If she’s an ex-lover looking for payback for Remy or Salvatore, she may not know what her actions will instigate. The Costas aren’t the type of people anyone should taunt. Not only are they vicious, but they’re fucking stupid. It’s a lethal combination.
I stop at the railing separating me from the bopping, booze-infested club-goers and grip the cold metal in both hands. It’s not them I see, though. It’s still her. The dark hair. The unfathomably deep blue eyes.
I need to find her. To touch more of her velvet-soft skin.
The brush of her thighs was enough to haunt my dreams. The jasmine and vanilla scent of her hair will live with me forever. All of her will. Never has a woman been so intriguing. Strong yet scared. Confident yet unsure.
A commotion starts on the dance floor before me. One man shoves another before my bouncers push from nearby walls to silently threaten their involvement. But it’s not the shoving or the hired thugs that attract my attention.
It’s the woman swaying her hips to the beat a few feet in front of me, her arms raised high, her dark hair cascading down her back.
For a second, I think it’s her—Denver.
The figure matches. The lush hips, the slender waist.
It isn’t until she turns that my fantasies take a nose-dive. Everything else about her is wrong. The lips uneven, the lower far bigger than the top, not precisely symmetrical. The face is round, too, not oval with high cheekbones and mysterious eyes.
My body doesn’t care though. My blood pumps faster at the diluted comparison. My cock hardens, wanting relief from the obsession.
I watch her, pretending the swaying woman is mine, not taking my gaze off her as the flashing lights blink over her body.
Need pulses in my throat by the time our eyes meet. It’s a simple travelling glance at first. A brief scan of her surroundings. Until she notices me staring. Then her intent snaps back to mine, her smile quick to form.
That’s wrong, too.
The curve of lips doesn’t dazzle or intrigue.
It’s fucking disappointing. Almost deflating. But my cock doesn’t get the memo because it’s still in full-blown Denver mode.
My libido thinks she’s here. She’s the one dancing before me, her wild eyes intoxicating, her delicious body coaxing.
The woman continues to hold my gaze, her hips rolling, her arms moving above her head. I cling tighter to the banister, my knuckles aching, my throat drying.
I’m going to succumb.
After twenty-four hours obsessing about a mystery woman—living and breathing the questions that continuously slam my mind—I need relief.
I fucking deserve it.
I crook a finger at the dancer. Her mouth flattens for a shock-filled moment before she lowers her arms to her sides and saunters toward me.
The closer she gets, the paler the comparison, but I’m too far gone to divert this train wreck.
She stops on the lower level before me and calls out, “Did you want me?”
No, I want Denver.
“Yes.” I rake my gaze over her, my pulse lessening with the new misgivings now apparent up close. The irises that are brown not blue. The bump on the bridge of her nose. “Care to join me in the VIP room?”
Her eyes widen, then she swings around, glancing toward her friends in the crowd. She waves them farewell without a thought to her safety and returns her focus to me with a grin. “Let’s go.” She hustles along the outside of the dance floor, up the three steps, then straight to my side.
Self-loathing is a constant companion as I lead her to the upper level filled with more dancing drinkers, then through the guarded doors to the quieter, exclusive part of the club.
But it’s early on a Thursday night, so nobody with a glowing reputation has arrived yet.
It’s just us, the bartender, and two couples who would’ve shed a couple hundred bucks for a once-in-a-lifetime experience that reeks of egotistical exclusivity.
I buy my companion a drink, pretend to listen to her life story, and flash my winning grin whenever I feel it’s necessary. But I can’t hold her gaze. She’s nothing in comparison to Denver. Not with her over-the-top bubbly personality or her constant need to flick her hair as if she’s involved in some fucking pathetic mating ritual.
Problem is, my dick won’t cooperate. He’s still all in, demanding something to numb the infatuation I hold for someone else.
“Have we met before?” The woman asks in a garbled rush. “Do we know each other? Because I’m sure I’ve seen you around. Your face is familiar. Handsome, too. You’re like this quiet, mysterious type. It’s so chill.” She pauses for a breath and a sip of her cocktail, then giggles to herself. “This is surreal… But damn, I really need to pee.”
She’s fucking high—the frantic speech, the glazed eyes.
I’m fully aware I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel, and I still can’t stop.
When she stands from our booth to go to the bathroom, I escort her, always a fucking gentleman. Then I wait in the hall, my shoulder leaned against the wall, my arms crossed.
These minutes alone, with the bass thumping beneath my feet from downstairs, and my hunger building for a stranger, only increase my impatience. My fucking addiction.
I have to find Denver.
The restaurant staff told me her reservation was made under the name Adley Javernick. A ghost. Someone who doesn’t exist in Colorado or any of the surrounding states. Not even online.
She covered her tracks, which only reinforces my belief that she was spying for underhanded reasons.
I’ll make Bishop return to Perfezione tomorrow. He can obtain the security videos from my friends in management. If I’m lucky, she may have fled our hotel rendezvous toward the restaurant, maybe caught a cab and been lax enough to use a credit card as payment.
“You waited for me?” The brunette saunters over from the bathroom, her lipstick reapplied.
“I did.” I push from the wall, hating how much she’s a poor substitute. Hating myself even more for moving forward regardless. “I thought we could use a little privacy.”
I grab her hand and drag her into me. She giggles like a child and I slam my mouth to hers to shut her up. But this isn’t Denver. The kiss is awkward, her lips taking too damn long to match my rhythm.
What I picture with my fantasy girl is far more brilliant.
Fated and perfect.
The only reason I keep my mouth fused to hers is the knowledge that I need something more than my own hand to gain relief from my suffering. Five fingers and a sweaty palm won’t dislodge the woman commanding my thoughts. I’m not sure anything will.
I keep our lips meshed and drag her hips into me, settling her against my cock. She moans, the vibrations filtering along my tongue, into my chest.
I picture the most brilliant blue eyes. The lushest thighs. The sexiest coy smile.
With rough hands I spin her, making her face the wall. I guide her flush against the cool plaster, her long hair cascading over her back, the sight a hundred times easier to manipulate in my mind.
This is what I want. What I fantasized about on the jet home. The slim waist. Beautiful hair. Athletic legs. I close in against her, my mouth on her neck, my hard dick pressing against her ass.
“You’ve made me crazy,” I growl into her ear. “Fucking mindless.”
She giggles, the sound stifling the illusion. It goddamn slingshots me from fantasy to sickening reality, the hardness of my cock taking the brunt of the downfall.