“When was the last time the three of us were out together?” Tate asks, raising his voice to be heard over the pounding beat.
I swirl the whiskey in my glass. “It’s been a while.”
While Tate often attends our club openings, I only do occasionally, and Roman rarely ever does. I’m sure he considers it beneath him to fraternize with the commoners, let alone his brothers.
But putting on a united front is more important than ever now, which is why we’re all making an appearance at the opening of one of our recent investments. I have no clue if Roman’s enjoying himself or not. He reclines in his chair, drinking top-shelf whiskey, his cool gaze scanning the crowd while a hot blonde chatters in his ear about something I’m sure he doesn’t give a fuck about.
Even with the dim lighting in the VIP section, I can see shadows under his eyes. For the first time, I feel a pang of sympathy for him. It can’t be easy, helming a vessel as large as ours while trying to stop all the rats from jumping ship.
Crystal, the woman who plastered herself to my side as soon as we arrived, puts her hand on my thigh and squeezes. “Would you like to dance?”
“No thanks,” I say, barely glancing in her direction.
Her hand trails further up. “How about after this, you show me your penthouse?”
This time I look at her. I run my gaze from her silky blonde hair to her plump tits and small waist. She’s a knockout. I could do far worse than take her to bed tonight. If I do, it won’t be to my apartment, though. It’ll be to the hotel.
I give her a lazy smile but don’t confirm either way.
“How’s Jessica?” Roman asks me out of the blue.
I frown. “Jessica? I’m sure she’s fine. It’s been a couple of weeks since I saw her. Why?”
“Just wondering if she’s said anything about her father.”
“He isn’t our normal topic of conversation when we’re together. Is there something I should know?”
Roman shakes his head, then without saying anything more, he stands and strides to the bar.
Tate and I share a look. Roman has always been the more serious brother. Even when we were kids. Now he’s practically unreadable.
A dark-haired woman drapes herself over Tate. “You want to dance, sexy?”
Tate runs his hand up the length of her thigh, his fingers disappearing beneath the hemline of her short dress. She gasps and then giggles. His hand reappears and he stands, pulling her up and tugging her to the small VIP dance floor.
Sitting alone, and now the sole focus of the remaining women, I start to get irritated. After finishing my drink, I stand as well, telling my blonde companion that I’m going to the men’s room. When she offers to come with me, I shake my head. I’m not in the mood for bathroom sex tonight. Even if the bathrooms here are first rate.
Thinking of bathroom sex makes me think about Delilah. I remember when I first met her. Before we’d even spoken more than a few words, I’d imagined taking her to the bar’s bathroom and fucking her. It had been a strangely compelling urge. With her breasts spilling over the top of that little black dress and the way she shivered as she drank the whiskey, the idea of sinking my dick into her had overtaken my brain.
Considering she was a virgin, I’m glad I didn’t make that suggestion.
The crowd of women has grown in the last few minutes, so I don’t return to our table after using the men’s room. I wander to the balcony overlooking the dance floor instead.
I lean against the railing, watching the writhing masses below, wondering if Tate will care whether I leave and take blondie with me. I’m just about to return to the group and make my excuses when a woman wearing a shimmery green dress draws my focus. Her dark hair swirls around her shoulders as she moves her hips to the pounding beat. For some reason, I can’t look away.
Men hover around her and her friend in a hopeful swarm, and I narrow my gaze on her. Would they come up here if I send someone to invite them? It’s only when she throws her head back and raises her arms in the air as she dances that I recognize her.
I straighten.
What are the fucking odds?
My hands grip the railing as one of the men moves closer to her. I scan the area for Paul, but I don’t see him. Either he’s not dancing or he didn’t come with her. Or perhaps she found out about Philippa and dumped him.
The man sidles closer, his gyrating hips almost brushing against her ass, and a burst of aggravation has me clenching my teeth. I wonder how she’ll react if he makes contact. If she’s broken up with Paul, she might welcome his touch.
