Chapter 8
Gemma
The dress arrives at three in the afternoon.
Lyla brings it to the bedroom, hanging it carefully on the closet door. It's in a garment bag from some designer boutique I don't recognize.
"From Mr. Marini," she says with a small smile. "For tonight."
I snort. Of course, Saint not only demands a date from me, but also demands I wear something he picked out.
I roll my eyes at the sight of the dress. Saint came back last night, fucked me, and then left. Now, he wants to go out, and he's sending dresses.
It's confusing as fuck, especially when I look at the dress.
It's a deep navy blue, floor-length, with a high neck and long sleeves. Beautiful, certainly. Appropriate for a Marini wife attending some formal function, but it's completely wrong for a night out on the town.
I zip the bag back up and go to my own closet. In the back, buried under the conservative day dresses and appropriate evening wear, I find what I'm looking for.
A dress I bought in college. Back when I had friends and freedom and a life that was mine.
Black. Mini. With strategic cutouts that show skin in all the wrong, or right, places. The neckline plunges down to the sternum, and the back is almost entirely open. It's the kind of dress that gets you noticed.
The kind of dress that says I'm not your good little wife.
It's perfect.
I shower, do my makeup darker than usual. Smoky eyes. Red lips. I slick my long hair back into a low ponytail.
When I slide into the dress, I barely recognize myself in the mirror.
I look dangerous.
Sexual.
Alive.
Exactly how I want to feel.
At seven, I'm putting the finishing touches on my outfit, a pair of outrageously high heels, when Saint knocks on the door.
"Come in."
He does, dressed in all black—jeans, shirt, leather jacket. He looks good. Unfairly good. Dangerous and beautiful like a blade, and I feel the uncomfortable heat of desire unfurl low in my stomach.
His eyes find me, and he stops dead.
"What the fuck are you wearing?"
I turn slowly, letting him see all of it. "A dress."
"I sent you a dress." His words are clipped. His eyes are hot as they take me in, but they are also pissed. I defied him. He doesn't like it.
Too fucking bad.
He better get used to it.
"I didn't like it."
His jaw tightens. "Gemma—" There's a warning in his tone, and I can't help but want to push him. Just a little.
"You said wear something nice. This is nice." I grab my clutch from the bed.
He grabs my arm, his fingers tightening slightly. "Fucking change."
"No, I'm not dressing like my mother to go out. This is perfectly fine." The dress really isn't that bad. Hell, I own worse, and I'm sure Saint has seen worse.
"You look like a whore."
"I'm your whore, so I guess it's appropriate." The words are out of my mouth before I can think too much about it, but I'm tired of being pushed around, and if Saint wants to think of me as a whore, then oh well.
I'd rather be a whore than a pushover, especially to a man like Saint.
He stares at me for a long moment. I can see the calculation happening. The weighing of whether to punish my defiance or reward it. He won't admit it, but I suspect he likes the fight.
To a point.
Finally, his mouth curves into something that might be a smile. It's predatory, and I know he's going to find a way to punish me for this act of defiance eventually. I haven't won anything, and yet, it feels like I did.
I move past him toward the door. "Are we going or not?"
He catches my arm, spins me back. His eyes are dark, intense. "You're playing a dangerous game, princess."
"I thought that's what you wanted. To make things interesting."
His grip tightens slightly. Then releases me. "Fine. But every man who looks at you tonight? When I pluck their eyes out, that's on you."
I roll my own eyes before walking out of the room.
The club is in Williamsburg. Not Eclipse, that's Morozov territory. This place is smaller, darker, more underground. The kind of place where rules don't apply.
The bouncer takes one look at Saint and waves us through. He's clearly been here enough to be recognized.
Inside, it's all strobing lights and bass that vibrates through your chest. Bodies pressed together on the dance floor, writhing to the music. The air thick with sweat and alcohol and something darker.
"Regular here?" I ask, as we take a seat in the VIP section.
He shrugs. "I enjoy blowing off steam."
We sit, and a waitress appears immediately. She's dressed in nothing more than a bra and hot pants. Saint barely looks at her as he orders whiskey. I don't get a chance to speak before he gets me a vodka soda.
I raise my brow. He knows my drink. I shouldn't be surprised, and yet, I am.
"Trying to get me drunk?"
"Trying to have fun. You've been locked up for ten weeks. Let's see what happens when you're let loose."
It's a test. Everything with Saint is a test, and yet, I'm determined not to fail. When the waitress drops our drinks off, I down mine in one go.
