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Fuck’s sake.
When her pathetic shivering doesn’t stop, I slide my suit jacket off and slip it over her shoulders.
Despite the dramatic trembling, she falls still and silent under my touch. Perhaps it’s because I’ve threatened to snuff the life out of her more than once, or perhaps it’s because my hands are curled into fists around the lapels of the jacket, and my knuckles are resting lightly on the soft curves of her breasts.
A firework fueled with both annoyance and lust explodes inside my rib cage as I feel the textured fabric underneath her thin dress against the back of my hand.
Lace. I knew it’d be fucking lace.
I’m hotter than a furnace and the warmth of her back brushing against my chest only stokes the fire. Did she take a step back, or did I take one forward?
I don’t know whose fault it is, but now I can feel her heartbeat thumping on the other side of her spine, and I don’t like the way its rhythm matches my own. There’s a voice in my head telling me to step back. Telling me I’m no better than my pervert cousins, because masquerading as chivalrous only to cop a feel is something Benny would do.
But I don’t. Instead, I watch over Penelope’s head as her parted lips paint the night’s sky with white, shallow breaths. One. Two. Three. Each ragged and raspy, crackling like static along the length of my dick.
I can only imagine what those hot breaths would feel like against my throat as I railed the insolence out of her.
The thought makes my grip tighten around the fabric of my jacket. My knuckles press harder against her tits, and suddenly, the white puffs against the night’s sky grind to a halt.
Silence, heavy and tangible, swirls us. Somewhere near the bow, Benny screams and Rory laughs. I don’t even have it in me to smirk, but the sound makes Penelope flinch against my chest, and her head whips to the right so fast, strands of her ponytail slap against my lips, giving me an unwelcome taste of her strawberry shampoo.
“What was that?” she whispers.
My jaw grinds shut. “Benny getting his fingers broken.”
“Oh.”
A beat passes, before she slowly turns back to face the ocean. As she does, I can’t help but lower my mouth to the base of her ponytail so her hair brushes against my lips again.
Christ, I’m more of a simp than Vicious.
I steal another huff, and this time, something other than strawberry and hairspray assaults my nostrils. Something familiar. Mine.
The realization has claws and they dig under my skin; she’s wearing my aftershave.
She must have sprayed it on herself in my bathroom, sometime between drawing dicks and kissing tissues. For some unknown reason, it makes my blood boil hotter than it should. Maybe it’s because she’s been swanning around all night, giving every man on my yacht googly eyes while wearing my scent on her skin.
Maybe it’s because, now, she smells like a one-night stand. Women always do weird stuff like that the morning after. Use my products or steal a hoodie, something to keep the night alive a little longer.
Why the fuck does she want to smell like me?
My fingers twitch with the urge to curl around her pony, yank her head back and smell it at the source—the soft curve of her neck. But suddenly the image of her tugging at her own hair from across the bar slides into my muddy thoughts, followed by the look of triumph that curved her cupid’s bow when I looked away.
She’s not wearing my aftershave because she wants to smell like me. No, she’s wearing it because she knows it’ll piss me off.
She’s playing another silent, dangerous game. Only this one, she’s not going to win.
Amusement in its darkest form fills me, and I slowly inch my fists down the opening of my jacket, and uncurl them so my palms are lying flat just under the swells of her breasts.
Fuck. I can’t pretend like this isn’t the ultimate exercise in self-control. I’ve already touched her far more than I should any employee, and I know the ghost of her warm, soft flesh under my palms is going to haunt me well into the early hours.
But when her lungs expand under my palms and her head drops back against my chest with a little thud, I know I have her. And now, it’s time to ignore the maddening pulse throbbing in my cock, and swing for a home run.
I focus on the murky silhouette of the Coast in front of us and slide my fingers upward, brushing over the band of her bra, feeling the weight of her heavy tits in the space between my thumbs and forefingers.
And then, as gently as my impulsive Visconti blood will allow, I squeeze.
It’s barely a twitch, but Penelope gasps, and a few seconds later, the sound of four beer glasses hitting the lower deck below rips through the air.
