Page 86 of What About Love

No Angie, thank God.

Maybe she’d changed her mind. That idea made him feel like an even bigger shit, knowing he was to blame for wrecking her plans for the night.

“Looking for someone?” Cap asked as he took the open stool next to him.

T shrugged.

“Bullshit.”

His head jerked around. “You got something to say, Cap, then say it.”

“You and Angie have been going head-to-head from day one. What gives?”

“Nothing gives. Not that it’s any of your business.” He almost laughed. The same line had been used on him less than two hours ago. “Angie wants more than I’m able to give.”

“More bullshit,” Cap repeated, making T scowl. “You’ve got your head so far up your ass you can’t see the goodness right in front of you.”

“Fuck off.”

“You mean how you fucked off when I asked you to when I pushed Megan away? You, Rick, Dex, all of you, were all over my ass. Not that I’m not grateful now. Still, paybacks are hell, my friend. Something in your past is messing with your head. I recognize the signs. You’re a fool if you let Angie slip through your fingers because of it. When you come up for air one day, and you will, you’ll want to kick yourself for being such an idiot.”

“You don’t know—” T began.

“That’s right. I don’t,” Cap cut in. “None of us do because you won’t let us in. You wrap it up with a joke or a smile and try to console yourself with a quick lay for the night. That’s a lonely existence, bud, especially when you walk out of here or Rossi alone, night upon night. Even more so when the woman you want is within reach. It took me thirty-eight years to get my head on straight and claim what was mine all along. Learn from one who has been there, T. Don’t waste a precious second.”

He shook his head. “Your situation is different. I can’t—”

“Then you won’t mind that she’s drunk off her ass and dancing with Arturo Durand.”

T’s head swung immediately toward the teeming dance floor.

“Like Megan, Angie was blessed with the Sinclair curves, which Arturo appears smart enough to appreciate. And, if I’m reading the hand squeezing her ass correctly, he seems to be appreciating them right now. Although she’s too drunk to play tonight, he’s having a good time exploring what’s on the outside of that black lace dress. I’m sure he’ll see her home safely and do a more up close and personal exploration—later.”

Cap paused in his play-by-play, letting that sink in for a moment. T felt his friend’s gaze on him, while his remained riveted on the brunette in black on the dance floor.

“He’s half-French, half-Spanish, and lives in London, so I hear. He’s got business with the general and will be in town for a while, so we gave him temporary membership. The subbies are gaga over his accent and although he’s a sadist who prefers a French whip called a martinet, they don’t seem to mind and come at the crook of his finger—literally. It might be me, but I think a mysterious European dom who can handle a whip and a drunken submissive make for a dangerous combination. Don’t you think, T?”

The calculating bastard was talking to air, however, because halfway through his former captain’s scheming soliloquy, T was on his feet, stalking to the edge of the dance floor. He froze, seething with jealousy as the tall, bearded Frenchman, who looked more like he hailed from Spain with his dark hair and eyes, arched Angie’s aforementioned curves over his arm in a low dip.

His jaw clenched and his hands fisted as he watched the bastard’s lips hover over her bare skin as her breasts pushed upward, testing the confines of the low neckline of her dress. At the same time, he slid his hand down her back, over the curve of her ass and along her thigh, reversing direction the next moment as his fingers disappeared under the hem of her short skirt.

On the move, he charged impulsively into the crowd, unable to bear watching his hands on her another minute. He was fully aware he was about to give Angie more mixed signals, but he couldn’t help that he was screwed up, caught between the nightmare of his past and the ravenous desire to have this woman as his own.

Dodging the dancers as they dipped and swayed, it took T a few moments to reach the couple in the center of the hardwood floor.

As he moved in, he saw Durand snap her upright out of the deep dip and slam her into his body, not a speck of daylight separating them from knee to chest. He heard Angie giggle and saw red, wanting her sweet though drunken laughter directed at him, not some dom she’d picked up for the night.

As the other man spun her around, her head fell back, glossy hair sweeping down skin left bare by her open-back dress. In her inebriated state, she couldn’t realize the temptation her exposed throat offered. Durand didn’t miss the invitation and lowered his mouth, openly seeking.

He wanted to snatch her out of the swarthy dom’s arms and slam a fist into his face. Upgrading his violence from a punch to separating his head from his shoulders when T saw his tongue slip out and taste her skin.

“That’s enough, Durand,” he snarled. “She’s shitfaced.”

The other dom’s dark head lifted and his eyes angled up at him sharply. Astutely reading the volatility of the situation, he brought the dance to a halt, easing Angie slightly away from him. “Have I poached unintentionally?”

“Yes,” T barked at the same time Angie snapped, “No.”

“It’s like that, is it?” Arturo surmised correctly.

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