Page 21 of Dirty Roxie
Ronan
I was not expecting the visceral reaction I got when I walked from the bedroom into the living area and saw Roxie leaning over the desk and chair to get closer to the mirror. Fiddling with some kind of makeup on her face. It hit me with a jolt, and I had to stop for just a moment to drink her in.
I liked the dress on the hanger, it’s why I chose it. But seeing it on her body is an entirely different experience. She brings the garment to life. In return, it puts her every curve on display to its best advantage. The globes of her ass call to me, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to grab it and bite down to get my fill. To not push that dress up around her waist, spread her legs as wide as possible, and take her from behind.
I will my dick to lower its eager head as I cross the room toward her. Meeting her gaze in the mirror, I can’t help but put my hands on her as I tell her how much I like the look. And I do. Roxie, as herself, is sexy as hell. Roxie in disguise, adopting a haughty attitude, shielding her every thought and feeling behind a cold facade? I want to fuck her so hard she breaks.
I hand her the silver mask I’d also had sent up. She settles the arms behind her ears, covering them with her hair. Making it look like it’s floating on her face. I situate my own and offer my arm.
“Shall we?”
“We shall.”
* * *
According to Roberto’s source, Andrei is rumored to be at this party tonight, along with Viktor, looking to meet up with Juan Carlos Ochoa. The mask requirement makes it easy for them to meet without detection, but also difficult to know who is who. I’m confident that I can recognize Andrei when I see him. Not a lot of guys down here are his size. Never mind, I know to watch for him, but he does not know to watch for me.
I tuck Roxie’s hand in my arm as we walk, much like I imagine a proper husband would do. Because from the moment we left the hotel room, the façade is in place. We are Mr. and Mrs. Nicholas and Bettina Johnson from Seattle, Washington. Here on a quick stop to investigate a few textile mills to fuel Mrs. Johnson’s clothing line aspirations.
A golf cart waits outside the lobby to take us to the gardens where the party is being held. What would take close to ten minutes if we walked, takes only a few minutes riding. I place my hand on Roxie’s knee as soon as we’re settled. ’The urge to run my palm higher up her leg stronger with every second that passes. So, when we finally pull into the circular walkway before the front entry, I’m relieved to stand and shake the tension from my body as I exit the cart.
By the time I get to Roxie’s side, the driver is already helping her step out of the cart. Her leg emerges first—long, lean, and bare to the apex of her thigh. I hip check him out of the way to help her myself. A quick flash of jealousy races through me at the thought of another man putting his hands on her.
I pull her into me, and she gasps lightly as our chests meet.
“Have I mentioned that you look exquisite?” I ask.
“No,” she answers, her smile soft. “But I’m happy to hear it as many times as you’d like to say it.”
I lean in close, allowing my nose to nuzzle the skin just behind her ear, and whisper, “Exquisite.” Testing out my accent, American, with a little lazy California surfer to smooth it out.
She shivers.
I smile and place my hand at the small of her back to lead her into the party. Lit by Edison lights strung back and forth high over the space, accompanied by twinkle lights sprinkled through dozens of trees, the large, outdoor garden space is filled with animal-shaped foliage and thousands of exotic flowers and trees interspersed throughout. We head through the arched entryway onto the green belt that makes up most of the middle.
The resort has scattered several belly bars and tables for guests to stand at. As well as benches and loungers filled with plush cushions. But perhaps the pièce de résistance of the gardens are the hedge mazes that surround it: three different interconnected mazes, all with one way in and the same way out. Already the calls of lost partygoers echo through the space.
Scantily clad servers wind through the crowd carrying trays filled with the event’s signature cocktail—a smoking blueberry-lavender martini, using lavender grown in this very garden. The dry ice in the drinks causes smoke trails to follow the gold-painted, statuesque men and women handing them out.
I take one and pass it to Roxie, then grab another for myself.
She takes a sip. “Oh, that’s nice.” Then takes another, larger swallow.
I steer us to the outskirts of the crowd to mentally catalog the guests. One hand holding my glass as I sip at it slowly, the other resting at the bottom of theVin Roxie’s dress. My thumb grazes the skin of her lower back as I move it back and forth, the motion soothing to me.
“See anything?” I ask.
She takes a step closer to me, reaching one hand up behind us to rest it on my shoulder closest to her. Our statures appear calm and collected even if my insides are on overdrive. As I’m sure Roxie’s are as well.
“Not yet,” she answers. “You?”
I shake my head and respond.
If Andrei and Viktor are together, it shouldn’t be hard to spot them. One big guy, one old guy, and a handful of beefy guys meant to protect them but also somehow blend in.
Roxie finishes her drink, so I set our glasses to the side and lead her to the dance floor. The music is soft and sultry—a combination of a jungle beat and a jazz groove. I pull her into my arms, her body flush against mine.
She looks up at me, brows raised in question.
