Page 224 of Remy

She’s wearing a bare slip of a dress, deep red, low at the neckline, and from the few glimpses I’ve caught sight of between the movement of bodies, it also rides cock-numbingly high on those toned thighs.

She’s a walking wet dream, and I’m not the only one to notice.

I scan the clubgoers lining the dance floor, taking note of all the men who ogle her as I remain in the shadows near one of the bouncer alcoves.

“I didn’t pick her as the type to draw attention,” Valenti says over the music.

She’s not. That dress is for me, and the knowledge makes my dick uncomfortably hard.

The leggy brunette she works with shimmies a few feet to Ollie’s left, attracting just as much male interest, while the other woman—Amy? Allison?—has her hands all over a blonde in thigh-high stiletto boots to the right.

“Your usual, boss.” A waitress stops in front of me, her serving tray empty apart from the lone whiskey tumbler filled with amber liquid.

“Thanks.” I take the drink without making eye contact.

“Do you think it’s going to be busy tonight?” she purrs.

I glower, my scrutiny remaining on Ollie as she sways to the beat.

“Only time will tell, sweetheart,” Russo answers for me, jerking his chin at her in silent dismissal.

Her shoulders slump and she walks away, metaphorical tail between her legs.

“She was on the prowl.” Valenti states the obvious.

“They always are,” Russo mutters. “If only we had a boss who thought to make introductions.”

I shoot him a glance and raise the glass of scotch to my lips. “If you want to mix business with pleasure, by all means, go for it. You both deserve the night off.”

He screws up his nose. “Nah. Not tonight. I’m too curious to see what happens with you and your little lady.”

“Shit,” Valenti curses under his breath.

“What?” Russo stiffens in alert as both of us return our attention to the dance floor.

My pulse rushes in my ears at the sight of the spiky-haired guy closing in behind Ollie.

He says something in her ear. Something that makes her laugh and turn in his direction.

I clench my teeth.

I thought she hated people.

“What do you want us to do, boss?” Russo asks.

I scrub a rough hand over my mouth, forcing patience. “Nothing.” Yet.

She’s allowed to dance with other men.

I may not like it. I may even hate it so much I’m contemplating my club’s downfall with a brutal murder in front of all my patrons. But if there’s anything I’ve learned this week, it’s to bite my tongue.

The song ends and another begins, this one a techno remix of a classic love song.

To my fucking horror, Ollie steps closer to the walking death wish and places her hands on the guy’s shoulders. I can only assume his hands are somewhere far lower. I can’t see a damn thing through the throng of bodies.

I take another sip of scotch.

Then another.

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