2. Dante #2
Terrible. This is fucking terrible.
Samantha comes out of the dressing room, pouting up at me in a white dress that barely stretches across her ass. I draw in a deep, cleansing breath.
She does a little spin and smiles at me. “What do you think?”
“It’s just as good as the other three.”
She rolls her eyes. “You barely looked at those. You’re barely looking at this one.”
I’m looking at the fucking floor, because if I look up my eyes are going to instantly go to her thighs, her ass, her tits.
“You look great in everything, Samantha.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she grumbles, heading back into the dressing room, her shoulders slumped.
I hesitate. “Maybe you could find something more… conservative.”
She barks out a laugh. “Yeah, no. That’s not happening.”
I frown as she goes back into the dressing room, standing from the bench I’ve been sitting on. “What’s wrong with conservative?”
“Nothing wrong with it. It’s just not me.”
She’s right. She’s got a wild streak that makes me crazy. It’s part of what draws me to her.
Samantha comes out in her street clothes—a tracksuit that fits her like a glove. It doesn’t leave much to the imagination, either. “You gotta let me be me, Dante.”
I swallow hard at the sound of my name rolling off her tongue. She breathes it, almost like a little moan, every time she says it, and I have to try hard not to imagine it when I take myself in hand at night.
We head to the counter with her purchases, and she swipes one of her father’s many credit cards for. Money’s something she grew up with. It’s nothing for her to drop a couple thousand on a single piece of clothing.
It makes me anxious. Not because I don’t have money. I do. I’ve got millions in off-shore holding accounts, but I struggle to spend thousands even on a suit. I guess it’s because I grew up without much until Elio’s father took me in.
Samantha lives an expensive lifestyle and she looks it, her skin always dewy, her makeup always done.
Sometimes I see her stumble out into the hallway, barefaced and in her pajamas, the worn ones with kittens all over them.
It’s times like those my heart opens up like a blossom until I close it back up and push it down.
She’s not meant for you. It’s something I have to tell myself nearly every day.
“I’m going out tonight,” she announces as we get into the car.
I want to argue, but instead I just tighten my fists on the steering wheel. “Again?”
“I haven’t been out since last week.”
“Right.”
She crosses her arms over her chest, always a clear sign she’s annoyed. There’s a near-permanent pout on her mouth. “Why don’t you like it when I go out?”
I hate all their eyes on you. I shrug. “Just more work for me. More exits. More potential enemies.”
“It’s been three weeks and nothing’s happened.”
I look at her pointedly before looking back at the road. We’re nearly home. “That doesn’t mean it won’t happen.”
“All you’ll have to do is come dancing with me. It won’t kill you.”
My hands tighten further on the steering wheel, the leather making a squeaky sound.
I hate it when she goes dancing. There’s always a hand on her hip or at her waist. Some guy behind her, too close. It makes my hands ache to take off someone’s head.
I’m already in a fucking mood by the time we arrive at Steve’s Place, some shitty dive bar on the south side of town.
She walks in ahead of me, while I’m still scanning the crowd for anyone who looks familiar.
I curse and hurry to follow her, making long strides to catch up.
A guy wraps his arms around her neck and I glare at him.
Oh, great. Reese. I can’t fucking stand Reese. He’s always all over her, pretending to be her friend. As if he doesn’t have designs on her.
He glances at me, his dark eyes widening in surprise as I don’t look away. “Your guard dog is staring me down,” he tells her in a too-loud whisper. He’s already drunk.
“He’s harmless.”
I snort out a laugh that gets swallowed up by the booming music. She’s about the only person on the fucking planet who’s ever called me harmless.
Soon enough, I have a drink in my hand and she’s doing shots with Reese and Sofia. Both of them, bad influences. They’re always trying to encourage her to go on what they call “side quests” and slip away from me. She gets pissed off every time when I draw her back towards the car.
I watch her hips sway, let my eyes travel over her body. She’s not looking at me, her eyes closed as she moves to the beat. It’s like she feels the music booming up from the soles of her feet, how smoothly she moves.
Might as well be a fucking mating dance, for what it’s doing to me.
Reese slips up behind her, one hand on her hip before he spins her around, grinning at her. My hand tightens on my glass. She laughs, throwing her head back and putting her hands on his chest, and the glass cracks straight through. Brown liquor leaks all over my hand and I curse.
By the time I get myself cleaned up, Reese and Samantha are gone. Panic rises in my throat. I let myself get distracted. Just for an instant.
When I walk outside, the scent of weed hits me like a cloud and I roll my eyes, following the smell to find Samantha and Reese, coughing. Reese holds up the lit joint to me. “Want some?”
Samantha bursts out laughing and I roll my eyes, take the joint, and stamp it out. “Buzzkill,” Samantha says, swaying toward me and pouting.
“Okay. It’s time to go home.”
Reese opens his mouth as if to protest and I stare him down. He shuts his mouth.
I turn my eyes to Samantha. Her amber brown eyes are glassy but they focus on me, at least. She looks at me for a long moment, something unreadable in her gaze.
“Alright, alright. This place is about to close, anyway.” She links her arm through mine. “Take me home, guard dog.”
Reese laughs. I want to growl at him, but instead I just focus on her touching my arm, how it makes my heart gallop in my chest.
Fuck. I hate it when she’s crossfaded. She’s extra flirty, extra affectionate, and I can barely fucking handle it.
At least she agreed to leave.
I open the passenger side door for her and she slides in, watching me. I reach across her, buckling her seatbelt for her, and wish I didn’t. She smells like roses and the musk of sweat and all my wildest dreams.
I buckle it quickly, swallowing, and get the hell out of there. I take in a few deep breaths as I shut the door and walk slowly to get in. Samantha rests her hand on my thigh. I stiffen but just back out, trying not to react. I’m gritting my teeth so hard my jaw aches.
She hums, leaning back against the seat.
“Did you have fun?”
“Mmhm,” she answers, looking at me with those big brown eyes tinged with dark lashes. I tear my eyes away from her, looking back at the road.
“Do you need me to carry you inside?” I ask dryly as she fumbles with the door handle after we arrive. Please say no.
“Maybe,” she mutters. I bite back a sigh and get out of the car,
I scoop her up as clinically as possible, but she wraps her arms around my neck and leans in close to my chest. I’m acutely aware of her bare skin under my hands.
I sit her down in the hall in front of her bedroom, and she steadies herself with her hands on my chest. Her fingertips feel like fire through the fabric of my shirt.
“Thank you, Dante,” she murmurs, and leans up on her tiptoes to kiss the corner of my mouth.
Then she walks inside. I stand there, touching where she kissed me.
Fuck.