No."Yes."
Excuse me, what?She is mine to torture, I justify internally.
Yeah, right, sarcasm pipes up.
My feet start moving again. She's going home, and I don't care if I have to drag her by the— I'm closer and have a direct line of sight to the dude grinding on her. I bark a laugh, inaudible over the deafening sound coming through the floor-to-ceiling speakers. No fucking way. Is that? It is. Charlie York, her cheating high school ex. The woman has worse taste in men than Lincoln had picking theaters.
His hands are low on her hips, and as the song transitions to "Proximus" by Lauro Picotto, her fingers interlace at the nape of his neck. The beat slows, and so does she.
The heat of rage mingles with the heat surging to my groin, watching her sway. My focus morphs into tunnel vision with one goal. With my phone still in hand, I lift it to my line of sight. I pull up Ethan's last message and type.Found Keller. She doesn't want to leave. Go ahead. I'll bring her home.
After I bring her somewhere else.
Ethan can handle the trip back to the house by himself. I pocket the device, not waiting for his answer, and push through the crowd. As the distance between us shrinks, the buzzing in my veins increases.
As soon as I'm within five feet of Denielle, her head snaps up. She senses my presence the same way I know when she's near. Her eyes widen, and unwanted satisfaction spreads through me. Busted. I step between her and her dance partner, forcing him to drop his hands. Denielle has stopped moving, and I tilt my head, staring down at her. I keep my expression neutral. Neither of us says anything. Charlie attempts to move around me, but I block him, shooting my elbow into his ribs.
Something like a howl mingles with the rising sound of "The Nights" by Avicii. At least we've entered the last decade of music again. This DJ is all over the place.
Keller's eyes flicker to the side before settling on me.
"What do you think you're doing?" I don't have to shout for her to hear me.
She props her hands on her hips in the same manner I've witnessed so many times when she wants to stand up to me. "What does it look like?"
Do I dignify this with a response?
"Denielle, who is—" Charlie exclaims in all his unintimidating shortness. Fine, he's not short, but shorter than me, and that's all my possessive mind acknowledges at the moment. I refuse to analyze why I want to put a bullet between his eyes for touching Keller.
She is mine to torture.
I pivot so Denielle and I face the kid. "I'm her babysitter."
Her head whips up, a snarl on her lips. I wink at her before making eye contact with the other male in our triangle. I elaborate, bored, "It's her curfew." Not waiting for a response, I clasp her hand in mine. The electric jolt the connection gives me sends shock waves to my core.
Heading toward the second-floor stairs, I pull her behind me.
"What the fuck, Baxter?" she shrieks, trying to pull out of my grip, but my fingers wrapped around hers allow me to maintain my hold. Once again, she is nothing like during her interaction with Liberman. She doesn't show defeat. When she realizes she can't escape my grip, she claws her talons into the soft part of my hand. She acts like we're equals. We're not.
"Charlie, I'm so sorry. I'll call you—" I tune out the rest of her stammered apology as I drag her past Callum.
The way he ogles her makes it hard not to stop and knock a few of his teeth out, but I have other priorities.
Denielle stumbles, but I don't slow my pace. My jaw feels like it may break at any second. Where did Charlie fucking York come from? This club is not an establishment a guy like him, a.k.a. not filthy rich, frequents. The cover charge alone is more than most people make in a week. I'll have to check with whoever was controlling the doors about how he made it past them.
The beat of the music vibrating under our feet mingles with adrenaline thrashing through me. It's the fucking dress. It's the only logical explanation that makes sense. Can make sense. I allow to make sense. The swelling in my jeans is clouding my judgment.
We near Lilly's VIP suite, and instead of moving past it to the back exit, I reach for the handle, pushing the door open. Denielle resists my pull, but with one hard tug, she's over the threshold. She's lucky I didn't throw her over my shoulder like the child she acts like.
I slam the door shut and flip the lock. Whirling around, I prowl toward her. She backs up until her legs hit the leather couch situated against the wall to the right. Not letting up, I keep moving, and when she can't escape, she drops into the seat. Hovering above her, she blinks at me through her lashes. I have a direct line of sight down theVof her dress. The fabric hangs loose on her, covering her tits just enough not to show her nipples.
The tips of my fingers tingle with the need to feel her soft skin again. She props the heel of her hands against the cushion and leans slightly forward. Her eyes are unfocused, yet she's fully aware of her actions.
The silver sequins fall away from her chest, exposing more of her creamy flesh. Her hardened buds become visible, and my breathing picks up, my chest suddenly too tight.
No longer able to resist, I reach out and pinch the strap of her dress between my thumb and forefinger. She shudders, her lips parting. The rise and fall of her breasts mimic my own want. She parts her legs, and I step between them. Her face is perfectly aligned with my groin, and the sheer proximity of her mouth with my cock, imagining her plump lips wrapped around me, gets interrupted when her small hands touch the sides of my legs, slowly gliding up.
What is she doing?