“Is Bradley gonna serve them?”
“Of course he will, there’s nobody else in here and he wants a tip. At least he better serve them.” She sighs and looks at the ceiling. “They’re going to grab my ass, Gracie. I just know they’re gonna. And I’m gonna yell at them.” She pauses and closes her eyes. “The second time. The first time I’ll let it slide.”
“Got to make those tips.” I grin at her. We’ve all been pinched and squeezed and harassed and at this point it’s become a running gag—more of a coping mechanism than anything else.
“You’re damn right I do, girl. Anyway, have a nice night.” She hurries off and I watch her go, almost jealous. Some stupid part of me would rather get my tits ogled and my butt slapped by a bunch of drunk twenty-year-olds than have to strip in front of Calvino, but such is life.
He’s sipping from his whiskey when I return to private room three. I say nothing as I grab the garment bag with Dior emblazoned on the front from the couch, unzip it, and reveal a gorgeous black dress, A-line with a pleated skirt and a plunging neckline covered by dark lace. I frown at it for several long moments, working up the courage to put it on while he simply stares and sips from his drink like I’m the dinner entertainment.
I hate this.
I’ve never gotten changed in front of a man before. Back home, I’d lock my room and stay really quiet whenever I had to put on something else—because The Fist, that pervy asshole, would try to watch, and somehow it’d be my fault like I’m the one that wanted to tempt my disgusting stepfather into staring at my teenaged body.
But this doesn’t feel like it did back then—this feels extremely different.
I turn my back. Let the asshole try to force me to face him. He says nothing as I take off my top and toss it aside. I can feel his eyes on my shoulders and spine and I know he’s catching a glimpse of the sides of my breasts as I take off my skirt, leaving myself in nothing but my heels and black lacy panties. My cheeks are burning crimson as I hurriedly step into the dress and pull it up my body, going from bent over to standing.
I swear I hear a grunt of utter pleasure as I get it on over my skin, and that grunt is absolutely everything. It sends a lightning flare of excitement into my core. That grunt is pure dripping lust, pure desire-drenched need, and it’s not a sound I ever expected to hear coming out of Calvino’s mouth, much less because he’s admiring my body.
I look over my shoulder and he’s staring. I’ve never seen a person look so intently before, like he’s studying every inch of my skin, every blemish, freckle, mole, curve, and it’s disorienting and exciting.
The dress itself is gorgeous and fits me perfectly. I brush my hair over my shoulder and force myself to smile at him.
“You going to sit there and watch or are you going to zip me up?”
I want to puke, it’s so cheesy, but god, it works. He gets up and comes toward me, staring hot fire at my lips, and he gently brushes his hand across my back like he’s afraid he’ll snap me in half as he slides the back zipper up. I shiver and he runs his fingertips along my upper back, along the nape of my neck, and his lips find my shoulder in a gentle kiss—followed by a hard bite.
I gasp and twist away. He grins at me, vicious and wild.
“Well done,” he says, smirking huge. “You look gorgeous, you know.”
“Asshole, that hurt.” I rub the spot and clench my teeth together. “That was almost a nice moment.”
“Glad I fucked it up then.”
I’m seething but I force myself to get over it as I smooth out my skirt. “I’ll be honest, I expected something much more… revealing.” Despite the low neckline, the dark lace does a good job of covering most of my chest, though a good bit of my ample cleavage still shows.
“You’re a girlfriend, not a mistress.” He turns away and picks up his drink. “You should know the difference. Or perhaps not. I don’t know how men treat their women in Nowherefuck, West Virginia.”
I say nothing because the only relationships I ever saw back home were miserable and gray, and I’d rather get pawed at and bitten by this monster than spend my life being beaten and abused in some trailer while high on meth and opiates.
“When are we leaving?” I ask instead, changing the subject.
“Right now.” He picks up his jacket and slides it on over his tight white dress shirt. “Shall we?” He offers me his arm.