“I’ve wanted to kiss you all week,” I admit. “I thought about more than kissing you.” He nestles his head in the crook of my neck and inhales. “Fuck the party,” he whines. “Come back to my hotel.”
The offer is too tempting to pass up, but this is work. I need to focus.
“We have to go,” I remind him.
“You’re right, but I think this is the first party I don’t want to go to.”
“Let me fix you up.” His lips shine with my lipstick, smeared like watercolor across his mouth. He lets me gently swipe away at the color until it fades.
Through the tinted glass, the partygoers pass, women in dresses that seem to defy gravity, all plunging necklines andstrategic slits. My outfit feels too much like the old Reese Sinclair in comparison: a boatneck pink shell top, arms exposed, and a matching maxi skirt with a layer of lining beneath a gorgeous see-through lace above it.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, reading me like a book.
“I'm second-guessing my outfit. I wish I’d put on something more sexy.”
“I think you look lovely.”
That’s the problem.
I scan my outfit, and it hits me. If I pull the lining out, it’ll look a lot more daring. A set of lace over my exposed, toned legs. I work, pulling away the lace layer and grabbing the lining of my maxi skirt, bunching it between my hand. My attempt to tear it fails miserably. The second attempt manages to pull a slight hole into it.
Dante’s hands cover mine. “Allow me.” With one swift motion, he rips the skirt cleanly across my mid-thigh. The tear echoes through the limo.
“Well, I can’t deny that looks quite seductive,” he says, his eyes darkening as they sweep over my newly exposed legs.
I can already see tomorrow’s headlines:America’s Sweetheart Shows Off Her Robyn Hood Muscles.The thought makes me smile, especially knowing they have no idea what happened in this limo.
“But something’s still missing.” I spot Dante’s rings and remember the conversation we had at Paulie’s jewelry shop.
How something as simple as a few accessories could change people’s perception of you.
“Give me one of your rings,” I say, strategizing. I unclasp my pearl necklace.
“You want to wear a piece of me?”
“I want to wear a piece of your armor.” He extends his hand. A ring glides off his finger, and I thread it onto my necklace.
“Can I?” he asks. I nod.
He clasps my necklace back on, the cool metal of his ring sliding against my throat. His touch lingers longer than necessary, sending a jolt down my spine.
“What do you think?”
“So fucking—” He adjusts my lipstick with his thumb, cleaning up the evidence of our kiss. “Perfect.”
Okay. I can do this.
As if Dante can read the plume of nerves billowing in my head, he asks, “Want to do your breaths before we go out there? Four. Seven. Eight.”
“But they’re waiting.”
“They can wait all night for all I care.”
He’s right. I inhale, and he mimics me, and we make our own little moment feel precious and ours before stepping out of the limo. The usual parade of lights and shouting comes, but when I place my hand in Dante’s and he squeezes once—a quick, private thing—I know I can do this.
I gulp, tilt my chin up, let my lips curve into the kind of smile that will be dissected in tabloids by morning. Dante’s hand slides to my waist, firm and possessive, leading me while Ramsey flanks us.
Let’s make some headlines, bury Felix, and sell my movie.
