He dips his head, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “You trying to make me jealous?”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t start something you can’t finish.” His hand slides lower, palm ghosting over the swell of my ass.
I suck in a breath and lean my head against him. “What if I want to start something?”
His other hand comes up, grazing my hip, pulling me closer. The club fades—the people, the noise, everything.
“Then I’ll finish it.”
I blink up at him, lips parted. “What, right now? In front of your teammates?”
“Don’t tempt me.” His mouth tips into a wicked grin.
His hand glides around my waist, low and commanding, pulling me flush against his chest as his hips start to move, grinding into me.
“Look down,” he murmurs.
“What?”
“Over the railing,” he says, guiding my gaze with his voice. “Third table from the left. By the DJ booth. See them?”
I do.
Three men in pressed button-ups, one holding a drink, another holding his phone at a very suspicious angle. So is the third.
“Press,” Dominic murmurs.
Adrenaline flutters in my stomach.
His hand tightens, pulling me back against the hard line of his cock. He’s already hard and I’m already wet.
“You love being bold, don’t you?” he asks.
“Maybe,”
He drags his lips down the side of my neck, heat pulsing from every point of contact. “Maybe I should let them catch something worth their time.” His hand skates down over my hip, stopping just under the hem of my dress, holding the fabric like a warning.
My knees nearly buckle at the idea.
He shifts his hips again, grinding into me harder.
“Lucky for you,” he says in my ear, “I don’t share. Even if they only get the view.”
I suck in a shaky breath, heat pounding between my legs and my heart thudding against my ribs. I turn to face him. His cock presses into my stomach as I move. My hands slide up his chest, over that perfect blackshirt, my arms looping around his neck. I start rolling my hips against him slowly.
Hands snap to my waist, gripping tight, almost punishing. His jaw tightens so hard I see the muscle in his cheek jump.
I lean in, lips brushing the edge of his smile. “Maybe I want to give you a show.”
His nostrils flare. Reaching behind me, he grabs his drink, tips the glass back to finish it off, and then sets it down on the table behind me.
“We’re done here,” he breathes into my ear. “Go get your purse.”
The Uber and elevator ride blur.
Dom doesn’t touch me once, but he doesn’t have to. His presence alone feels like pressure—quiet, heavy tension.
