Page 126 of Marcus

He smirked. “Fine.”

His fingers wove with hers, and his dark laughter—sending sparks shooting through her bloodstream—chased them out of the hallway. No one seemed to notice them rejoining the party, or that they slipped onto the middle of the floor to dance a slow waltz as a few others were doing.

Or maybe that was just them.

Maybe they didn’t notice the others.

After all, Marcus was still watching her like that—all heavy and intense, and ready to drown in her. She’d missed that. Him.

Everything about him.

Her hotel was closer. And that was really what it came down to for Cella when Marcus asked her where she wanted to go for the night after leaving his parents’ penthouse party that ended up going a bit into the evening. That was the thing about life when someone had the chance to be with people that made their days better and brighter—one could lose track of time.

Then, the moment someone mentioned the time as they decided to leave, the atmosphere between Cella and Marcus changed in a blink. Oh, they certainly took their time saying goodbye, and playing their part. She’d kind of realized that to stand beside Marcus—as she chose him—that she needed to be what he needed her to be. The same way she knew he wanted nothing more than to pull her out of there and fuck her against the closest flat surface, but he played his part, first.

Stepped into his role.

The dutiful son. A Made man. Rising crime boss, if what the news had to say was to be believed.

So she turned into the person he needed her to be while she stood beside him, until she could finally get him alone, and then Marcus became the man she knew best. Who took what he wanted from her, and made sure she loved every damn second of it, too.

Cella didn’t even get more than four steps inside her hotel room before the hard slam of the door had her stomach clenching in anticipation.

“Turn around.”

She did, spinning in those too-high heels that she knew damn well would make her legs look good, and have Marcus watching her everywhere she walked during the night. She hadn’t been wrong on either of those things. The shoes did both.

Marcus hadn’t even moved away from the door he’d just slammed shut; his gaze nailed to her, and she got the best sight of him licking along his bottom lip as he tipped his head to the side. That stare of his traveled up her body, appreciating the way her dress hugged every curve she had before he finally met her eyes with his own.

His stare had her wet.

The intensity.

How he arched his left brow just enough. That strong jaw of his clenching every so slightly when he swallowed. Even the way he flicked his wrist over to undo the buttons of his blazer.

He was perfection wrapped in a fucking suit.

“How fond are you of that dress?”

Cella’s breath caught in her chest as she replied, “Fond enough that as long as a dry clean will fix it, I don’t care.”

Marcus nodded. “Good to know—give me your panties.”

“Like, to you?”

“Off, in my hand, and then they’re going in my pocket.”

“I don’t get them back?”

“Not the pair you have on tonight. Did you think I wouldn’t see them when you bent over to fix the strap on your heel in the elevator? Since when do you hike a fucking skirt up to damn near your thighs to bend over, Cella? They’re mine to keep after you tease me like that. Off. Now.”

She grinned because, yes, she had done that.

No shame.

“That’s how it’s going to be tonight?” she asked.

Marcus let his tongue drift along his teeth, sucking in air as he did so before saying, “Seems so—keep that sass up.”