Page 23 of Unhinged Little Angel

I chuckle and reach up with my free hand to smooth out my tie. “Of course not. You still have my gun.”

We reach the table, and he yanks on our joined hands again. I let him go this time, putting my arm around him instead. He’s nearly my height in his red heels, but he still fits nicely under my arm, slender and delicate but not breakable. Never breakable.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but my new husband and I are celebrating tonight and I’m worried that the spotlight near the stage will set off one of his migraines. We’d be extremely grateful if you’d let us have your booth,” I say smoothly, giving the couple my most charming smile as I reach into my pocket to pull out my wallet and set a hundred-dollar bill on the table.

They exchange a brief look, then the woman snatches up the bill and they scramble out of their seats.

“Congratulations on your wedding,” the man calls over his shoulder as they make their way to a different table.

I nudge Dante and he rolls his eyes before sliding into the booth.

“You know, I’ve heard Orion arguing with Elio before, calling him a spoiled brat who’s never heard the word ‘no’ in his life. I think he might be right about you Morettis. You’re entitled.”

“That wasn’t arguing, that was foreplay.” I chuckle and slide in beside him, unbuttoning my suit jacket and loosening my tie.

“It doesn’t make it any less true.”

I put a hand on his thigh under the table and lean in close. “I think you’re looking for reasons to snarl and snap at me, Angel.” I nuzzle his earlobe, then nip at it gently, drawing a quiet gasp from his pretty, red lips. “That’s okay, I don’t mind. It’ll give me a chance to show you how I tame a brat, like I promised earlier.”

He inhales sharply again and then tries to cover it with an irritated grumble in the back of his throat.

“Are we back on this? Just because brats make your dick hard, sweetheart, doesn’t make me one.” He squirms under my grasp, making my hand slip up his thigh.

I can feel the heat of his skin through the silk.

“Have you Dommed a brat before?” I ask conversationally, teasing my fingers along the inseam between his thighs, inches from the swell of his balls.

“A few times,” he says, squeezing his thighs together, clenching them around my hand, then relaxing again. Relaxing his body, anyway, but his eyes are full of an exciting challenge as he stares at me in the shadows.

“Tell me about brats, Angioletto,” I command.

His jaw ticks and his eyes darken another shade. “Do you practice being this irritating or does it come naturally?”

I ignore the barb and wait in patient silence. It only takes a minute before he squirms again, the hard shape of his cock bumping my fingertips.

“Brats want to submit, but they don’t want to make it easy. They want to end up on their knees, but they want to be forced there.” He swallows hard, his throat bobbing and his voice dropping lower. “They want to battle for dominance, but ultimately, they want to lose. They want the Dom to earn their submission.”

I hum in agreement, sliding my hand higher to cup his cock, stiff and swollen, probably throbbing even if he refuses to admit just how much this conversation is turning him on. I drag my thumb in slow circles around the head of his cock and his jaw ticks like he’s clinging to every last thread of control he has to keep from moaning for me like the pretty slut he’s afraid to be.

“Some brats are so committed to that battle for dominance that they don’t even want to admit that’s what they are.” I drag my nose along the shell of his ear again and inhale, imagininghow good he’ll smell with the scent of my soaps and lotions on his skin instead of the generic hotel brand.

“Fuck you,” he murmurs quietly, more of a whimper really.

“Sorry to interrupt, but can I get you anything to drink?”

Dante startles and his cock jerks in my hand. He tries to scramble away, but I tighten my grip on him. Between the table and the shadows, for all the waitress knows, I have my hand on his knee. And what a perfect way to show Dante what it feels like to give in and trust me.

“Two martinis, please,” I say, one hand resting casually on the table, the other still around his cock, my thumb pressed up against the barbell through his frenulum.

Dante tries not to squirm, holding himself still and barely breathing as he nods in agreement with the order.

“Coming right up,” the waitress says before turning on her heel and walking away again.

Dante slumps and lets out a quiet whine, snapping his hips as soon as we’re alone to grind his piercing against the press of my thumb.

“You’re an ass.” His breathing is shaky; maybe that’s why he was holding it while the waitress was here.

“Do you want me to make you come, Angioletto?” I purr.

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