Chapter 15
Lennon
Sloane and I are dancing facing each other, shouting the words to the song and grinning like fools, having the time of our lives.
The two guys who brought us out on the dance floor have cemented themselves to our backsides.
It’s doing nothing for me, so I’m just ignoring Preston, enjoying my heavy buzz, and getting lost in the music.
Sloane eventually turns around and starts dancing with the guy behind her. I sigh and follow her lead, because that’s what I’m here for, right? Moving on. Giving someone else a chance. Even if it’s just for one night of fun. A girl’s gotta start somewhere.
Preston grins down at me, slides his hands onto my hips, and pulls me against him.
Discomfort nudges me from somewhere in the back of my sloshed brain.
I shove it aside because I know the discomfort has nothing to do with this man, and everything to do with the fact he’s not Sandro.
But that’s just tough. A hurdle I have to get over.
Eventually, Preston grabs my hand and starts leading me through the crowd. I can see Sloane and her guy moving in front of us, so I guess we’re following them. Maybe they want another drink.
We emerge on the other side of the dance floor, near the door, when I suddenly feel an arm wrap around my middle and tug me back into a hard body. I squeak as I stumble, but the muscular forearm is holding me upright and oh my God. I would recognize his scent and possessive energy anywhere.
Sandro.
My eyes flick from Preston, who is glaring at Sandro with narrowed eyes, to Sloane, who has turned to find me and is watching us with wide, alarmed eyes.
It only takes her a second to take in the scene, and then she’s marching over to us, staring up at Sandro with a protective glare. “Let her go. You don’t own her!” She shouts over the music.
His other hand slides up beneath my hair and around my neck. His hold is gentle but possessive. His thumb caresses my throat, where my pulse is jumping.
My whole body lights up. Involuntarily, I lean back against him. I can’t stop myself. It must be the alcohol.
I feel his words vibrating in his chest as he says, “No, but I do own this club.”
I tilt my chin to look up at his face. His eyes are blazing, his mouth curved in a deadly smile.
Any doubt flees my mind. This is definitely not the boy I left.
This is a man, a killer, one who has embraced the darkness he was born into.
He’s not talking to Sloane but to Preston as he growls, “Let go of her hand. Now.”
Preston drops my hand and steps back.
Smart man.
Preston glances once at me and then lifts his palms. “Sorry, man. Didn’t know,” he shouts. He backs away, stumbles into his friend, and they both turn and disappear into the crowd.
Sloane has her hand perched on her hip, glaring at Sandro. I haven’t seen her so angry since she found out her boyfriend of two years was cheating on her.
I’m trying to process the fact that Sandro is here. That he owns this club.
The Eclipse.
That has to be a coincidence, right? Not a reference to the night we shared our first kiss.
No, don’t be ridiculous, Lennon. He’s probably had so many women go through his life, he’s not going to remember a kiss fourteen years ago and mark the occasion by naming his club after it.
Yet, here he is. Claiming me like some kind of psychotic caveman.
Before I can process the anger that’s starting to bubble up, he laces his fingers with mine and pulls me through the crowd toward the back of the club.
Sloane grabs my other hand tight.
I glance back to see the worry and determination etched on her face as she’s dragged along with me.
Then I face forward, concentrating on Sandro's wide shoulders beneath the white dress shirt so I don’t trip.
Between the heels, the alcohol and the shock of Sandro’s sudden presence I’m not at my steadiest.
We reach a black metal door with two burly men standing guard. They step aside and nod when Sandro approaches.
He pulls a black plastic card from his pocket and holds it up to a discrete box mounted on the side. The lock on the door flashes green and slides open.
Before Sandro can tug me through, Sloane lets go of my hand and grabs his forearm. “Stop,” she says. “Where are you taking her?”
Sandro looks down at her and blinks, like he’s coming out of a trance. His gaze slides to me, a muscle in his jaw jumping. “Just to talk.”
She folds her arms and meets my eyes with a questioning look.
I nod. “It’s okay.”
She steps back and narrows her concerned gaze at Sandro. “I’ll be waiting right here.”
Sandro’s grip on my hand tightens as he leads me into the room, and the door shuts behind us. He’s walking fast, but I’m gaping at the very different atmosphere here.
