Page 50 of Bellini Bound
“No, she’s drop-dead gorgeous. And thank you.” Done with the awkward interaction with a former fuck buddy, I prompted, “The Macallan?”
Shaking out of her shock over my news, the server gave a tight nod. “Of course. I’ll get that right away.” Then she fled as fast as her stilettos would carry her.
I had no doubt she’d be passing off our table—along with the guarantee of a more than generous tip—to one of her co-workers. Preferably one I hadn’t slept with.
“Aw, man! Who invited the Prince of Darkness?” At the sound of the voice that haunted my dreams, my gaze flicked up to find my wife, slightly unsteady on her feet, moving toward me with a pouty scowl gracing her pillowy lips.
Rearing back, I scoffed. “Prince of Darkness?”
“Yeah.” Allison gestured toward me. “You know, because every piece of clothing you own is black.”
My eyes shifted to Gabi’s smirking face. “Are you responsible for that moniker?”
Summer’s best friend shot me an annoyed glare. “Believe it or not, your bride came up with that one all on her own. She’s a lot of fun with a few drinks in her.”
“Drinks!” Allison cried, climbing over my lap as she reached for a bottle of vodka.
“Whoa, slow down.” I placed my hands on her hips to make sure she didn’t knee me in the balls and instantly regretted touching her. Damn, my fingers sank right in. And she was so fucking warm. “How much have you had already?”
“Not enough to forget that I’m married to you,” she sassed, taking a swig of hard liquor straight from the bottle.
Gabi hissed. “Ooh, that one had to hurt. How’s the bruised ego treating you, big guy?”
“Can it,” I snapped, “or else you can pay for your own damn drinks.”
She folded her arms over her chest, giving me a full dose of attitude. “Free drinks aren’t worth shit when the tradeoff is not getting laid.”
“Aw, did word spread that you’re no better than a praying mantis? Killing guys after you fuck ’em?”
Fire flashed in her eyes, and she jabbed a finger in my direction. “Hey! I did that for you.”
“Okay, children, that’s enough.” Summer stepped between me and her best friend. Since our bickering was a constant, my cousin’s wife was used to breaking it up.
“Eh, I say we let them kill each other,” Allison remarked, pulling out of my loose hold. Then she began to walk away with an exaggerated sway of her hips, tossing over her shoulder. “I’m gonna go dance.”
Immediately, I turned to Summer. “Go with her, will you?”
Summer flashed me a knowing grin. “You two are a powder keg set to go off, and I’m just waiting to see which of you lights the fuse.”
Gabi pretended to gag. “Hasn’t that poor girl suffered enough?”
I shoved off my chair, striding to the railing that overlooked the dance floor. It didn’t take long for my vision to hone in on Allison at the center of the action, her silver dress acting like a beacon beneath the flashing lights.
The tension in my shoulders loosened a fraction when I saw Summer push through the crowd to join her. But at the same time, all my blood rushed south, watching the way Allison’s body moved with the music—tits bouncing, ass jiggling, skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. More than anything, I wanted to be pressed up against her, close enough to feel every ripple of her supple flesh.
Then, out of nowhere, a man appeared. And my fists clenched when I realized he was way too close to Allison.
In an instant, I was moving. Honestly, if it wouldn’t result in two broken legs, I would have hopped over the railing of the second-floor balcony to get to her faster. Every inch of space between us felt like a fucking mile as I shoved people aside on my way down the stairs.
Matteo had once pressed a loaded gun to my forehead over nothing more than a throwaway remark about Summer in the early days of his obsession with her. I hadn’t understood his over-the-top possessiveness then, but I sure did now. It was like every cell in my body ached to claim Allison, mark her in a way so that every man in this room—hell, the entire world—would know she belonged to me, and only me.
Pushing through the mass of bodies on the dancefloor was like trying to swim upstream, forcing me to work twice as hard to reach my destination, but finally—fucking finally—I made it to where Allison swayed to the beat, completely oblivious to the guy only inches behind her, ready to make a move.
Grabbing the fucker by the back collar of his shirt, I wrenched him away, barking, “Not. Yours.”
He shrugged out of my hold. “Hey, man. I don’t see a ring.”
I let out a loud growl, my anger shifting inward. Because the creep was right. Allison was lacking a wedding band that would deter random men from hitting on her in public places. That was my fault, and something I would be rectifying immediately.