His eyebrows raise. "Careful."
"I thought you wanted to see what I'd do."
"I do, but I also need you functional."
"I'm functional." I finish the drink, set the glass down. The burn of the alcohol gives me a weird sense of courage. I reach for Saint's hand. "Dance with me."
He jerks it away, and I frown. "Not yet."
"Why not?" I feel myself pouting.
"Because I like watching you want something you can't have."
Asshole.
But he's smiling, and there's something playful in it. Something that feels like we're playing a game together for once.
The waitress brings another round without needing to be asked. This one, I sip slower. I haven't eaten today, and I need my mind steady around Saint.
"Tell me about this place," I say. "Who owns it?"
"Friend of mine. Neutral territory. None of the families claim it."
"So, we're safe here?"
"Safe is relative. But no one's going to start shit unless they want to end up in the river."
How romantic.
"How did things go with Adrian?" I ask.
Saint's brow raises. "You want to discuss your brother?"
"Yes."
He leans back into the chair. His long fingers stroke his chin, and I shiver as I think about them stroking me. "He's upset."
"And?" I'm eager to know why Adrian called Saint the moment he realized what happened. Sure, they are allies, but Adrian likes to keep things in-house.
"He's freaked out. He doesn't think this was the Russians—"
My mouth goes dry.
"He doesn't think it's us, so don't worry," he says, taking a drink. "He thinks someone else is after him. Things with Sera have left him on edge."
I nod, feeling my heart rate slow. "We should talk about what we want to do next."
Saint shakes his head. "Not now."
"Saint…" I groan. I want to do this. We've made one move, the next will be crucial, which he should know, but he seems uninterested.
"Leave it."
The waitress brings me a third drink, and I roll my eyes but hold my tongue. Saint watches me, and his green eyes make me shift in my seat. The alcohol has made me warm and loose and ready to move. I'm antsy sitting up here in silence with Saint. I need to do something.
I reach for his glass, taking it from him, and pressing my body against his.
"Now can we dance?"
Saint presses a hand to my inner thigh. "Let's go."
The dance floor is packed. Bodies everywhere, moving to the pounding beat.
Saint pulls me into the middle of it, hands on my hips. I expect him to be stiff, uncomfortable. But he moves well, confident and fluid.
We find the rhythm together. His body against mine, hands roaming. Not subtle. Not respectful.
Possessive.
He wants me, and I want him.
His hand slides down to my ass, squeezes through the thin fabric.
"Still think this dress was a good idea?" he asks, mouth at my ear.
"Yes." I can feel wetness gathering in my panties. My nipples are hard, and I want to rub myself further against him.
"Even though I can feel everything through it?" His voice is husky, and I shiver.
"Especially because of that."
He groans softly, pulling me closer. I can feel him hardening against me, and the knowledge sends a thrill through me.
I did that. My defiance, my dress, my body.
I have power here.
Even if he thinks I don't.
His hand slides higher, fingers finding the cutout at my waist. Bare skin. He traces patterns there, teasing.
"How far would you let me go?" he asks.
"What do you mean?" I shiver.
"Here. Now. On this dance floor." His fingers dip lower, just barely brushing the curve of my ass. "Would you let me fuck you? Right here, with all these people watching?"
My breath catches. "You wouldn't." He didn't even want me showing this much skin. I can't imagine he'd fuck me here. And yet, it's thrilling. The idea.
"Wouldn't I?" His other hand finds my throat, not squeezing, just resting there. Claiming. "I could push this dress up. No one would even notice in this crowd. I could be inside you in seconds."
The image floods my mind. The danger of it. The exhibition, and my breath starts coming in short pants.
"You're insane," I tell him, cheeks flushed.
"That's not an answer." His thumb strokes my pulse point. "Would you let me?"
I should say no. Should tell him he's crossed a line that I would never let anyone fuck me in public, and yet…
"You can do whatever you want with me."
His eyes darken. "Fuck, Gemma."
He kisses me then, hard and demanding. His tongue invades my mouth, and I kiss him back with equal fervor. We're making out in the middle of the dance floor like teenagers, and I don't care.
For the first time in months, I feel free. And the headiness of it coupled with the alcohol is making my head swim.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"I need another drink," he says. "Stay here. Don't move."
He disappears into the crowd, and I feel every nerve ending in my body. I can't believe he just left.
I stay on the dance floor, still moving to the music. Still warm from his touch, his words, his promise-threat.
"Hey there."
I turn. A guy, maybe mid-twenties, already too close.