It’s quieter. A gambler's paradise with slot machines, poker, blackjack and roulette tables. Obviously illegal. Men and women decked out in designer clothes turn their heads in curiosity as he marches me through the middle of the room to a closed door in the back.
Unlocking it with a key, he pulls me in, shuts, and locks the door behind us. It’s a spacious office with file cabinets to the right, a black leather sofa and coffee table to the left. The only light is coming from a hanging, gold pendant lamp in the far corner.
I stand there, not sure what to do as he releases my hand and crosses the floor to stand in front of the large desk in the middle of the room, facing away from me. His head is bowed, and his hands are perched on his hips.
Long seconds tick by. I shift my feet, starting to feel the ache in my toes from dancing in heels. I know he’s struggling with anger and questions. So am I.
Suddenly, a growl escapes his throat, and he sweeps his arm out, knocking everything off the desk. The clattering noise of a laptop hitting the dark wood floor startles me.
Striding over to the bar cart in the back corner, he pours some amber-colored alcohol from a crystal decanter into a glass. Then he tips it back and downs it in one swallow. Slamming the glass down, he finally turns to look at me.
There are shadows beneath his eyes and within them. Shadows of pain and loss and deep-seated anger.
He slowly walks around the now-clear desk and stands in front of it, crossing his arms. His hot, blue-black gaze travels from my feet, up my body and finally reaches my eyes. His voice is gravel as he says, “Come here.”
I want to tell him I’m not a dog, that he can’t just order me around.
But I’m buzzed enough that I’m feeling brave and need to hear what he has to say.
I walk across the office and stand in front of him.
In heels, my eyeline is level with his chest. There’s black ink peeking out from his collar.
I wonder what kind of tattoo it is, and how much more ink is on his chest. I already noticed the ink on his hands and forearms. I catch myself before I reach up and touch it.
Damn Long Island iced teas.
Barely concealed anger in his tone, he says, “You fucking left without the courtesy of even a goodbye. Just fucking left, Lennon. Why? I understand why you left Tampa. But…” his voice drops to a guttural whisper. “Why did you leave me?”
My eyes snap up to his face. And there it is. Raw pain. I’m actually stunned for a moment at the fact that he still cares. I thought for sure he would have moved on, forgot about me. I stare into his eyes and my heart somersaults.
Because right now I’m not looking at a furious mafia boss with a grudge, I’m looking at the hurt eighteen-year-old boy I walked away from. He’s still in there. A small tremble begins in my body.
What can I say? Because you are Tampa, the mob and something so much more lethal to my heart. That would be the truth.
Instead I whisper, “I’m sorry.” And I am. Yes, I had to leave. But he’s right. I could’ve said goodbye. I was a coward. Afraid if I saw him again, I wouldn’t be able to walk away. “Can you forgive me?”
His gaze is traveling over my face like he’s memorizing it. It stops on my mouth.
I lick my lips and his eyes darken, his body stiffens.
He reaches out slowly with his large hands and grips my hips. One tug and I’m pressed against his body.
A small gasp leaves me as I feel a jolt of electricity shoot into my core at the contact. I have my palms pressed against his hard chest. I should stop this. No good can come of this.
But as he reaches up and brushes his knuckles gently down my cheek, then down my neck to my chest, I break out in goosebumps and lose all ability to think.
The world shrinks down to his eyes, his mouth, his touch.
If the room caught fire right now, I still wouldn’t be able to break the spell between us.
We would burn together, and I’m okay with that.
I see the moment he loses control. His nostrils flare. His eyes grow hooded and a deep groan vibrates in his chest. He slides his hand behind my neck, his fingers gripping my hair just firm enough that I can no longer move. Then, holding eye contact with me, he leans forward.
“Are you happy?” he asks.
Happy? Not even close. I’m keeping busy. I’m trying to be content. I’m surviving.
I don’t have to answer him. I know he sees the answer in my eyes when his breath feathers my lips. When I don’t resist, he presses his mouth to mine.
Heat engulfs me. The world disappears.
I fall against him, my body melting into his.
He holds me tight with his other arm as he nibbles and licks my mouth. I can feel his thick, hard length pressing against my stomach. When he slides his tongue inside my mouth and deepens the kiss like he’s going to swallow me whole, I swear I see fireworks. He tastes like whiskey and need.
His kisses grow more desperate, his tongue more insistent, until my lips feel bruised and I’m grinding shamelessly against the hard steel of his erection.