Filthy (A Bad Boy Romance)(33)

Sarah’s hand comes up to cover her mouth. Her eyes have gone big and wide, like she might cry, but she blinks a couple of times and they clear. The bartender approaches her; she nods, and he brings her another drink.

I head toward the bar. Probably not the best idea, approaching Sal’s girl, but…

Wait, now. Maybe it’s a good idea, after all. What better way to make Sal look like the useless piece of shit he is? Smirking, I head for the bar and side onto the barstool Sal just vacated.

Sarah looks up, surprised.

“Can I get you a drink?” I ask her.

She gestures toward the highball glass in front of her. “I’ve got a drink.”

“You finish that one. I’ll get you another one.”

“I don’t know. I’ve probably had enough.”

I shrug. “I’ll get you one anyway. You might get thirsty.” I hold my hand out to her. “Nick Angelino.”

She nods. “I know.” Hesitantly, she slides her small hand into mine. “Sarah Corelli.”

“I know.” I grin at her, and she manages a wan smile back. Of course we know each other. Everybody in the family knows each other one way or another, even if only by reputation. But as far as having been formally introduced—that’s a different story. “You’re awful damn pretty to be here all on your own.”

“I’m not on my own. I’m with Sal. You know Sal?” The edge to her voice tells me she’s warning me off. That she’s taken.

I shrug it off. “Everybody knows Sal.” I try not to make a face when I say his name. “And it doesn’t look like he’s here right now. He left you here all alone? Unsupervised? How does he know nobody’s going to just pick you up and take you home with them?” I lean a little closer. “Like, say, me?”

Her expression becomes a bit wary. “Are you suggesting something?”

“Honey, I’m always suggesting something.” I trace a finger along the back of her hand. She doesn’t flinch away, or slap me, or throw her drink in my face, so that’s a win.

I’ve seen her several times before, here and there, across a room or milling through a crowd of partygoers. She’s usually been on Sal’s arm. She’s even prettier up close than I imagined from seeing her at a distance. She doesn’t seem to have much on in the way of makeup, and her skin is clear and appears virtually poreless. Smooth, like porcelain. I want to touch her. Is all her skin that creamy-pale ivory color? I can picture it—miles and miles of smooth, flawless skin, face to tits to thighs. I can damn near feel it under my fingers.

Her hair is sleek and black, done up in an up-do that looks like it probably took four hairdressers and an architect to construct. One pull on one of those ivory sticks poking out of it and it’d be all down around her shoulders, I bet. Tousled and unkempt, like she just got out of bed after a long, thorough fuck. My dick’s getting hard just looking at this woman, and suddenly I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. Want her under me, pinned by the wrists while I shove my dick into her until she writhes and screams.

I let my gaze trail down her long neck, over her collarbones, down to the soft mounds of her breasts where they’re propped up by her strapless dress. It’s dark purple, and shiny. Those tits are a work of art. Suddenly I’m picturing Sal’s big, blocky hands on them, his thumbs tweaking her nipples, and it makes me almost queasy. How the hell did she end up with that asshole, anyway? She deserves better.

“Hey,” she says. “Eyes up.”

I look up and grin. “Bossy little thing, aren’t you?”

“Sometimes.” She tips her chin up, challenging me with a direct stare. Her eyes are the clearest green I’ve ever seen.

“I bet Sal’s not fond of that. He doesn’t much like being told what to do.”

“Sal’s not fond of a lot of things.” There’s a tightness to her voice that tells me there’s more to that story than I’ll ever know—way more than she’ll ever tell me.

“Sal’s not very smart.” I keep my voice low, talking close to her ear now, so close I can smell a faint whiff of lavender coming from her hair, can feel the warmth of her face.

“You’re not wrong.” She says it so quietly I’m not sure I actually heard her. When it soaks in, I give her a smile.

“Let’s dance.”

Her gaze roots to mine, then she gives a quick, worried glance around the room. She’s looking for Sal, and there’s fear in her eyes. In that moment, I’d like to punch Sal in the face, see blood spurt from his nose. My eyes go hot with anger.