My eyes fix on the man as, growing braver, he slides up behind her and wraps his arm around her waist. Delilah jerks away from him and spins around. With a shake of her head, she moves away, but the guy doesn’t seem to get the message, following her as she tries to avoid him. Delilah’s friend looks like she’s about to intercede, but I’m already on the move. I’m down the stairs and stalking toward them.
Shoving my way through the crowd, I spot Delilah and her friend facing the man, who’s now wearing a scowl. Guess this asshole isn’t a fan of rejection.
With one stride, I’m in his face, bending down to growl in his ear. “I suggest you leave these ladies alone or security will be escorting you from these premises.”
He steps back. “Who the fuck are you?”
I tower over him, so he’s ballsy, I’ll give him that. “The owner. So if you don’t want to find yourself permanently banned, I suggest you leave. Now.”
With a sneer in Delilah’s direction—which has me contemplating throwing him out anyway—he disappears into the crowd.
I turn to face her, taking in her wide eyes and flushed cheeks.
When she doesn’t say anything, her friend steps in. “You’re the new boss, I presume?”
I spare her a glance, noting the slight curve to her lips. “Temporarily.”
Finally Delilah speaks. “You didn’t need to intervene. I had it handled.” There’s a stubborn tilt to her chin.
“I’m sure you did, but this is my club and we don’t tolerate harassment.”
“And I guess all cases of harassment get personal attention from the owner?” She’s had a bit to drink, otherwise I don’t think she’d be talking to me like this. Or maybe she would. All I know is that her attitude gets my blood boiling.
And my dick hard.
“I need to talk to you, Miss West,” I say through gritted teeth.
She tosses her hair. “I’m dancing.”
“I’m not asking.”
“What was that you were just saying about harassment?”
“This isn’t harassment. I’m your boss.”
“Not after hours.”
She’s so defiant. I want to fuck it out of her. “If you were at home and I called you to discuss the project, you wouldn’t answer? Are you telling me you’re not willing to put in the extra hours?”
She gives me a dirty look. “Fine.”
She turns and walks toward the edge of the dance floor, but I wrap my hand around her arm and guide her the other way, further into the mass of dancers.
When we get to a dark corner, I turn her to face me, moving closer until she’s backed against the wall.
“Did you know I’d be here tonight?” I ask.
Her mouth falls open. “You have got to be kidding me. Do you still think I’m stalking you? I didn’t know this was one of your clubs. I didn’t even know you owned clubs.”
The glittering strobe lights reflect in her eyes, distracting me from her reply, and we stare at each other for a heartbeat that seems to last too long. Then she wets her lips. “What do you want to talk to me about, Cole?”
“You know, your attitude leaves a lot to be desired,” I say.
“So does yours.”
I move closer, tipping my head toward hers and enjoying the way her eyes flare and her pulse flutters in her throat.
“What attitude is that?”
“Constantly accusing me of trying to manipulate you. And never saying you’re sorry.”
“You want an apology?”
Her chin tips up. “It would help.”
“Why?”
She blinks at me. “Because . . . you’re wrong. And because . . .” Her gaze dips, then rises to meet mine. “Because you hurt me.” Emotion threads through her voice.
I brush my thumb over her cheek, then press it to the tender skin under her ear as I slide my fingers around the nape of her neck. “How did I hurt you?”
Her eyes dart between mine. “Does it matter?”
“Yes.” And strangely enough, it does.
She releases a ragged breath. “That night we spent together might not have meant anything to you, but . . . it did to me. I was happy that you were the one I had my first time with. I thought I was lucky to have been with someone who made it so good for me. And then . . . then we met again and you accused me of trying to use you, and you ruined it all. You made me regret something that I’d held close to my heart.”
What she’s saying shouldn’t bother me. I’m sure it isn’t the first time I’ve hurt a woman’s feelings. But they usually don’t tell me. If they did, I couldn’t guarantee I’d care. In the sphere I live in, admitting to being hurt is admitting to weakness. No one operating at our level will admit to that.
So why does the vulnerability in Delilah’s eyes trigger a tightness in my chest? Why does knowing she regrets our time together make me want to strip her down and give her a new memory to hold on to?
