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TEMPEST
My first outingas Mrs. Sartorre may have been a bit of a disaster. But again, I’m choosing to blame the disgusting cigar bar, not to mention dinner with the Mafia versions of the Stepford wives for that one.
It’s going to be tough to blame the setting the second time around, though, considering that the venue tonight is the stunning Metropolitan Museum of Art.
I mean, I’ve been to some pretty swanky parties and galas thrown by Crown and Black over the years. But when Dante pulls the black Mercedes G-Wagon up to the front of the museum, my jaw drops when I stare out through the tinted windows.
Holy. Shit.
The event tonight is a fundraising gala for the New York City Fallen Firemen’s Fund, a group that helps the families of firemen killed in the line of duty receive benefits and financial support. But you’d swear we’d just pulled up to the Oscars.
Paparazzi cameras flash. There’s a red carpet. Limos full of minor celebrities, the mayor, and more. Dante opens my door and helps me out, even catching me when a photographer who probably thinks I’m someone important blinds me with their camera.
Inside, he arches a brow at my hesitation when we stop by the coat check. The implication isn’t lost on me.
At that awful dinner, I kept my coat on for most of the meal. One, because it had been spared the stench of smoke, since it was coat-checked at the cigar bar. And two, because one of the Mafia Stepford wives—the one who asked me if I had cocaine—made a comment about my “perky little titties” when we were leaving the cigar bar. She even made a comment to her gross husband about it, who then made a point of staring at my chest for the rest of the evening.
So, yeah, I’m keeping the coat on this time.
“What?” I shrug at Dante. “I’m cold.”
“Lose. The. Jacket.”
“Why? Trying to show me off? Using me as bait to lure in?—”
“No, you just look fuckingbeautiful, and I think you should embrace that for once.”
We both stiffen the second he says it. My cheeks flush, and a tingle zaps through my core.
“I mean…the dress looks beautiful, on you,” he grunts, frowning. “Ginevra does amazing work.”
“That she does,” I say distractedly, looking down at the gorgeous black and gold strapless number she made for me that feels veryvintage Audrey Hepburn. The dress arrived complete with black heels, thigh-highs, and matching lacy black lingerie that’s about one thousand times sexier than any underwear I’ve ever owned.
“Did Genevra pick the heels, too?”
He nods. “She does it all.”
“Well, she’s got fantastic taste in lingerie.”
“That part was me.”
My eyes lift back up, faltering before they even get to Dante’s when they lock onto his lips.
…His perfect, masculine and yet supremely sensual lips.
Okay, we seriously need to stop doing what we did last night at Club Venom. And then again, against the inside of the front door of his penthouse the second we got home.
Or…do we?
It’s something I’ve been wrestling with. A huge part of me feels like we’re not supposed to be crossing this line physically. But I mean, the clock is ticking for me, and there are worse ways to spend the last few months of your life than screwing aman with divine, God-like dick that he knows how to use.
Like, even if the relationship and the marriage are pretend, the orgasms are totally fucking real.
But now, the way he’s looking at me, and the tingle that creeps through my chest when he calls me beautiful…I don’t know. It does feel like crossing a line we’re not supposed to cross. I think we both realize that.
Hence him downplaying it immediately afterward.
I tremble when I let Dante take my coat and give it to the attendant. Then I shiver again when he slips his arm through mine and leads me into the gala itself.
