Page 132 of The Contract

Or a dark god.

White shirt. Dark blue tie. Sleeves rolled casually to just below his elbows, revealing the ink curling around powerful forearms. He leans against the railing like he owns every inch of this city.

Fine. Technically, he does.

At least half of Chicago, according to everything I’ve read.

But he doesn’t own me.

His gaze settles on me—dark, intense, maddeningly unreadable.

It skims over my skin like warm breath against bare shoulders.

Suddenly, no one else exists.

Only him, reigning over his kingdom.

And me—bared, moving shamelessly beneath.

My throat tightens. Heart pounds harder.

But I don’t look away.

And I sure as fuck don’t stop dancing.

I move slower now—hips swaying to a rhythm that’s entirely mine.

Because I can see it, in the tiniest smirk tugging at his lips, that he’s enjoying this.

Enjoying me.

And I let him.

I let him drink in the way my hips roll, the way my head tilts back, the curve of my body gliding with the beat like it was created for exactly this moment.

Like I was made for him to watch.

Because I’m enjoying it too.

More than I’ll ever admit.

Far more than I should.

Until a blonde slinks up beside him—all giggles and octopus hands. Her barely-there dress threatens to suffocate him beneath a set of porn-star-perfect tits, and her tongue skims the edge of his ear.

Heat scorches my cheeks.

In an instant, every ounce of bravado I felt seconds ago shrivels—choked first by hot embarrassment, then crushed under the ruthless weight of jealous rage.

Frozen in place, reality bitch-slaps me with my to-do list:

Dance.

Drink.

Get answers. Or anything at all on the D’Angelos.

Even if it means pressing Da’s knife to Dante’s fucking throat and carving out the truth.

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