Page 43 of Red Hot Harmony

“We follow each other on Instagram.”

“Really?”

“I might buy another piece... That is, if he gets this one working. Anyway, enough about me and my decorating issues. Go get laid.”

“You’ll call me if something happens? If Ally has a fever or whatever—”

“Yes, I will, but nothing will happen. Please go fuck the hell out of that hot reformed rock star.”

“Well, when you put it that way.” I laughed.

“It’s not the only way to put it, but I’m sure you kids will figure it out as you go.” He laughed too and hung up.

We left the venue through the back entrance. The limo waited for us in the alley and we climbed inside, holding hands and blushing like two high school sweethearts on the way to prom.

As soon as the vehicle starting moving and the privacy divider went up, Dante let his hands wander. Calloused fingers brushed my shoulders and collarbone, then slid down to my breast, to the spot where skin ended and fabric began.

“Is it far from here?” I asked, a little nervous. Shivering. Part of me already knew his body, his touch, his scent, but the reality of what we were about to do still seemed distant. Perhaps because we’d been putting it off for so long, it’d turned into a fantasy.

“No.” He shook his head, his eyes dropping to my breast where the pad of his thumb brushed gently.

I reached for his neck and dipped my fingers into his mussed hair. Pulled him closer. Covered his mouth with mine. Stole his gasp.

For a while, we rode in silence, our tongues too busy exploring each other to allow for talk. It was an unhurried and familiar pace.

And I allowed myself to enjoy every second of this bliss—the heavy cadence of our rising chests, the careful shifting of our limbs, the gentle rustling of the fabrics covering our bodies that were primed with need.

It felt wonderful—not thinking about anything else but him.

When I came up air some minutes later, I saw faint traces of my lipstick on Dante’s mouth. He was smiling and it did strange things to my sex. Little fires licked at my core, spreading into my arms and legs, flushing my cheeks, twisting my belly.

Outside, street lights and neon signs zipped by. We were somewhere in West L.A. with its trendy-looking storefronts and colorful sidewalks, which became empty as we got close to Beverly Hills. People here didn’t favor walking. Perhaps those who lived near the most famous zip code on the planet thought it was unprecedented to be out and about on foot instead of riding in the back seat of a Bentley or a Rolls-Royce.

Dante’s hands were still on me, but surprisingly, he didn’t attempt to undress me or do more than kissing as his lips hovered over mine, soft and seductive and amazing.

“You don’t suppose your publicist will be upset we left early?” I asked.

“Fuck her,” he murmured, rubbing his chin across my cheek, the rasp of his stubble against my skin only intensifying my desire to see him naked.

I let out a little laugh and cupped his face. “You’re not a people person?”

“Not when those people aren’t you.”

We kissed again then. We kissed and kissed and kissed and kissed until the vehicle came to a stop, and there was a long, meaningful pause before I heard the slam of the driver’s door and our own door opened.

Dante climbed out first and—like a true gentleman would—offered me a hand, which I took.

We were in front of a structure that looked like a cross between a hotel and a luxury office building, all windows and balconies and slick lines. A flower-filled bed and a grouping of neatly trimmed hedges flanked the facade and light spilled onto the pavement through a large glass door that led to a spacious lobby furnished with couches and coffee tables.

Dante punched in a code on the small metal pad by the entrance. There was a muted buzzing sound and we walked in. A concierge popped up from behind the desk and got all flustered in a very honeyedMr. Martinez thisandMr. Martinez thatkind of way.

The elevator was shiny and squeaky clean and we kissed against the cool wall with our legs tangled as the car took us all the way to the top floor.

“So you lived in a penthouse before you moved into a mansion?” I said breathlessly as the door whooshed open moments later.

We stepped out, and when Dante flicked the switch, soft light filled the front half of the apartment while the space stretching behind the double-sided wall-to-ceiling shelf remained dark.

“Well, nothing says ‘entitled rich douchebag who likes to party’ about a man than the fact that he resides in a top-floor unit that offers stunning views of nightlife.” He smiled and drew me farther into the apartment, toward the window overlooking the city.

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