Page 93 of I'm sorry, Princess
Cute.
Like that would work.
I tighten my grip on her waist, my fingers digging into her soft curves, and hold her against me, exactly where I want her. Where I need her.
If looks could kill, her glare would have ripped me to fucking shreds.
But I don’t die.
I smirk.
Because the way her chest is rising and falling a little too quickly? The way her fingers twitch against my shirt like she doesn’t know whether to push me or pull me closer?
Yeah, she wants this. She fucking wants me.
"I don’t remember asking," I say coldly, my grip tightening around her waist as I drag her to the dancefloor.
She gasps, stumbling slightly, but I steady her, my fingers digging into her soft flesh. The second we step onto the floor, all eyes are on us. Exactly what I fucking wanted. I can practically feel Archibald’s burning gaze from across the room.
Good. Let him watch. Let him see who she belongs to.
The flashes start immediately, paparazzi snapping pictures like we’re some kind of twisted fairytale, the ruthless businessman and the golden-haired beauty. They’ll have a field day with this tomorrow. I don’t give a fuck.
I can feel Ashley’s glare drilling into the back of my head. Her arms are crossed, her lips pursed in silent rage, standing stiffly by the bar like she’s two seconds away from launching herself at Serena and clawing her eyes out.
My focus is entirely on her.
Serena.
But something’s off.
I narrow my eyes, scanning her face, and suddenly, I see what I missed before.
Her eyes are red.
Her lips look puffier than usual.
And her face, too much foundation.
Covering something.
My grip tightens involuntarily, my blood running hot. What the fuck happened to her?
She doesn’t look like herself. There’s something different in her gaze, something raw. The usual fire in her brown eyes is dimmed, flickering but not burning as brightly. I don’t like it. I don’t fucking like it.
She’s staring at me like she’s trying to figure me out, trying to decipher why I dragged her into this dance, why I can’t keep my fucking hands off her.
"I don’t want you around me, Lorenzo," she says softly, her voice like a fucking whisper against my skin.
That voice. That fucking voice.
My name has never sounded better.
She doesn’t push me away, though. She doesn’t fight me.
"Your date is watching us," she adds, her lips barely moving. "You should be dancing with her, not with me."
Her gaze never leaves mine, searching, questioning. She’s so goddamn close, her warmth seeping into me, her scent, vanilla, fucking vanilla, wrapping around me like a chokehold.