My dick throbs behind my fly, and all I want to do is press her against the wall, slide my hand under the little dress she’s wearing, and thrust my fingers into her. Make her pant and writhe and come for me, right here in the club, in front of everyone.
Make her feel good again.
The urge is so strong, I have to curl my free hand into a fist to stop myself from touching her. Instead of walking away, which is what I should do, I grasp a tendril of her hair, curling the silky lock around my finger.
“Where’s Paul tonight?” I ask.
She stiffens, as if I’ve reminded her she shouldn’t stand this close to a man who isn’t her boyfriend. “He was too tired to come out. He wanted to have an early night.”
The memory of Paul with his arms around Philippa flashes through my mind. I’d bet my Bugatti he’s balls deep in the blonde woman, not having an early night at home. Though why any man would want to be with that ice queen instead of the woman standing in front of me is beyond me.
Paul’s stupidity is irrelevant, though. I’ve already decided not to interfere with their relationship, regardless of how much I’m craving another taste of her. Risking the project by indulging in my desire would be stupid, and that’s not something anyone’s ever accused me of being.
So why the hell do I lean forward, pinch her chin between my thumb and forefinger, and tip her face toward mine? “I very much doubt Paul is having a quiet night at home.”
Delilah jerks away from my hold and glares at me. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but you don’t know what you’re talking about. Why don’t you go back to your supermodels and leave me alone?”
Irritation rips through my veins, and I step back. “If you want to be willfully blind, that’s your choice. It’s nothing to me. As you said, I’ve got better things to do than care about whether my employees are being taken advantage of by their boyfriends. Crystal has already told me she’s more than happy to bounce on my dick for the rest of the night. I think I’ll take her up on her offer. Have a good night, Delilah. I hope you enjoy the club.”
I turn and stride off, annoyed that I let her get to me. If she wants to place her trust in Paul, that’s her choice.
I return to the VIP section and drop into my seat. Roman has disappeared somewhere, probably back to the office. Tate has his dance partner pressed against a wall. It’s a little too reminiscent of how I just had Delilah.
A waitress brings another glass of whiskey and I take it from her, downing half of it in one go, relishing the fiery burn in my throat. Crystal appears by my side and flings herself onto my lap, grinding on my still-half-hard dick.
“Mmm,” she purrs. “Feels like you’re ready to take me back to your place.”
I run my eyes over the breasts spilling from her dress and imagine peeling the material down so I can suck her nipples while she rides me. I’d been considering taking her back to the hotel before. The picture I’m painting in my mind should seal the deal.
Infuriatingly, the image in my head morphs—blonde hair to brunette, blue eyes to green. And it’s Delilah riding me. Delilah throwing her head back and gasping my name as she clamps down on my cock and milks my orgasm out of me.
My half-hard erection, that remained unmoved during Crystal’s gyrations and my thoughts of fucking her, swells and jerks under her ass.
Crystal rolls her hips, thinking it’s for her, but any interest I had in sleeping with her, if I ever really had any in the first place, has died. The desire to relive my night with Delilah has overtaken my thoughts. She’s off limits, though. Not to mention she hates me. Maybe I just need a good fuck to reset my brain, remind me that sex is sex, and it feels damn fantastic no matter which woman it’s with.
My eyes drop to Crystal’s curves again, and I cup one of her breasts, flexing my fingers and making her moan. It’s a sound worthy of a porn star, and I’ve barely done anything. It irritates me, particularly when my memory taunts me by replaying Delilah’s breathless gasps and needy whimpers as I took her for the first time.
I drop my hand and reach for my drink again, my attention drawn to Tate as he leads the woman toward the private VIP bathrooms.
I throw back the rest of my whiskey and lift Crystal off of me, ignoring her confused frown. “Not tonight.”
She scowls for only a split second before a fake smile fixes in place. “Another time, then.”
She sashays away, and I let my head drop back against the seat. Shit, looks like I’m going home alone tonight.
