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He wasn’t kissing me back, but he dominated me regardless. I felt it in the pounding of my chest. In the weakening of my legs.
In his refusal to Kiss. Me. Back.
He reached an arm around my waist and pulled me closer, still not returning my kiss. His palms explored my hips, curved up to the side of my breasts, then lowered to my ass.
He gripped a cheek and squeezed, pulling my body forward and into him, grinding my core on the side of his thigh like he owned me.
His taunts didn’t go unnoticed.
Neither did the audience.
I got it. I’d kissed him without his permission, so he touched me without mine.
And still, he didn’t kiss me back.
My lips remained pressed to his lifeless ones, and his hands continued to knead my ass, both of us waiting to see who would cave first.
His hand slid from my ass to my front, dipping beneath the hem of my dress.
I took a step back and tore my lips away, mentally cursing myself for using such a stupid, unoriginal, and clichéd approach. I was better than this, but he had made me sloppy.
I was lightheaded from his presence—the heavily intoxicating smell of whiskey, oakmoss, musk, and aged ambergris.
Drunk from the power he radiated. And dizzy from the viscous tension coursing through my veins.
We waited in silence as Aphrodite tucked tail and ran, silently disappearing into the crowd while our eyes locked in a power struggle he was bound to win.
He already won, I reminded myself as I took another tiny step back, hoping he didn’t notice.
He did.
Amusement touched his eyes before it fled like an alleycat, darting away before I could even process it.
Only when Aphrodite was gone from the bar did he return his attention to the bartender's back, dismissing me again, like he had earlier. Like I was worthless.
I felt the dismissal in my gut.
“That’s it?” I kept my voice low and carefully concealed the emotion in it, hoping I didn’t sound as breathless as I felt.
He didn’t respond. I was Aphrodite now, except he had actually looked at me, taken me in, deemed me inferior, and disregarded me.
I felt like a flea. A pest. The minnow I had mentally accused Dana, his ex-girlfriend, of being.
In this moment, I knew that Wilks had been right to some degree. I needed the power of my last name. This legend had no chance of surviving otherwise.
Not with this apathetic jerk involved.
I took a seat on the stool next to him, far enough away that I felt like I could breathe a little again.
“Ariana De Luca,” I introduced myself. “But you can call me Ari.”
He didn’t react. Not physically, at least. But I felt his attention as he spoke, still not facing me.
“That’s an interesting last name.”
“It’s just a last name.”
He curled his fingers around his glass. “Sure. In the same way Romano is just a last name.”
