The innocent movement instantly hardens me, and even though she’s simply holding my phone and looking up at me with her doe eyes, I groan and catch her lips with mine again.
“You’re a little minx. When I have you alone again, Vincenza…”
I don’t finish my thought, unsure if I should. My attraction to her is more than just physical, and I want her to know that.
There are also things about my sexual preferences we must discuss prior to us sharing a bed.
Winding her arms around my neck, she presses up on her tiptoes to give me a final kiss, then gently pushes me away. “Go. I need to get back to work anyway, I have a meeting in—” She glances at the diamond-banded smartwatch on her wrist. “Five minutes.”
She hands me my phone so I can unlock it, before plucking it from my fingertips and adding her number into it.
“There,” she says matter-of-factly. “Now you have it. I’ve got to go, and so do you. Have fun on your trip.”
Stepping back, she starts to walk away, but I grab her wrist, tugging her back to me because I just can’t get enough.
My lips collide with hers in one last kiss—one I’m hoping will keep the memory of me on her mind throughout the night, because I certainly won’t stop thinking of her.
She smiles at me and walks away, glancing over her shoulder after a few steps.
The grin on my face rivals hers as I call out, “Addio, piccola ladra!”Goodbye, little thief.
Not hiding the fact that I’m watching her leave, I appreciate the gentle sway of her hips as she walks, andthe way her body looks beneath her tight clothing. But I’m aware of the time, so I tug my helmet back on and follow her steps beneath the breezeway, crossing the street to where I’ve parked the Ducati.
I have fifteen minutes before I’m due to meet Lorenzo and Sullivan, and as I climb onto my bike, I bet myself I can make it to them in ten.
The motorcycle roars to life beneath me; the vibrations igniting a thrill within me as I steady the bike then jet off, weaving through the traffic on Columbus Avenue.
Chapter 20
Sly
The bass of electronic dance music does nothing for the headache that’s clawed its way into my skull and is currently radiating pain.
Sitting on a black leather couch, I’m relaxed into it, legs spread wide while I nurse a bourbon. I watch the dance floor from the private balcony Enzo rented for us, suppressing a yawn that begs to come out.
Below me, Sully is in the center of the dance floor sandwiched between two women. His greedy hands wander the one at his front, while the one behind him looks as though she’s too inebriated to function.
He’s having fun, though. I can see the joy on his face from here, as he dances without a care.
His meeting went well, and we celebrated with a bottle of Mitcher’s 25, sent over by Sullivan Senior as a congratulations to his son.
“Why do you look like someone pissed in your Cheerios, cousin?” Enzo asks from where he sits in aleather armchair to the side of the couch I sit on. A redhead is draped across his lap, her face buried against his neck, her hand slid partway through his slightly unbuttoned dress shirt.
“Not much in the party mood,” I tell him, returning my gaze to the dance floor.
My mind has been elsewhere since boarding the plane early this afternoon. I haven’t yet texted her, but my idle fingers have been itching to all evening.
“That’s a shame,” Enzo continues. “It’s been a long time since we’ve partied together.”
“Sì, it has.”
Years, in fact.
I can’t say I miss it.
“We used to share a pretty girl every now and then.” I turn my attention back to him just as he pulls the redhead’s hair aside, exposing her neck. There’s a glimmer in his eye—one that says he’s taunting me.
He’s exaggerating. We’ve never shared a girl sexually—no more than allowing her to climb back and forth from our laps at parties, kissing us until one of us snapped and carried her to a bedroom.
