“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 too 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 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 pore-less. 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 updo 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 swells 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.
“He’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 bar stool, and as I reach for her hand, she lifts a finger in caution. “Just a dance. You’ll keep your hands to yourself. Understand?”