Just another beautiful, bad-mannered prick. They must breed them here.
Blood trickles down my chin, dripping to the floor at my feet. My lip throbs in rhythm to my erratic heart.
“You’re making a mess,” the blue-eyed asshole in front of me growls. My jaw almost dislocates in astonishment. No sorry. No are you okay?
“Pardon me for bleeding,” I spit, snapping myself out of his thrall.
“Clean it up,” he tells me, his tone low, eyes narrowing. Heat spreads up my spine, exploding over my cheeks. My racing heart makes my breathing labored.
Swiping my information form across my mouth, dabbing the blood there, I bend down to grab my bottle.
When I rise, he snatches my jaw between his thumb and forefinger. I squeak out a surprised whine. My eyes enlarge as he takes the pad of his thumb and smears the new crimson across my bottom lip.
I’m frozen, my limbs filled with concrete as he holds me captive.
No one has ever touched me this way before, with such possession and confidence, not even my dance partners over the years.
The action is intimate, the rumbling sound from the back of his throat sexual, making me flush all over.
With an indecent tilt of his lips, he exhales, “My shoe.” Leaning in, his breath minty and warm, disperses over my skin.
Fingers tighten on my jaw painfully. I squirm from the pulse of pain and embarrassing throbbing inside my panties.
Part of me wants him to push me against the wall and fuck all this animosity and irritation out of me.
A perfect stranger. A one-time hate-fuck.
He releases me, and my eyes drop to his feet.
There, on his ridiculous clean leather shoe, is a single drop of blood. Mortification washes off the momentary jolt of pleasure, quickly turning to burning fury.
The last week has been a shitty fucking time. I’m sick of people walking all over me. The accumulating bag of crap life has given me makes me give zeros shits about who this jerk is.
Fuck this place.
Fuck Clint.
Fuck this asshole.
Reaching up onto my tiptoes so I’m a little taller, I say, “You clean it up, asshole.” Slapping my bloodied piece of paper against his chest and stealing his pocket square.
I move past him and don’t look back despite my body screaming for me to do so.
Holding the piece of material to my pulsing lip, I push out into the open air as the daunting thought of returning home hits me.
I didn’t make it.
Chapter Seven
Luca
I adjust my hard cock, watching the girl flee out the doors without turning back.
I wasn’t prepared for those green fucking eyes, that innocent face dripping blood, the tiny sliver of fabric pulled tight over her body.
Her hard nipples…the outline of every goddam inch of her. An animalistic attraction caught me off guard, and that pissed me off.
I look down at the piece of paper she slapped against my chest, reading her name.
Alyssa.
Marcello’s chuckle bristles the hairs on the back of my neck.
“Something funny?” I fume.
Smirking, he squeezes my shoulders before moving in front of me and walking to where we need to be.
“Yeah, really fucking funny.”
“You know I’m carrying a gun, right?” I call after him, scowling at a male dancer walking past, his eyes enlarging at my words.
“I know you don’t shoot people in the back. Why do you think I’m walking in front of you?” Marcello grins, then jerks his chin to a door. “She’s in here.”
He raps his knuckle on the door, then opens it without waiting for an invitation.
A woman stands from behind a desk, a crinkled smile pulling up her lips.
“Mr. Leto. Wonderful to see you again.”
I want to ask her what’s so wonderful about seeing me after people I care about die, but I don’t. This woman would no doubt have a nervous breakdown and throw her bony ass out the window.
“You know why I’m here?” I ask, planting my ass in a wooden chair opposite her desk.
Marcello wanders around the room, picking up trinkets, looking more intimidating than a debt collector visiting someone who owes us money.
Her pale, wrinkled eyes cut between the two of us, her pulse skipping wildly in her neck.
“Marcello,” I bark, making her jump. “Sit the fuck down.”
His wide, toothy grin directed her way makes her wet her lips. A hand rests against her weathered chest bone, the top she’s wearing low cut, a string of pearls around her neck.
“I’m very sorry to learn of Natasha’s sister’s passing, Such tragic circumstances.” She bobs her head, leaning forward slightly.
“This girl’s tuition…I want to cover it,” I tell her, and her eyes light up.
“That’s a very generous gesture, Mr. Leto.” Her hands clasp together. These places are money hungry, and they don’t care where, or who, that money comes from.
I steeple my hands, resting my elbows on the arms of the chair. “What’s with all the cameras out front?”