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“Jennifer Valentini told me about Russu.”
“The Valentini front?”
“Yep.”
“You want to go to a nightclub?”
“Yep.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Helpful.”
“I try.”
“You hate clubs. At least, I thought you did.”
“I didn’t always hate them.”
My words had him falling silent. Then, quietly, he asked, “Another scar?”
Scars were what we’d started to call these little blips in my past that I needed help overcoming.
“Uh-huh. But I asked Jennifer if she could arrange with the club to play the music I like. I even asked her to throw in some noxxious remixes later on in the evening. Though I’m not fucking you while my dad’s singing.”
“Fuck, no.” He shuddered. “That’s creepy.”
“I’m glad we both agree,” I retorted.
“Wait—” Conor twisted in his seat. “You want to fuck in the club?”
“I do.” I motioned at my skirt. “Why do you think I’m not wearing jeans?”
“I didn’t think about it. I saw your knees and suddenly knew there is a God.”
I snickered, but my cheeks bloomed with heat. “They’re just regular knees.”
“Star Sullivan, you take that back.”
“Take what back?”
“Nothing, and I mean nothing, is regular about you.”
Grinning, I shoved him in the side. “You’re already going to get lucky tonight. You don’t need to amp up the charm.”
“That’s just how I roll, baby.”
Because it was, I didn’t scoff, just shoved him again, but there was a wide smile on my lips, one that ate into any anxiety I was feeling about being back in a nightclub.
My last memory of one involved a collar, a leash, and being strangled by both as Hans had to stop me from jumping—
I started to veer away from the recollection, not wanting it to diminish the excitement that filled me whenever I was around Conor, but I owed him an explanation.
That was our deal, after all.
Clearing my throat, I admitted, “You might not like what I need to do tonight.”