“I’m not sure I should,” she says.

I shrug, trying to keep myself under control so I don’t scare her. Sal’s already scared her enough for the both of us, and I hate him for it. “Just a dance,” I reassure her. “Not like I’m going to fuck you in the middle of the dance floor, right?”

Her smile is wan. Maybe I shouldn’t have worded it quite so bluntly. I return her smile, trying to take some of the sting out of my poorly considered words. “Just a dance.”

Her eyes turn to mine again, and her anxiety softens. “Okay. Fine. Just a dance.” She slides from the barstool, and as I reach for her hand, she lifts a finger in caution. “Just a dance. You’ll keep your hands to yourself. Understand?”

“Of course.” She slides her hand into mine. Her fingers are long and slim, and I notice her nails are cut short. There’s no polish on them at all. I wonder why. Most of the rest of the women here are dressed and groomed to the nines, right down to the perfect manicures. I find her blunt, plain nails intriguing. I find everything else about her intriguing, too.

We weave through the crowd until we reach the area where other couples are dancing. I swing her out to arm’s length, and then draw her back against me, and we sway into the rhythm of the music.

There’s a thing about dancing. Maybe it’s just me, but when I have a woman tucked up nice and close against me, swaying to the music, her body moving against mine, all I can think about is sex. I want to slide my hand down the curve of her back, cup her ass with my fingers, see how close I can get to her pussy before she cuts me off. But I won’t do that, because I want to keep dancing. She told me to keep my hands to myself, so I’m going to have to stay polite if I want to keep her here in this perfectly chaste, perfectly acceptable embrace.

Still, that doesn't stop me from thinking about it. Glancing down, I can see between the twin mounds of her breasts. My hand would fit perfectly in the dark space between them. She’d be warm there, the heat collecting under her tits. I could slip my fingers around to the front, pinch her nipple…

My hand is splayed across the small of her back, and I jerk back to myself as she gives me a slight head-tilt. I realize my dick is rock-hard; she can probably feel it as we sway together. I give her a smile. It’s probably pretty smug. But there’s nothing I can do about my dick. It has a mind of its own. Right now it wants inside Sarah.

I can’t say I don’t agree. What would Sal think about that, if I fucked his woman? He wouldn’t like it one bit, I’m sure. Suddenly I’m thinking about what Sal’s face would look like if I fucked Sarah and he found out about it. Face red, veins bulging. Maybe he’d drop dead from a stroke, or a heart attack. Wouldn’t that be a kick? Easiest way ever for me to take over as Spada’s favored member.

I sober then, focusing again on Sarah, letting my gaze settle on hers. My own thoughts unsettle me. A few months ago, chortling to myself about somebody’s death would have been par for the course. But not so much now. I want Sal’s position, sure. I want his woman, sure. But I don’t really want his death. There are better ways.

Sarah tips her head again, her brows drawing together in a frown. “What are you thinking about?”

I shake my head. “Nothing.” Then I think better of it and lean forward to whisper in her ear, “I’m thinking about taking your clothes off and fucking you up against a wall.”

Her hand tightens on mine, and her frown deepens. “I don’t think that’s appropriate. Let me go.”

Rather than letting her go, I pull her a little closer. “Thoughts don’t hurt anyone.”

I feel her relaxing against me. “Maybe you should think about something else.”

“Probably.” I swing her around, give her a little dip and grin. The playfulness of it seems to defuse her suspicions a little. She’s enchanting. Why in the world is she stuck with Sal?

Somebody should do something about that. And, I decide, that somebody should be me.

“You should run away with me,” I tell her.

She laughs. It’s got a nervous edge to it. “I can’t do that.”

“Sure you can. Let’s go. Right now. I’ll take you home with me.”

“Why would you even want to do that?” I can’t quite read her voice. It’s the tiniest bit shaky. Is she afraid? Excited? Then her eyes cut to one side and I realize she’s looking for Sal. And she’s afraid. Of him, not of what I’m suggesting to her. Something twists in my chest.

I keep my voice light, though. Teasing. It’s just a game. So far, anyway. “I like you.” It’s true enough.