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“Hey, that’s Italian parquet,” I protest, glad that I can say something that isn’t related to how awesome he looks tonight, or how delicious he smells. He pushes closer to me, his broad-shouldered frame like a protective wall, restricting my view of the other men lining the bar. Even Marco freezes with a pint under the beer dispenser, the foam swelling out and cascading down the sides. A customer calls out, startling him out of his state of shock.
I doubt anyone here knows who the man next to me is since Zayne Thorngren is to them what he used to be to me–an enigma. A shiny obsidian famous name of an obscenely rich genius who presumably sleeps in his lab. This man, on the other hand, is a male model with eyes to die for and an absolutely mouthwatering body inside that white shirt.
I’m flustered, but bitterness crawls up my throat, turning the inside of my mouth sour. I know that men like him sometimes sleep with women who are considered less than their league, but they never think about them again. It’s what artificially gets our standards for men absurdly high. I mean, look at me now. What are the odds that my mouth will ever be satisfied with anything less than Zayne’s big angry cock?
“I’ll have your parquet floor redone if there’s too much damage after tonight. Even though, considering how successful this place is, I doubt you can blame it all on me.” He looks around at the gathering crowd trampling all over the said parquet, stilettos dragging over it.
“I do owe tonight’s success to you, to be frank,” I say, taking a sip for more courage. “Having so much security has people thinking this place must be very special.”
“Which it is,” he says, checking his surroundings appreciatively. “You did a wonderful job with the building. It used be a shabby old place that reeked of prohibition times.”
I arch an eyebrow. “And you know that because?”
“I was here before. With your still-husband. Back when we were almost friends.”
I tilt my head to the side. “How do two people as different as you become friends?”
“I have money. Joseph likes money.”
I scoff. “More than anything, I would say.”
“Which makes him small and greedy, an insignificant rat despite his success. You, on the other hand.” When he looks at me, I catch the spark of honesty in his eyes. “You make beautiful work of business.”
“It’s always been my dream,” I say faintly. “To make beautiful and useful things that give people joy.”
I swallow more words that are threatening to spill out of my mouth. He makes me want to keep talking, but I know better than that. This skilled genius is only manipulating me. So, I clear my throat and coldly move away from the subject to one that interests me more. The orphanage. I have to tread carefully around the topic though, lest he realizes I’m on his trail.
“I was thinking,” I say, tracing the rim of my glass with my finger. “I had your dick deep down my throat but I don’t know anything real about you. Like where did you grow up, where did you go to school?”
“Detroit.” He rests his eyes on my lips, and my ears start buzzing, the whole world shut out.
I down my drink, desperate to become the social butterfly that booze usually makes me into. I can’t have him see my hands tremble, or hear me talk nonsense.
“Private or public school?”
“I’m not here to talk about myself, wild flame.”
“Then what are you here for? What are we doing?”
“I told you. I’m staking my claim on you to make sure that no one in this city dares touch you.” My heart flutters at the temptation in that darkly liquid voice, his heat and his scent wrapping like a cocoon around me. My eyes fly up to Marco, but I can’t signal him for another drink without revealing more of my drinking problem to Zayne.
Fuck him, why do I even care what he thinks about me?
But it’s Zayne who signals Marco for another round. My bartender is a big guy, confident in his ability to attract the ladies, but in front of Zayne he acts like a puppy wagging his tail. He moves so fast that the glasses slip from his hand, and by the time he sets the scotch in front of us, he’s broken into sweat.
Zayne clinks his glass to mine, then raises it to his mouth. I try not to stare at how his lips dip into the amber liquid. It also takes effort not to down mine rapidly.
I look around as I sip, ripping my focus away from him.
The place is more crowded than I’ve ever seen it. Some of Zayne’s agents have mingled among the patrons. No one made it inside without being scanned and checked, but apparently, there’s reason for them to make extra sure.
Then I see them. The two men at a table in the corner, their bodyguards keeping enough space around them that they can sit and drink comfortably. One of them has a guy with long pink fingernails and platform shoes sitting on his lap and kissing his neck, while a drunk girl is stroking the other’s cock.
I choke on my liquor. There are so many people here that they serve more as privacy walls than spectators, everybody going about their business. Well, everybody who’s not staring at Zayne, because he’s clearly the star here tonight.
Then it hits me–those two also have a direct line of vision to us. The man with the boy licking his neck is big and fleshy, thick eyebrows frowning over his eyes. The other one with the girl is slim and bony-faced, his eyes so big and round they’re popping out of his head, but both look aggressive. The boy slips a hand through the big guy’s half-open shirt, revealing a hairy chest with faded blue tattoos, while the slim guy’s hands are lined with spiky rings that could hack the flesh off a man.
“Ricky Roberto and Lorenzo Mali,” Zayne says, noticing what I’m looking at, and gesturing first to the big guy and then to the bony one. He’s not even trying to veil the direction of his gesture. “Two of your still-husband’s closest business partners. The lesser hounds, but they’ll deliver the message to their bosses.”
