Page 10 of Dominance

“Or get root canals.”

“Dancing then. Unless…” She narrows her eyes at my instinctive reaction.

“Unless what?” I try to unclench my shoulders at the thought.

“You look like you’d rather throw yourself into oncoming traffic.”

“No. I’m just not usually one to take center stage.”

“But it is our show, technically.” She shrugs, eyeing her father chatting with a half-dozen businessmen and their wives. “We don’t have to.”

“There’s nothing I’d like more than to dance with you.” Still, hesitance laces my words. I’m used to staying on the sidelines while Ciro and Fiero dance with every girl in the club. Gloria’s gaze softens, seeing through me.

“Grab that and come with me,” she whispers, nodding to the bottle of wine and grabbing my other hand, leading the way with a couple of glasses hanging from her fingers.

Double swinging doors take us into the back halls, past the kitchen, and to a service elevator. Punching the button for the roof, she leans back against the railing inside, looking down at her expensive heels, biting her lip.

“You know, we haven’t spent this much time together since we met.” Gloria huffs an incredulous, or maybe nervous, little laugh.

“Whose fault is that, exactly?” I muse.

“Webber, Strennick, and Grant, mostly.”

“Your side guys? I thought we’d wait until we were married to take on mistresses and the like.”

“Haha. Sure. If you think I like white-haired old lawyers and accountants. And they are certainly interested in my dad’s assets and dealings. I have the distinct pleasure of managing our financials and legal interactions.”

“I knew you had terrible taste in men when you chose to talk to me on the train in Paris.”

“We haven’t tasted anything yet.” Her eyes lock onto mine, a heat smoldering there that makes me swallow. Hard.

The elevator dings, opening to the night lights and starry vista of the New York skyline.

This time it’s my hand grasping hers, pulling her along as we head to the railing, looking out over the bustle of the city below. Just the pressure of her next to me, the warmth of her, is enough as we lean into one another, savoring the pause.

I pour us each a glass, sipping the full-bodied red, feeling the heady aroma go straight to my head. Gloria inhales, humming a little sound of approval as she drinks hers.

“So, you like Italian wine. Finally get to know something about you,” I say.

“You just need to ask, you know.”

“Right, with all the time we’ve had to talk.”

“It’s called texting or calling. With your phone.”

“Two-way street?”

“Touché.”

Despite the fact that I have her here and could ask all the questions that have plagued me and driven me mad for the past few weeks, I can’t bring any of them to mind. And the moment isn’t right for that, as much as the logical voice fading back into the haze of the booze calls for me to focus.

Maybe it’s the whiskey, or the event, the lights.

But I feel bold. Cocky.

Turning toward her, my arm encircling her waist, tugging her just hard enough, insistently enough to be clear. It still leaves her enough of an out, the ability to resist without pulling away hard.

But she doesn’t.

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