Page 35 of Worth the Trouble

“We’re broadening your horizons.” He steps in close.

Holding my breath, I try to steady myself because his cologne is putting my brain into overdrive.

“I’m sure,” I say, shaking my head. “You’re just trying to get me to chicken out.”

The smile that stretches his face is breathtaking and completely uninhibited.

It’s also how I know what I said is right—he’s trying to see if I’ll crack. But if this is Rome’s attempt at testing how far he can push me to my limits before I start pushing back, I’m inclined to prove to him that he can’t phase me.

“Well, if you’d rather go home…” Rome trails off, looking me over.

I shake my head and step toward him. If he thinks he can back me into a corner and scare me away, I’ll prove him wrong. While the world might think I’m a delicate dance princess, I don’t want him to.

“Lead the way, Riff King.” I tip my chin up, and he smiles.

The doors to the club open, and I know this is a bad idea—but that’s everything about Rome. And for some reason, I can’t seem to help myself. I want to feel the parts of his world that are forbidden. I want to test my boundaries in a way I’ve never been allowed to. I want to see if I can survive being demolished by the Riff King.

But as we step inside, I realize my bravery has set me too far out of my element. Because debauchery is his world, not mine.

As if Rome can sense my nerves, he reaches behind him and takes my hand, wrapping his fingers through mine. It’s a small gesture but calming.

He leads the way into the club, and it’s classier than it appeared from the outside. A long dark corridor that opens into a dimly-lit club. The walls are a blue so dark and deep it reminds me of the middle of an ocean, which is fitting because walking through here in my evening gown feels a little like I’m drowning in unfamiliar territory.

There are three stages, each occupied by a topless woman. They’re curvy and gorgeous and feminine in a way I’ve never quite felt in my own skin. Men and women are scattered around the room, unable to tear their eyes off them. But surprisingly, Rome’s focus is straight ahead as a bouncer leads us through the club to a hallway at the far side.

A few club patrons have their eyes on me as we walk past, and I’m reminded of just how revealing my dress is, cutting down to my naval and high up my thigh. Rome tugs my hand and pulls me closer to his side, almost as if he notices it as well. But he doesn’t look at me or say anything, so it’s probably my imagination.

His grip relaxes in the quiet of the hallway, and he only lets go once we reach a door at the far end, guiding me inside with his hand on my lower back. One touch sending heatwaves through me.

I should have said no. I should have gone home. I should have stayed far away.

What have I gotten myself into with him?

The room is dark, except for a dim light coming from a private stage with a single pole in the center. I’ve spent my life performing, but something about this room is different from anything I’ve watched or experienced. There’s music playing, but I can barely hear it over my heartbeat pounding between my temples.

Rome leads me to the couch positioned against the back wall, taking my coat, and setting it aside before sitting down beside me. While I feel every nerve ending on edge and tense, he seems relaxed and in his element.

There’s no doubt in my mind he’s been here before. The bouncers knew him by name when we walked in, and he even nodded at the bartender as we passed. They put him in a nice room I get the impression is reserved for big spenders, and he’s probably spent more time here than I want to know.

Rome rubs his palms over his thighs, and I realize how close we are, almost touching. The gap of space between us is almost more tempting than if it wasn’t there at all.

“You hanging in there, sweetheart?” He looks over at me, but his expression is surprisingly placid.

I nod, forcing a smile, not really sure. But also wanting to prove to him that I’m not the sheltered, fragile creature he probably sees me as. Or maybe I’m trying to prove it to myself.

“Drinks.” A waitress stops directly in front of us, and it’s not a question because she’s handing me a vodka martini and Rome a glass of whiskey.

Rome takes both and thanks her before handing me mine.

“When did you order these?”

Rome shrugs. “On the way over.”

I reach for the martini glass. “What if I didn’t like vodka?”

“But you do.” Rome winks.

“But…”

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