Page 21 of Death By Chocolate

And if I could stray when he’s laying down kisses that buckle my knees and adle any good sense I possess. I watch Xeno walk away, hypnotized by his predatory movements. Rhys cuts behind him, his eyes searing into mine. He’s drenched in sweat, muscles bulging. I lift one brow in question. What was there to say? We fucked. It never went beyond meeting our physical needs.

No goodbyes necessary.

“Dani, you good?” Xeno calls. He’s watching this entire interaction. In fact, most eyes are on me. I’m not used to this kind of attention, intimate and very male. The nurse, the blonde damsel, waves as she takes it all in from the elliptical she’s pedaling with downtown D.C. in the backdrop.

“Yeah,” I stammer to Xeno, unsure how men and women in a relationship-y thing respond to an audience. This could be an opportunity for him to intervene, to go macho with the man-saves-his-woman bit. I’m glad he doesn’t. My battles are mine. Knowing he won’t interfere, that he’ll ask my permission, makes me want him more. I see him then—his intelligence, his concern, his wit. Xeno knows exactly what he’s doing to wear me down.

He chuckles. “Clock’s ticking…unless you’re ready for bed.”

Fuck, no, he didn’t. Thank goodness for brown skin invisibility cause I’m blushing like a virgin buying condoms for the first time. My imagination conjures dark images, remembering how well he and his long tongue put me to sleep tonight. His shadow between my legs, my body writhing under his assault on my sensitive pussy.

“Dani,” I hear my name and turn in a semi-circle, looking for the source. I spot Cookie all the way in the back corner, near the mats. She's taller than most, with a mop of curly hair that never seems to tame, no matter how many times she ties it back.

She sticks one hand straight up in the air. “Over here, girl. Come on.”

Silvio is talking in hushed tones when I approach. He stops abruptly when I’m within hearing range. Standing in front of them, I wait to be included in the conversation.

Cookie pulls me in for a one-armed hug. I jump at the contact, but I let her finish—whatever this is.

“Glad you’re okay, sis,” she whispers.

Okay, that’s new for me and my trainer. Banter, gossip, and ideas flowed freely between us, but never with this best-friendenergy. “Ah…thanks,” I say, shaking my head to clear away the saccharine feel of all this concern broadcasting in my direction. I reattack.

“So,” I pause, “What’s up, Silvi?”

He’s tall, like Xeno, so I have to tilt my chin up to take in his full expression. Sweat has matted his close-cropped hair to his neck, his skin is red from exertion, and he’s panting. It’s obvious he’s put in a dozen miles on the treadmill with his monogrammed towel hanging over the grab bar.

“Nothing for you to concern yourself with,” he smiles, but it lacks his usual warmth. Cookie looks anywhere but at me.

Silvio had done well for himself, earning Corso’s trust. His club, with his wife on jazzy vocals, kept music lovers flowing through the doors, doing the work of establishing The Governor’s legitimate business ventures. Few civilians questioned why the full occupancy always applied regardless of the millions offered for a weekend stay.

I place one hand on my hip, meeting his eyes. “Humor me,” I say, showing my irritation. Silvio and I have a friendship spanning twenty years. What’s changed?

“Discussing the finer points of quantum mechanics,” Silvio quips, lifting the water bottle in his hand and downing the contents.

"Yeah, and I'm retiring to the country manor,” I retort. Cookie laughs, her whole body shaking, and it's infectious enough to pull a smirk from me. “Serious talk,” I say, dropping the levity, “what don’t I know?”

The area between his brows bunches, creating a deep furrow. “You should rest, Dani.”

Our friendship has revolved around mutual respect. It niggles me that he thinks my being here is somehow neglecting what I need. The thing about surviving an abusive relationship is the feelings of helplessness and worthlessness linger worsethan rotten meat. Action steps. Once I read in an online article that action steps, whether or small, can propel a person forward. Waking up and dressing for my workout, like I did every morning, is me moving forward. Pushing one more shitty part of my life into the past. Instead of sharing all the mental scrabble, I say. “I did. Xeno can attest.”

Cookie’s eyes alight with glee. “We definitely need to talk about Mr. Xeno Voss.”

Before she can tease me further and I change the subject, that damn Messy Mandy sashays her four feet, eleven-inch, pint-sized ass over being nosy.

“Dani,” she grins up at me, her signature asymmetrical burgundy bob covering her left eye, “I heard you got a new roommate.”

Amanda ‘Messy Mandy’ Murphy, a DMV icon and a national gossip columnist, runs her mouth about everything from P. Diddy baby oil drippings to presidents pissing on prostitutes. She’s also a brand ambassador for Silvio and Paisley’s record label, Darkest Phire. But Roman’s wife, Nesa, Mandy’s college roommate who’s the one that gifted this mouth-all-mighty with gym access.

"Mind your business," I snap, my tone and assertiveness giving away more than I'd like.

“Yo’ business is my bizness. And that of my listening audience,” she says in a rush.

I roll my eyes, “Who told you?”

“Who didn’t?” she quips.

“He’s my client. End of story,” I defend, not ready to give anyone insider access to what happens in my private life.

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