Page 12 of Out of Control

Now if I can just make every erogenous zone in my body believe it.

CHAPTER THREE

Sofia

This smaller stage has a mix of people, but the music hits hard and the beat feeds my soul.

If I have my way, there will be so many changes for me in the coming weeks, that this freedom—this ability to get lost in the music—is exactly what I need. And I do just that, let myself get lost in the familiar beat, my head back, my hips swinging, and the freedom of knowing no one needs anything from me.

Rossi’s nowhere to be found. Not that I’m complaining one bit. He probably found someone else to follow around, to watch from afar, and to . . . turn on by doing so.

It’s more proof that he’s a player and when I didn’t play, he moved on.

Good to know. Better now than after I made a mistake.

Oh my God. What am I thinking? I’ve let Lilith get in my head that sleeping with Rossi was preordained before this trip ended.

Was it?

My laugh at my own ludicrousness is smothered by the DJ transitioning the song from one with a pulsating electronic beat to something more bluesy with an edge to it.

But this time when I close my eyes and lift my head to the sky, when I try to escape in the music, Rossi invades my thoughts. Front and fucking center. Is he dancing with someone else right now? Kissing her? Paying her all of his attention?

Why am I thinking this?

And why does the thought of him with someone else have jealousy firing in my veins?

I stiffen when a body presses up against me from behind. It’s not a rarity at this festival to be body to body as you push past one person to get where you need to go.

But I wait.

And the person doesn’t push past.

A set of strong hands rest on my hips and begin to encourage me to move.

Case of mistaken identity.

I whirl around to make the most of an awkward situation. To say Sorry, wrong ass or something like that, but my breath catches when I come face to face with Rossi.

I open my mouth to say something, anything, but am blindsided by the intensity in his eyes. His expression is impassive but his eyes? They say everything.

Need. Desire. Want. Greed.

The moment is fleeting but I’m a confused mass of mixed emotions that have no business being there. I’m jealous because of my own thoughts. Mad at him because I thought them. Then there’s pure unadulterated lust that I feel from his hands touching me, the look he’s giving me, and my curiosity he’s piqued over what his kiss tastes like.

And there’s the plain truth of the matter. That he’s him and I’m me and while our worlds intermingle, we do not mix.

My ego’s hurt in the most superficial, asinine way, but I hold tight to it and use it like it’s a protective armor.

I jab a finger into his chest. “You.”

“Me?” He lifts his eyebrows while cuffing my wrists in his hands.

“Yeah. You.” Brilliant, Sofia. This is the part where you tell him that you’re mad at him for your overactive imagination and admit that you were thinking about him. Cuz that’s going to do you a lot of good.

“Yeah,” he murmurs and while it may be low, its timbre rumbles in his chest and into where he’s holding my hands against it so that I can feel it. “Me.”

Still holding my wrists, he brings our hands down and moves them behind my back, effectively handcuffing me and pressing our bodies against each other.