Page 78 of The Devil's Deal

1957

Great. Sounds expensive enough. I don’t drink whiskey, but there’s a first time for everything. Unscrewing the sealed bottle, I pour a shot.

“Here’s to one hell of a fucked-up life, Chiara Bianchi. May it only get more fucked up, because why the hell not?” I raise my glass to an invisible shadow and flip the honey-hued liquor down my throat.

Hell, it burns like acid. All I want is more, so I pour another. The liquor pools in my stomach, warmth and an instant buzz overtakes my senses, and I do what I probably shouldn’t. I drink some more.

Three or four shots later, I’m a little woozy, but still managing to walk on my bare feet.

Sort of. Kind of.

I almost trip.

“Oops.” A giggle falls out of me as I grip the edge of the bar to steady myself.

“Having fun?”

I gasp, startled by a voice I’ve come to rather enjoy hearing.

* * *

DOMINIC

She ignores my question, still giving me her back. All that ebony hair spills down her back, hitting that curvy ass of hers, one that I want to spread open with my tongue.

She runs a hand through her hair, flinging more past her shoulder, tempting me further. Ever since I felt her bare pussy, heard her cries of pleasure, all I’ve wanted was more of that.

More of her.

I spent all of last night at one of the clubs with my brothers, even though they’re not my scene. We were all there for a business meeting with a new investor for the clubs. But once some of the women Enzo invited to our table started grinding on my lap, I had enough.

I was in no fucking mood for anyone else’s cunt. I wanted inside only one, and it’s right here in front of me. Only a short dress separating me and that warm slit.

My cock swells and jerks beneath my slacks, demanding to see every bit of what she’s hiding under those clothes. If she weren’t obviously drunk, I’d fuck her bare. I’d own her in those moments, fleeting as they would be. She’d still be mine, and she’d know it.

The past and the present are colliding into one, and I can’t stop it.

“Do you know how expensive that bottle is?” I ask. “How rare?”

A laugh oozes out of her as she turns around, her back against the bar. “It’s cute that you think I care.”

I grin, uncuffing my baby-blue button-down, rolling up the sleeves over my forearms until they hit my elbows.

A small, barely there whimper makes it out of her lips. I lean against the other side of the bookshelf watching her watching me, her glassy eyes taking in my arms, my chest, my face.

She licks her lips, rubbing her inner thighs against one another.

I follow the movement. Knowing she’s hungry for me has me wanting to devour every inch of her, body and soul.

I want everything.

When I’m alone with her—when my passion runs hotter than my despair—that’s when the hurt is almost forgotten, as if it’s not even there. And that’s when she’s the most dangerous.

“It took a lot of money to secure that bottle,” I add. “Only twelve of its kind.”

“Wow,” she whispers, tightening her brows with a twitch of her lips. “I’m entirely too impressed.”

“Really?” My voice grows low as my appetite gets ravenous.

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