Climbing the stairs, I yank my shirt off and stop when I hear Layla chasing after me. She catches up to me, one hand around my arm while the fingertips of the other brush the contours of my tattoos.
A few years ago, I spent countless hours at the studio. My back and arms are covered with Gustavo Dore’s illustrations forThe Divine Comedy.My mother is a huge fan. She even gave me the author’s name. I read the book when I was old enough to understand it. When the time came for ink, there wasn’t anything else I could’ve chosen.
Layla draws a line down my spine, her touch featherlight but sensual enough to rekindle my desire. I spin around, grip her wrists, and pin her body against the wall, closing her mouth with mine. Her eyes sparkle when I pull back, careful not to get carried away. We’ll spend a lot of time making out if it’s making herthishappy.
“Are you done?”
“No,” she says with a pout
“You might want to finish this another time.”
I leave her with a frown marking her forehead, and three minutes later, I lock myself in the bathroom upstairs, jumping under an ice-cold shower. I will probably need many more before I find release in Layla’s sweet pussy.
Fifteen minutes later, I load my Beretta 92 in the holster, draping a white shirt over my back, and get back downstairs, too fucking eager. Layla stands in front of a long mirror hanging out in the entryway, fixing her hair when I return downstairs.
“It won’t get better,” she mutters, smoothing out non-existent creases on her dress.
“It can’t get any better.”
She spins around, rolling her eyes. “If you had told me we were meeting your people’s girlfriends, I would’ve put on something nicer. A heads-up next time, please.”
“You look stunning, Star.”
“You’ll change your mind when I’m standing with the supermodels your men probably date.”
She’s not whining or fishing for compliments. She’s genuinely irritated that she won’t blend in. She’s right there. Too much fabric covers her body, and not enough jewelry adorns her neck for her to blend in with the other girls.
“If I wanted to date an overdressed Barbie from the cover of Vogue, I wouldn’t be dating you. This,” I run my finger down her arm, touching the green dress she wears, “Is exactly how you should look for me—modest but sexy. I didn’t like you yesterday in that slutty dress.”
“I didn’t like myself either.” She smooths the creases out of my shirt. “Allie chose that dress. Her taste is problematic.”
Allie, welcome to the black book of people I don’t fucking like.
Layla would’ve been safe at home last night if not for her. On the other hand, she wouldn’t have a reason to call me, and we wouldn’t be standing in my living room now. I’d choose not to have her over what she’s been through any day.
“While I remember. Allie was wondering if she could come to Delta sometime. Security doesn’t let her in.”
“You should’ve asked before you said who chose your dress last night. I’m sorry, Star, but she won’t get in. No one from Frank’s entourage ever will.” I glance at her parted lips and kiss her because... well, because I fucking can. “There’s one more thing that doesn’t suit you.” I pull a long pin out of her hair, letting the locks fall down her back, surrounding her round, doll-like face. That’s what she looked like when I first saw her, and that’s how she’s always supposed to be for me—sexy, sassy, innocent,mine.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Layla
The bouncers bow low, greeting their boss when we enter Delta. Smoke clouds hang above the thick crowd, filling the space with a fragrant aroma of oranges laced with just a hint of mango.
Almost naked waitresses with trays full of colorful drinks walk among the crowd, wearing nothing but snow-white bras and skirts so short their thongs are showing. Under ultraviolet lights, they shine bright like fireflies. Apart from alcohol, they sell small plastic bags filled with white powder or small pills. I hadn’t noticed it last time.
Enormous mirrors cover the walls, reflecting the strobe lights that fly around the room in uncoordinated directions. A machine above the DJ station releases soap bubbles, and girls giggle, jumping around, trying to pop them. The floor shakes beneath my feet as Dante leads me through the POP music room, my hand in his.
Despite the early hour, the place is packed beyond capacity, thanks to a famous DJ who’s starting his set at midnight. The crowd parts before us like the Red Sea before Moses. The crushing confidence surrounding Dante makes heads turn our way as people scramble to take another look at him. He’s any woman’s dream come true. Under the layer of ruthless arrogance hides an affectionate, passionate man.
Myman.
What is it that he sees in me? A corny, inexperienced, pathetic nineteen-year-old craving constant attention. I’m not ugly, but I can point out a dozen prettier girls. He wouldn’t have to abstain from sex if he chose any one of them. It can’t be easy, and I can’t think of one rational reason why he’s so willingly enduring the torture, but I’m thankful. His kisses are addictive enough. I won’t be able to keep him from invading my heart if he claims me whole, and loving him is out of the question.
I squeeze his hand, having a hard time believing he’s not only real but mine too. Frankie was right six months ago when he said he knows what type of woman Dante’s looking for. One like me...
Dante stops, inching closer so he won’t have to shout over Britney blasting from the speakers. “Everything good?”