Page 4 of Bitter Lies

No excuses.

I’d followed her tonight to prove I didn’t want her. To protect her from her own stubbornness, too headstrong and fiery for her own good. And I ended up coming inside her mouth and between those pretty lips as I wanted to do too many times to count.

The second the bathroom door opens, reality returns and the bubble of the small interlude between us pops. Right into my fucking face. I hesitated too long and lost her somewhere on the dance floor.

The miasma of bodies writhing together out there is like a fucking rat king. All the tails tied together and squirming. The bar is equally packed, and my desire for a drink doubles, triples.

This is the kind of place where you have to get shit-faced just to be able to stand it for more than five minutes.

But it’s neutral territory, and the Inked Den has made it their strict policy to not allow any of the underground bullshit to cross their threshold.

She made a good judgment call in that regard.

If Isabella Balestra really wanted to stick it to me, however, she might have chosen our competitor’s club a few blocks away. Black Ichor has just as much filth and depravity as this place, and her going there would be nothing but trouble.

It takes me a good few minutes to spot Isabella in the middle of the dance floor with a drink in her hand, sucking it down like water. Her black dress blends in with the rest of the crowd yet she shines diamond bright. And when I angle her way, she glances up to meet my gaze.

Her deep hazel eyes are lined with black to match her dress and her mood. The fire in them, the life, draws more people to her than she even realizes. She’s too laser-focused on glaring at me to see the way they sandwich closer.

Unblinking.

Did she have any idea I’d trailed her? I wonder as I step closer, maintaining eye contact and unleashing a little bit of the beast inside of me, letting my guard slip inch by inch until I’m close enough for her to see how pissed off I am.

Or not. Isabella’s got the passion and the observational skills, but she’s too full of herself to worry about the world around her.

Which is why she needs me even if I have to drag her kicking and screaming back to her safe, insular reality.

She lifts her chin defiantly as though she reads the thoughts in my head.

The closer I get, the wilder she responds, and I’m about a foot away when she tosses her empty drink into the crowd and grabs the woman in front of her, pressing their lips together. The other dancer is happy to oblige in a sloppy embrace and quickly wraps slender atoms around the back of Isabella’s neck. The angle of the kiss changes, but Isabella tilts her chin to keep staring at me.

What is she trying to prove?

That she’s not the innocent little child I’d called her earlier?

A mild insult, when you think about it, and yet she’d exploded and stalked out of the house, practically stomping her feet in protest.

She needs to get the fuck over herself. Whatever it is Isabella’s thinking, I ponder how she’ll react if she finds out I’m the one she blew in the bathroom.

The woman arches her chest to press her breasts against Isabella, who finally realizes what she’s doing and breaks the kiss. She offers an apologetic smile to the woman before turning her back on me. Poor thing looks dejected and sets her sights on the next person in line.

Someone inevitably steps up. Everyone is here for the same thing: fantasy.

Whether the fantasy includes singing the inside of your nose with drugs, poisoning your liver to the brink of ruin, or fucking a stranger, it all amounts to the same thing.

I step up behind Isabella and jut my hips forward enough to let her know I’m there. My arms band around her front to keep her from running away again, and I pull her flush to my front. “I’m going to throw you over my shoulder and drag you out of here if you keep this up,” I growl against her ear. Making sure she hears me.

“Try it, and I’ll make sure you lose your hand.” She cranes her neck back to speak to me but doesn’t try to break out of my hold. Good thing for her, too.

“What do you expect me to do, Isabella?” I start to move in time with the song; otherwise, the rest of the dancers will make us move. They’ll jostle us about like pins in a machine until we end up on the floor or bruised or both. “Leave you here?”

“Yes.”

She’s hot in my arms, and my dick throbs again, remembering.

“Not happening.” There’s no way I’m leaving her here to get manhandled. Touched inappropriately. “What are you trying to prove?”

“Nothing.” She bites out the word before turning in my arms and gnashing at my face as though she intends to actually bite me. “I don’t need you to babysit me, Ricardo. I’m fine. Now, how about you run off and find someone else to manhandle? I’m busy.”

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