty sure it changes based on the direction of the damn wind, woman.
So spit it out. What the hell is going on?
What do you want?” I take another step into her space, my body tensing as she steps back.
“Am I supposed to be protecting you? Hating you?” Another step from me, another slide back from her, trapping her against the wall.
“Worried about you?” I lift a hand and trace the thin blue-silk strap resting over her shoulder, my finger slipping underneath, and lower my voice. “Fucking you?”
Her eyes glow, fucking glow, as her breathing stops, and both her small hands fly to my chest, stopping me and yet pulling me closer at the same time.
“This isn’t a joke, you psycho. I’m not a joke.
I’m not some toy you can manipulate to fit your needs.
I’m here because you forced me to be. You hold all the cards.
You took away my choice. So don’t think I’m here because I want to be.
” Her chest rises and falls rapidly with each heavy breath as her fists tighten in my shirt, pulling me closer.
“What do you want, princess?” I growl, my mouth hovering above hers, and my cock throbbing in my slacks with the kind of fucking need I’ve never known before.
A battle rages behind those violently aqua eyes, so much greener than I’ve ever seen them before, and I hold myself as still as stone. Waiting. Unwilling to move. Not unless she says it. Not unless she wants it. Wants me. Wants . . . us.
So. I. Wait.
“What I want . . .”—her tongue darts out and licks her pouty pink lips as she drops her hands from my shirt to my belt, and if it’s possible, I tense more—“is to hate you.”
She lifts her chin and smiles an almost evil smile.
“I want to push you away. I want to be repulsed by you, psycho. But . . .” She tugs me closer, trying to force me against her body. Trying to not have to utter the words. But stronger men than her have tried to move me and failed.
“Words, Dillan.” I bend my knees to drag my nose along the line of her face and circle her ear. “Use your words, princess. Tell. Me.”
“God. I fucking hate you,” she whispers and unbuckles my belt. “I want you . . .”—her eyes close and open, a decision made, and my blood roars—“to fuck me.