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My thread is fraying quickly.
“Genius. I don’t think it could have gone better.”
“What happened after I left?” I ask as I peel open a container of barbecue sauce, dunking a chicken nugget in.
Dante steals it from my hands, eating it in one bite and smiling at my pout.
“No one had the balls to say anything bad about you, which I thought was interesting,” he says, grabbing a new nugget, dunking it, and feeding it to me.
“Why’s that?”
“Because that means they either didn’t have anything bad to say or anyone who did have something bad to say thought they’d be outnumbered.” I furrow my brows, still not understanding. “It means that anyone who wanted to talk shit about you thought that if they did, enough men in the room would be on your side that they’d be odd man out.”
Interesting.
“It’s barely been a week, though.” I doubt I’ve been able to pull men over that quickly.
“You work hard at the club, and you’re nice to the men who work there with you. They know your backstory. When you’re at the compound, you’re not hiding away, scoffing at the family business. You’re in the kitchen, eating with them. Learning about them, their families. You’re getting to know them and they’re getting to know you. It might seem small, but it means a lot to have someone come into the family and immediate try to be a part of it.”
I think on that and realize he’s not wrong. This week I’ve spent less time while at work at the club in Dante’s office and more time on the floor, talking to the men—both Capos and the lower made men. I’ve organized two family meals to be delivered into the shared kitchen this week, writing a note covered in hearts and girly font to tell the men that it was from me and to help themselves.
And each time I see a man, they thank me for it.
They also have been slowly talking to me, learning about me. Asking me questions about Lola and the club, about things I like.
Small talk, sure. But sometimes people underestimate how big small talk can be in your day-to-day interactions.
“It helps that you always look sexy as hell every time they see you, those low-cut tops and tiny skirts.” His eyes are heated with his words, breaking me out of my thoughts.
“You like?” I ask with a smile. “I bought all of my new outfits with your money.” His hand goes to my bare knee, sliding up as he does, stopping right beneath the line of my little nightgown.
“I would like them a whole lot more if they were just for me.” The thumb of his hand moves, swiping against my inner thigh. “And if I could act on it.”
“Oh, you can act on it, Mr. Carluccio,” I say, moving the food to my bedside table and leaning back on my hands, a smile on my lips. “Just, if you do, you gotta know you’ll be losing our little deal.”
“But what if you are the one to break first, Mrs. Carluccio?” he says, that thumb strumming delicate flesh, and leans forward to press his lips against mine. “What if you lost the game?”
His breath plays along my lips and I almost say fuck it.
I almost let him win.
It’s not even important to me, not really, so what’s the point?
But then I remember that if I let him win, I just know I’ll be hearing about it until the day I fucking die.
“Not a fucking chance, Dante,” I whisper with a smile, pressing my lips to his and then rolling out of his reach.
He sits there, still leaning in, his hand now on the comforter like he’s making out with the ghost of me.
“You’ll be the death of me, Delilah,” he says with a smile before sitting up and adjusting himself.
“But what a death it would be, Dante.”
* * *
An hour later, I’m fed and still in pajamas, sitting under the covers while watching Dante get undressed for bed. I watch as he reaches behind himself, grabbing the back of the long-sleeve thermal he wore today and tugging it up. I watch the muscles flex, watch as tan skin and that dusting of hair are revealed, and try to ignore the way my body instantly responds.
It’s been less than a week since I’ve had this man, and even though this dumb challenge was my idea, I’m dying a little inside with each minute that passes.
