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I haven’t had this much trouble keeping my cock from getting inappropriately hard since I was a teenager. But this one girl seems to have upended all of that.
And she hasn’t texted me back.
“That’s all good stuff,” Lorenzo says, when I finish telling him about our various business developments. “I’m just asking you to keep an open mind, if this doesn’t all turn out to be as lucrative as you think it will.”
“My mind is always open. I’m just trying to mitigate risk.”
“Now you sound like one of my professors,” Carmine grouses, but there’s friendly humor in his voice.
He and Lorenzo both leave after a few more minutes of small talk, leaving me alone in my office. A few moments later, my phone buzzes again, and I reach for it more quickly than I should have.
Works for me.
That’s it. Nothing else—no mention of what happened between us, no flirtation. Strictly business. It should tell me very clearly how she feels about the possibility of anything happening between us in the future.
But I saw the look in her eyes just before she left. I saw the distance she put between us in order to keep me from kissing her.
She wanted more. She just, for some reason—maybe the conflict of business and pleasure—keeps fighting it.
I don’t want her to fight it. I want her to give in, until we’re both sated.
All the way back home, I can’t keep myself from replaying moments with her in my head. Her reaction when I first kissed her—the way she arched against me, her mouth opening for my tongue. The way she shivered when I touched her. How warm and wet she was. How fucking good it felt to be inside of her—all the noises she made for me, the way it sounded when she cried out my name. How easily she responded to me.
It makes me feel like a man possessed. I know, as I strip off my suit and throw on something more incongruous—black jeans, a black t-shirt, and a hoodie—that this is insane. That I’m behaving in ways I never have before, and shouldn’t now.
But I want to see her. I don’t want to text her, or even call. I want to see the look on her face when she sees me unexpectedly, after what we shared. I want to see with my own eyes how she reacts to me.
I’ll know then if she really wants this, or if it truly was just a one-night thing.
I take my ‘69 Camaro—black and menacing and the kind of car that won’t be out of place in East LA, where I’m going. Even as I fire up the engine, I know I shouldn’t be doing this. My heart is pounding with adrenaline, with excitement. No one has made me feel this before. I don’teverfeel like this about a woman.
If I were going to change that now, it shouldn’t be for Emma. No one could be less suited to the world I live in.
But I pull out of the garage anyway, following the directions to her shop.
I don’t go to this side of town, for exactly the reasons that Lorenzo and I discussed earlier. It’s not our territory, and even being here suggests that we might be overstepping our boundaries. Don Pesci had eyes everywhere, and as little respect as I have for Altiere, he might, too. But I’m not technically doing anything that could cause problems between us—or shouldn’t, anyway. I’m not conducting business or meeting with anyone. I’m just going to see my tattoo artist.
Still, there’s a reason why the appointments were set up to be done privately at my home, back when I first arranged it.
I park in a garage a block from the Night Orchid—the closest one available—and keep my head on a swivel as I walk towards the shop. I didn’t bring a gun with me, and I consider that might not have been the best course of action. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle, but I tell myself I’m being paranoid. That there’s no reason to think anyone would be watching me.
I haven’t even spoken to Altiere. He hasn’t reached out to me. We have the barest awareness of one another. It’s rudeness on his part, but it also indicates that he isn’t interested in spending his time worrying about the Campano family or our doings.
Or he thinks you’re not worth his time, and is waiting for a moment to strike.
Before I can resolve that thought, I’m at the door of the Night Orchid. I push it open and step inside, and I’m instantly blasted with a wave of hard rock, pulsing through the building like a second heartbeat. The shop seems empty of clients, but I see Emma with her back to me, leaning over the front desk. She’s talking to a man who looks about her age, wearing cargo shorts and an obnoxiously bright tank top, with thick muscles in his upper arms and a shaggy blond surfer’s haircut. He’s grinning at her, and I can see her shoulders shaking with laughter—and an irrational wave of angry jealousy sweeps through me.
It’s the same feeling I had when I heard a man call her back into the shop over the phone, and it burns through my veins again, overtaking rational thought. I stand there for what feels like a full minute—though it's probably less—before I clear my throat.
Emma spins around. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear—” she starts to say, before it registers with her who she’s looking at, and her eyes go wide. “Dante.”
It’s not precisely the reaction I was hoping for. She looks shocked, but not entirely pleased. The jealousy that’s burning a green flame through me makes me wonder if it has anything to do with the surfer boy on the other side of that desk.
“I thought I’d come by and say hello. I was in town.” My jaw clenches, and I feel the small muscle there jump. “But I can see you’re busy.”
Her eyes narrow. She’s more perceptive than I would have thought, and I can see her piecing together my reaction.
“I’ll leave.” The words come out colder than I mean for them to, and I see Emma’s face tighten.
