Finally, her free hand comes to rest tentatively on my other shoulder. It must have made her feel safer to have only one hand on my shoulder, to have one side of this embrace open in case she wanted to bail. I don’t allow her that, but she doesn’t fight me on it.
Her hand drifts down my chest now. She runs it up under my charcoal gray suit jacket, then drags it down the crisp white fabric of my dress shirt. She does it over again more slowly, her eyes on the movement, on my chest, like she’s studying it.
“Lower,” I direct.
I see the breath whoosh out of her, but she drops her hand lower, running it over the ridges of my abdomen. She runs her fingers down over my stomach, but stops at my belt. Her brown eyes dart to mine, vulnerability in their depths, and it goes straight into my veins like fucking heroin.
“Lower.”
“Rafe…”
“We’re just dancing,” I assure her.
Before I can find out whether or not she’ll obey me, there’s a tap on my shoulder. If it’s another fucking girl, she’s about to see me get mean. What a fucking thing to interrupt.
I turn my head, prepared to rip someone a new asshole, but it’s not some girl I’ve fucked—it’s the club manager. She beams at me like I’ll be pleased by her interruption. “Your booth is ready, Mr. Morelli.”
Virginia drops her hands and takes a step back.
The moment has passed, so I let it go. Grabbing Virginia’s hand so she doesn’t get lost, I tug her back through the crowd toward the VIP section surrounding the dance floor. I know the upholstered booths are a shade of purple in the light of day, but right now everything glows red from the light in the club. The u-shaped booth could fit a lot more than just the two of us, but since it’s just us, we slide to the middle. Virginia tucks her dark hair behind her ears and looks up at the manager.
“Someone will be right over to take your drink order,” she assures me.
I nod in acknowledgement and look over at Virginia. “You want anything specific?”
“I’m driving,” she says, shaking her head.
“I can have someone pick us up if we can’t drive home, Virginia. It’s not a big deal.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” she insists. “I’ll just have a bottle of water.”
Like hell, she’ll just have a bottle of water. I don’t bother telling that, though. I slide my arm behind her and rest it on the back of the booth, shoot her a harmless smile, and wait for the server to approach so I can order Virginia a drink.
5
Rafe
Virginia is tipsy as hell, but I’m about to order her another drink. Ordinarily, I might hesitate to get drunk with the one woman I don’t want to lose—especially when she’s wearing this damned, cursed, miserable dress—but alcohol makes her giggly, and I fucking love her laugh.
She laughs at even the lamest joke—I’ve thrown her some doozies to test this theory—like I’m performing for a full house at Madison Square Garden and killing it. I’m excellent at detecting bullshit, and I know Virginia, so even when my more cynical side points out that all women smart enough to know the score laugh at my jokes, I know Virginia means it. There’s not a conniving bone in her body—or if there is, I’ve yet to notice it.
“Tell me something bad that you’ve done.”
Virginia is relaxed even though my arm is draped around her shoulders. Her body is so near mine, I can feel her warmth, and that’s just the way I like it. Tapping her chin, she considers my request. “How bad?”
“Terrible.”
“Knowing who you are, I don’t really think I’ve ever done anything you would consider terrible. When I was 13, I really wanted to get my mom this personalized ornament from the mall for Christmas. They had them at those kiosks—you know those little kiosks in the mall? It was one of those, not even a store, it was out in the open. But they cost like $15, and I didn’t have it.”
“I’m gonna stop you right there. Shoplifting a Christmas present when you were 13?” I demand, lifting an eye brow. “That’s what you’re going to give me?”
Grinning, she says, “I’m sorry, not all of us have body counts.”
It doesn’t feel like she’s holding back, but it won’t stop me from digging around to make sure. “There has to be something worse than that.”
“Well,” she says slyly, fingering the lapel of my jacket. “There was this one time I sent a badass Vegas gangster to punch my cheating boyfriend in the face. I wasn’t a bit remorseful about doing it, either. Is that terrible?”
My blood warms and a fond smile finds its way across my lips. “Definitely not. That guy deserved what he got. Fucking idiot.”