Page 25 of Red My Lips

“It’s not a request, Jill.” Sitting forward in his chair, his smile turns vicious. “This is the part where I remind you that you don’t have a choice—I say, you do. Go grab your kit and meet me outside. If you’re not in the parking lot in fifteen minutes, I’m coming in after you.”

White-hot anger flashes inside of me. There are a million words on the tip of my tongue, ready to lash out and eviscerate him. But my temper turns Gage on, and knowing that he’ll get off on it stops me. Instead, I take a silent, calming breath and hammer him with a sweetly acidic smile.

“Yes sir.” The heat in his eyes means my choice of words did nothing to put him off, so I continue. “Any excuse to flirt with a room full of men with money.”

With that, I turn and saunter out of the room.

I wait until it’s been exactly sixteen minutes before I step out of the club into the parking lot with my bartender kit in my designer leather backpack. Gage is waiting for me like I knew he would be, standing like he does when he watches me—relaxed and settled like he has all the time in the world. He’s leaning against his motorcycle, muscular arms crossed. He straightens when I approach, his gaze taking stock of my bottle service heels.

Since I’d been planning on standing behind the bar all night, I’d worn a comfortable pair of my worn-in Dunks. But a high-stakes poker game calls for some sexy nude pumps—these are my money-making heels.

“Another thirty seconds, and I would’ve had to hunt you down. I was almost looking forward to it. My night could use a little excitement,” he says, stepping close until we’re chest to chest. Even in my heels, he’s a few inches taller than me, and our lips are always just a breath away from each other.

“Pity,” I respond, feigning a sympathetic pout that makes him smile. He lifts a helmet and slips it over my head, adjusting the strap to make sure it’s secure before putting on his own. His eyes gaze into mine intensely for a long moment, smoldering at me, before he snaps down my face shield. Climbing onto the bike, he holds out his hand for me to join him.

“Come here, baby.”

I obey and step closer, allowing him to guide me onto the seat behind him. Pressing my chest to his back, he pulls my arms to wrap around his waist.

“I ride hard and fast. You better hold on tight.”

“I’ve heard that before,” I shoot back. The sound of his laugh is cut off when he starts the engine. The powerful machine roars to life, rumbling and revving beneath us. My grip on him tightens instinctively when the engine revs again, and we’re whipping out of the parking lot.

We roar through the city, heading further downtown. The summer night air whips around us. There’s something about being on the back of a motorcycle on a summer evening that feels like flying. The power of the machine vibrates through my body, making me grin from ear to ear as I hug Gage’s muscular frame. Even with my helmet, the fresh air is charged with something that tastes like freedom.

The cityscape blurs past—skyscrapers and historic buildings—until we approach a familiar gate. Passing through, we enter The Raven’s circular drive. The grand entrance of the luxury hotel greets me like an old frenemy, offering a warm hug of grandeur with a backhanded slap of mockery.

Gage pulls up to the entrance before cutting the engine. Pulling off his helmet and running his hand over his short hair, he climbs off the bike. Helping me off, he unclips the strap of my helmet and lifts it off my head. I gaze up at him as he fixes my mussed hair, his strong tattooed fingers gentle against my face.

“This is all just a ploy to get me into a hotel room, isn’t it?” I murmur.

His hands linger on my cheeks, his lips twitching with a smirk. One of his hands trails down my cheek to grip beneath my jaw, pulling me in with a possessive hand on my throat. His lips meet mine in a kiss so deep and sensual I can feel it all the way down to my toes.

“We both know I don’t need a ploy to get you into a hotel room,” he murmurs against my lips. “Now, come upstairs.” Handing both helmets to the valet, Gage leads me into the hotel with a hand on the nape of my neck.

The interior is decorated in the art deco style—dark, rich tones, detailed line work, and bold gold fixtures. Geometric chandeliers hang from the high ceilings, and symmetrical woodwork adds a modern feel. The front desk sits in the center of the lobby, with the hotel bar to the right. A grand staircase leads to a landing with three elevators before splitting to either side and wrapping around the massive chandelier.

I’ve walked through this lobby a million times, and being back feels like taking a cyanide pill coated in sugar. Up until Tommy’s disappearance, when Jonas and those goons had basically kicked down my door to repay my brother’s debt, I spent my nights mixing drinks behind the bar in the hotel restaurant. Lana still works here as a concierge—it’s where we met. And I fucking miss it.

Working at The Raven bar was the best job I ever had. Lana’s convinced she could get my job back for me if and when the time comes. If anyone could, it’s Lana.

As the concierge, Lana has a lot of powerful people in her back pocket. She has solid connections everywhere in this city: retail, entertainment, clubbing, banking, arms dealing—you name it. She even knows the owner of this hotel, Matteo Manici, intimately.

Matteo is one of the highest-ranking members of the mafia here in Chicago, but I’m not supposed to know that. Lana’s hooked up with him a few times. I guess he has a thing for blonde bombshells.

He’s also one of those asshats who’d crawl on his hands and knees for a fat woman in the bedroom, then refuse to be seen with her in public. So Lana uses him like a tool in her belt.

Damn, I miss this place.

Focus, Jill.

Walking up the stairs and stepping into an empty elevator, I focus on being in the moment. Gage reaches out his free hand to press the button for the thirty-fourth floor, and the reflective doors slide closed, caging us in the elegant mirrored box.

Gage stares at me in the mirror as we begin the ascent, his eyes touching every part of me. The heat of his hand on the back of my neck burns as hot as his gaze, heating my blood. Standing with him against my back feels like standing in front of an electric fence. The air between us is charged until the sparks are practically flying, and my body is humming.

“Damn.” His deep voice washes over me, sending goosebumps across my skin. “I’ve never liked elevators before now.”

“Whoever put mirrors in here was a perv,” I mutter, though I don’t hate being under his gaze.

---