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Without missing a beat, she links us together, and I lead her away into the night.
Al cuore non si comanda.
The heart wants what it wants.
“This iswhat we call the negotiation room,” Dante says as he leads me into a small, intimate room that shoots off from the ballroom.
I shamelessly take in his backside, the way his form-fitting jet-black suit clings to his muscular frame and his ungodly firm ass. Gulping down my previous reluctance as I follow him into the “negotiation room,” I remind my fight-or-flight instincts that I chose this…that I’m finally able to do something for me and experience life. The man in front of me is very clearly interested in spending time with me, and I’d be a complete moron to turn him away.
My mind flutters from the possibility of having sex withhim.
On ruining all of my father’s carefully laid plans…
I latch my gaze onto his body again, unable to look away for long.
I certainly wouldn’t protest this man showing me a thing or two…
The four walls surrounding us help to muffle the thumping music from the party, and I take in the room as Dante motions for me to sit in a tufted high-back black chair while he closes the door.
The aesthetic in here is appealing, from the comfortable furniture to the glass table separating me from Dante. I’m grateful for the space it puts between us, having a hard time breathing normally around the man.
“Negotiation room?” I ask, desperate to break free from my own thoughts. “Like when a man approaches a woman and offers to pay her to sleep with him?”
Dante smirks, reaches out to grab the crystal decanter on the table, and pours us each a glass of dark liquid. “You’re way out of your league, Ms. Carey.”
“Giana.”
He nods and takes a sip from his glass, and I’m helplessly entranced as his Adam’s apple bobs. Even his throat is a turn-on.
“Giana,” he says, taking time to enunciate each syllable.
My name on his tongue sounds like sin—a fucking melodic sin. Like it was written by Bach or Beethoven, perfectly composed into existence.
Dante adjusts his gold cuff links and rolls up his sleeves, showcasing his muscular tan forearms, and nestles himself backward in the chair, eyeing me. “It’s not only men who approach women, and many of our clients pay no fees to each other for their discretions.”
I hear his words, but that voice of his damn near physically impairs me. I can’t get over it. I need it to not be so damn intoxicating. So deep and inviting.
I shake my head, wondering exactly how this man makes any money off his club if there isn’t some kind of business transaction. My father has kept me out of the life, but he hasn’t brought me up to be a brainless woman. Money is the reason for everything—even sex.
“How does this place continue running and throwing parties as lavish as ones like this without an exchange of money?” I ask, genuinely curious about the ins and outs.
Anything to keep my mind off the way he looks at me.
Dante crosses a leg over his knee, cradling his rocks glass in his hand and tapping his fingers against the arm of his chair with the other. “Well, not that you need to be concerned about how my club stays in business, but the clients who belong to this club pay for a membership. We do have women who work for us, who are here for an actual job, but many of the people you see here are paying members.” Dante adjusts in the chair and runs his fingers through his hair, his rings catching the overhead light and glimmering. “This room can be used for negotiating rates, but it’s also used for consensual terms. What people’s hard limits are, their desires, and their obsessions. This room has heard a lot of dirty little secrets.”
I smirk and eye the drink he’s poured for me, but resist picking it up despite knowing liquid courage is a real thing. Dante lets out a low chuckle, and I immediately right myself, the smirk falling from my face.
“You can drink that, you know. I poured it for you…just in case you thought someone else was coming.”
“Oh, I know it’s for me,” I tell him, his complete focus and attention on me giving me the surge in confidence to speak so frankly. I glance at the drink again and then back to him. “I didn’t see that liquor poured from the bottle, and I don’t drink anything that someone could have fucked with.”
“You’re sexy when you curse.”
His words crash into me, and I try to evade the feeling they give me by laughing. When I compose myself, I bat away his compliment.
“You’re just trying to fuck me. Men don’t like women who curse. It’s unbecoming.”
You’re just trying to fuck me?I really just said that. To the hottest man I’ve ever seen. My big mouth, which my father has always insisted I control, has once again made me look like an ass.
