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“I can’t...I can’t believe it’s you,” she says softly.
“Would you like something to drink?” I ask, changing the subject.
When we last parted, we weren’t on good terms.
“No, I’m good.”
I walk up to her and grab her hand, pulling her close to my body. She doesn’t say a word and we remain that way for several minutes.
I can feel her heart thudding in her chest, and I’m sure she can feel mine doing the same. My dick is so rigid I swear it’ll break off if I tap it against something. There’s no way that she can’t feel it, too, and she confirms it.
“He always was excited to see me,” she says, smirking.
I pull back and hold her face, looking down at her.
My eyes slowly search hers wondering if the years have been kind to her and what she’s done in the last eight years of her life.
I bend down and kiss her lips. We don’t take the kiss any further than that. It’s just a meeting of our lips as we drink in one another’s presence.
I pull back and stare into those large, brown eyes that have haunted me for the last several years.
“I had no idea you owned this club.”
Smirking, I reply, “You know all the best clubs and restaurants in this city are owned by a DeLuca.”
“Yes, but the only two DeLucas I know were in Italy last I heard,” she says sadly.
“Your tattoo business is doing damn good. No?” I ask, changing the subject.
She lifts an eyebrow and pulls back, folding her arms.
“How do you know that?”
I look her up and down before my gaze meets hers again. “My last name—”
“Is DeLuca. I know,” she says, repeating the words I often spoke whenever she asked me how I knew something.
I watch as she walks away from me, the tight white dress fitting her curves so perfectly. Thick black curls frame her face and hang to the middle of her back.
I recall my fingers being tangled up in those curves as I drove into her from behind.
“To answer your question, I’m here celebrating tonight.”
“Celebrating?”
“My engagement,” she says.
My heart drops, and though I have no right to feel this way, jealousy burns its way through me, searing everything inside.
My steps to the couch are measured and slow.
“Engaged?” I say, dropping down beside her.
“Yes.”
“What’s the bastard’s name?”
“You don’t need to worry about that.”
