The Maddest Obsession (Made 2)

His grip tightened, and I sucked in a breath. I leaned against him and dug my nails into his forearm when I realized it was all I could do.

The hair on the back of my neck rose when his angry, mocking words brushed my ear. “Your entire family is just down the hall. What would your husband think if he saw you in such a compromising position?”

Fury was dimming under the heat of his body pressed against mine. The tightness of his arm around me. The scent of his custom cologne. And then there was the undeniable press of his erection against my lower back. The bastard was getting off on putting me in my place. Though, regardless of the circumstances, just the idea that he was hard sent a heavy weight between my legs. I softened against him, not able

to get enough air in my lungs.

“He’s at home with a nurse. He has pneumonia.”

“Ah, I hear that’s a killer for an old man like him.” His hold loosened, and his hand, ever so slowly, slid from my waist to my hip. The touch seared through my skin, setting my heartbeat crackling like sparks. “Who’s next on your husband list this time?”

He turned me, pulled my front against his, the heat of it becoming an overwhelming distraction. But then I reminded myself of what he said to me. Resting my palms on his stomach, I slid them up his chest as I rose to my tiptoes. He watched me through eyes too obscure to read.

We were so close I could smell his aftershave, count his eyelashes. The barest inch lay between our lips. It was too easy to fill—impossible not to—and I let the distance close, my lips skimming his as I said, “Anyone will do. As long as they screw me with a little more passion than you.”

I tried to pull away, but his hand slid up my neck, fisted in my hair, and kept my mouth brushing his. He stepped closer, forcing my back against the wall. “You seem to forget that I haven’t fucked you.”

Each brush of his lips was a douse of gasoline on fire inside me. A hazy wave inside my mind. A wasteful breath I couldn’t inhale. I turned my head to the side so I could find the air to speak. “Everything about that night was forgettable. Why do you think I didn’t call you?” Sympathy filled my voice. “Seems I didn’t listen.” We both knew I was referring to what he’d said to me that night: “You won’t forget me.”

My heart beat in my ears, and I hated myself for feeling a pang of regret.

His eyes were dark and terrifying; a reflection of skies lit up with smoke and fire. His lips pressed against my ear, words rough and threatening. “Run home to your husband before I make him a widower.”

I JUMPED TO MY FEET. “GO, BLACKIE, GO!”

The grandstand rattled and roared as the horses closed on the finish line. Ears pulled back, hooves pounding into dirt, muscles sleek with sweat. Adrenaline saturated the air, like the heavy humidity the dark clouds had brought in a moment ago. The end of August was upon us, but the heat didn’t want to let go.

My look was inspired by Clueless star Cher Horowitz’s closet—the small white dress her daddy had refused to let her leave the house in without a coverup. I had some issues with daddies, so here I was, in a small white dress—even sans sheer cardigan—as the clouds grew heavy with rain.

It fell from the sky the moment the horses crossed the finish line. I sat, watched the jockeys lead their horses off the track. Watched the dirt turn to mud.

A hand rested on my shoulder, a gaudy sapphire ring attached to the third finger. “I’m sure you’ll have better luck next time, dear.”

“I knew he wasn’t going to win.”

Patricia, a seventy-year-old widow, grabbed her purse. “What did I tell you about betting with your heart? It doesn’t win you a dime.” She patted my arm. “Well, I’m sure you’ll learn someday. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go collect my winnings.”

A little girl with big blue eyes stared from a seat in front of me, while her parents conversed with another couple. She had to hold her fountain soda with two hands it was so large. “Why would you bet on him if you knew he wouldn’t win?”

“Wouldn’t you want someone to believe in you, even if you knew you couldn’t do it?”

She nodded. “Uh huh.” She slurped her soda, looking me over. “You’re gonna look silly when you get rained on.”

I sighed and stood. Tugged my dress down my thighs and braced myself for New York’s unpredictable weather.

I had just reached the overhang outside when I stopped, seeing a familiar face.

“Gianna.” Vincent’s smile was small. “I didn’t know if I’d find you here.”

“Of course I came. It’s Blackie’s last hurrah. I had to wish him well in his retirement.” I bit my lip as the soft drip of rain sounded between us. “I thought you had a trip to depart on today?”

“The weather put it off until tomorrow.” He looked embarrassed, his gaze dropping to the pavement. “I was going to invite you—”

“You don’t have to explain, Vincent. I get it.” I shouldn’t have been upset—I couldn’t have gone even if I wanted to—but I still felt the sting of rejection.

I walked out from under the overhang and toward the sidewalk to catch a cab. The rain was a welcome relief from the heat, falling to my skin in fat drops.

“Gianna, wait.”