Page 22 of His Dark Vendetta

“Please,” she croaked and cleared her throat. “Yes, please.”

“It won’t be as good as Enzo’s.”

I mixed a quick dirty martini while Siobhán examined the table, then made my way back to our felt-topped battlefield.

The game slowed, each of us taking our time to consider options, line up shots, and stand too close to the other. Or right in their line of sight.

Siobhán sank the thirteen; only the eight ball remained. An easy shot for someone with her skill. She’d have to bank it off the rail, but after what I’d seen, there was no way she’d miss.

“You better pick out some music,” she teased. “It’s hard giving a lap dance without a good beat.”

I groaned and downed the rest of my scotch, swallowing my pride in preparation for… Fuck, I didn’t even want to think about how ridiculous I’d feel, much less look.

She pulled back her cue and took the shot. The ball kissed the rail, rolled to a stop just short of the pocket, and hovered at the lip. Time froze waiting for the ball to drop over the edge but slammed back to full speed when it didn’t.

“Nooo!” Siobhán squealed.

“No fucking way,” I whispered.

“Goddammit!”

“Ha ha! Yes!”

She slammed her pool cue into the rack. “Winning on an eight-ball scratch isn’t something to be proud of.”

“A win is a win, baby.” I waggled my eyebrows above my best smarmy smile.

She rolled her eyes.

“And a bet is a bet.” I crossed the club to the bar and turned on the satellite radio, selecting the station the girls used on slow gambling nights. “There.” The sultry beat of a deep bassline filled the club. “Oh!” I dimmed the lights. “Perfetto.”

She glared at me.

I laid the self-satisfaction on thick with an easy stride to the leather bench behind the raised platform with the stripper pole. I eased myself onto the plush seat, leaned back, and threw an ankle over my knee. I reached into my left breast pocket and pulled out my cigar case.

Siobhán walked across the club, lips pressed together, martini glass dangling from red-tipped fingers. I cut, lit, and puffed a cigar to life. She stopped next to one of the booths to the right of the platform and cocked a hip.

“Whenever you’re ready.” I sipped my scotch and raised my eyebrows over the rim.

She plucked the olive out of the glass, shot back the rest of her drink, and set the empty glass on the table. As if easing into a hot bath, she took slow, steady steps in time with the music until she stood on the platform in front of me. She leaned back against the pole and brought the toothpick to her parted lips, wrapping them around the olive. Her eyes danced with mischief as she eased it off the toothpick and into her mouth.

My dick throbbed with a sudden influx of blood. I pulled hard on my cigar, hoping the sting would temper my raging desire. I refused to let myself get hard from being teased with a fucking olive.

She tossed the toothpick and swayed her hips like a pendulum, each movement a mesmerizing arc of seduction. She dragged her hands up her body to her hair and pulled out her ponytail. Her short blonde tresses fell around her face in a golden halo. She gripped the pole behind her and slid down its length, never stopping the hypnotic rhythm of her hips.

I wanted to claim Siobhán like a goddamn animal—grab her by the hair, thrust my dick between those swaying hips, and sink my fangs into her neck. Unsettled, I shot back the rest of my scotch and hoped it would stop my fangs from descending.

She slinked back up the pole and moved toward me, lips parted beneath hooded eyes. I removed my ankle from my knee and spread my legs. She stepped between them.

I brought the cigar to my lips, an anchor in the storm of Siobhán. Smoke swirled between us. It danced in the low light of the club and did nothing to calm my desire and everything to make the scene more sexy.

She shoved her fingers into her hair, tilted her face to the side, and bit her bottom lip while performing the same move she’d performed against the pole—swinging her hips and slowly sinking between my legs before rising back up to standing.

“Lap dance rules apply, Mr. Moretti,” she said, low and husky. “Hands to yourself.”

I lifted both hands in surrender, cigar between my teeth.

She smirked and placed her hands at the top of her hips, circling them. She turned with each little arc until her ass was in front of my face.

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