Page 86 of Rome: The Ballerina

Savoring every second of our embrace.

Programming the feel of her subtle curves in my memory cortex.

All that was wrong was made right in an instant.

Boom. Boom.

Boom. Boom.

Boom. Boom.

I counted the beats of her heart.

Boom. Boom.

Boom. Boom.

Boom. Boom.

“Saint–” she whispered, reminding me we weren’t alone.

“I don’t give a fuck, Rome,” I clarified, just in case she hadn’t noticed.

Still, I reserved her sanity and pulled away. I stepped back, attempting to capture her entire frame. Her smile faded as her fingers laced in front of her. She was un-fucking-believable.

“Get in. You’re riding with me tonight.”

I headed toward the driver’s side. By the time I made it, I noticed Rome hadn’t budged. I halted, now facing her backside.

“Did you not hear me?”

“I heard you.” She sighed. “But I won’t be joining you tonight. I’m a woman of my word, Saint. I don’t bend. I don’t fold. I don’t settle. I wasn’t taught to. I won’t start now.”

I rounded the car. Her expression was unchanging. So was her position. She wasn’t the least bit tempted.

“Besides, my sisters are waiting for me.”

She nodded toward the Rolls Royce.

“Your sisters have had you all of your life. I’m sure they have no problem sharing you tonight.”

“Maybe they don’t but I do.”

I chuckled with a shake of my head.

“You’re a tough cookie, Rome.”

“There’s not a tough bone in my body, Saint. Haven’t you noticed?”

Admittedly, I had. Besides the work she did on stage, I could tell that Rome hadn’t seen a struggle a day in her life. Emotional, maybe. Physically, I highly doubted. Her words confirmed it.

“I have.”

“Can you maintain me?” She asked.

She was blunt. Straight to the point. Wasting time wasn’t in her plans. That was made very clear.

“I can.”

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