Page 231 of Rosetti Family New York
"Too late for that. A few men noticed the dress," I say.
He steps in, crowding me against the glass.
"Every single man in that room noticed the dress. And I’m still deciding who’s going to pay for it," he says.
I tilt my chin defiantly.
"You don’t get to be jealous," I tell him.
He is dead serious as he responds:
"I’m not jealous. I’m possessive. Don’t confuse the two."
There is a beat, and I find myself breathless. He doesn’t touch me, yet, but his voice drops lower.
"I brought you up here to remind myself I still have control," he says.
"And?" I prompt.
He finally touches my waist, his grip firm.
"I don’t," he admits.
I lean into him as his hands slide up my back.
"Then stop pretending," I whisper
His mouth is against my neck now.
"You have no idea what you’re doing to me," he murmurs.
"Show me," I say softly.
We collide. His hands are on my hips, my back against the glass, the bass from the club vibrating through the wall.
He growls in my ear, "Let them dance. Let them drink. Let them wonder where you are."
"With you," I whisper.
"Damn right you are," he replies, dragging his mouth down my collarbone.
His mouth crashes into mine, no hesitation, no restraint. One hand fists in my hair, gripping just enough to tilt my head the way he wants it. The other curls around my waist, dragging me against him like he can’t get me close enough.
“You don’t get to disappear into crowds anymore,” he growls against my lips. “You don’t get to put yourself in danger. You belong to me now.”
I open my mouth to argue—he takes advantage of it, tongue sweeping in, kiss brutal and claiming. My knees nearly give out. He catches me without missing a beat.
His jacket hits the floor. He reaches inside the low neckline of my dress, palming my breast.
“Every time you walk into a room,” he murmurs, mouth hot against my collarbone, “you make it harder to breathe.”
I gasp as his mouth trails lower. “You… never… say stuff like that.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t think it,” he says, his hands sliding up my thighs, under my dress. “You think I haven’t imagined this a hundred times?”
He lifts me onto the edge of the velvet chaise, spreading my knees apart with a dark look that makes me tremble.
“I’ve thought about you like this,” he says, dropping to his knees. “Looking down at the club like it’s yours. But it’s not. You’re mine.”
