“Nothing,” I say, fighting it.
His gaze drops to the hem of my dress. “That’s a short dress.”
“You don’t like it?” I tilt my head.
His eyes go molten. “I don’t want you flashing the entire club.”
“Maybe you’re the one looking too hard,” I tease.
“So is everyone else.” My heart flips; I laugh under my breath and shift so the slit shows more thigh. “So what? You don’t like competition?”
Dom’s jaw flexes, eyes narrow. He moves into my space, crowding me. “I don’t have any,” he grinds out.
“Scared you’ll have to fight?” I look up at him through my lashes.
He glances down at his bruised knuckles from earlier, silently reminding me he’s not scared of a fight. Every time I think about the raw power he gave off tonight, heat pools between my legs, and I push him a little more.
“I was almost sad you got back up after that hit,” I say, keeping my voice neutral.
“Is that why you looked like you were about to cry for me?”
I shrug, expression flat. “Acting. I can commit when the situation calls for it.”
“And what situation called for you to wear that dress?”
“Oh, we’re still talking about my dress.”
“Barely a dress.” His gaze drags over me. “I don’t like crowds having a front-row seat to anything attached to my name.”
He’s trying to make this about his image. I know better. “So I’m attached to your name now?” I raise a brow. “I’m not a keychain.”
I slide onto the barstool, cross my legs, letting the slit flash a little more, and raise a hand to the bartender. “Vodka martini,” I say. “Extra dirty.”
The bartender nods, but Dom turns sharply. “No martinis.”
“I’m sorry?” I snap.
Dom looks at the bartender with the same cold focus he uses on the ice. “She’ll have something without alcohol.”
The bartender stammers. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I hiss.
Dom finally looks at me, one brow lifting. “You get…” He searches, tongue pressing his cheek, “…reckless when you drink.”
“I get fun.”
“You get hands-y.”
“So your solution is to forbid me from drinking?”
“Mhm.” He turns to the bartender. “A whiskey for me. Chivas if you have it. Royal Salute if you don’t. Twenty-one and up.”
“And you get to drink?”
“I know how to behave.”
I let out a sharp laugh. “You don’t get to tell me what I can or can’t have.”
He leans in close enough for me to feel his heat. “I’m not telling you,” he murmurs. “I’mtelling him.”
