Submitting in Vegas (Vegas Morellis 3)

“Nothing’s set in stone yet,” I tell her, keeping my tone non-committal.

“Well, I’ll be around. You still have my number?”

“I do.”

“Good.” She smiles again, her eyes traveling down my chest and back to my face. She doesn’t have to verbally offer her company after that.

I watch as she turns and disappears into the crush of people as quickly as she emerged, then I turn back to Virginia, half-expecting to see annoyance written all over her face. At the restaurant she doesn’t pull shit like that, but she’s usually not the woman I’m out with. Most of the girls who come out with me casually know the score, they don’t waste my time with jealousy, but relationship girls get downright pissy about stuff like this. Laurel would be irritated as hell right now. Hell, even when I took Mia out in Chicago while I was playing a part in one of Mateo’s productions, she got annoyed over a cashier who flirted with me—and Mia’s madly in love with her husband. Relationship girls want your attention all to themselves when you’re out together, and that’s it.

I’m positive Virginia is a relationship girl, but rather than betray any jealousy, she smiles. “Should we dance here, or keep moving?”

Gesturing toward the girl who just walked away, I explain, “That was Galina.”

“Okay.”

“She’s Russian,” I add, for no real reason.

“Good for her. Is that a yes on dancing here, or should I keep moving?”

“Her brother’s getting married.” I don’t know why I’m still talking about Galina. Waiting for some kind of emotion to register, I guess, but she’s giving me nothing. If I can’t tell she’s pissed off at me, how am I supposed to smooth down her feathers?

She says something—pause something? I don’t know what the hell she said.

“What?” I ask, leaning closer so I can hear.

She moves closer, leaning in my ear and calling, “I said congratulations—in Russian.”

“I don’t speak Russian. Why do you speak Russian?”

“I’m a spy,” she jokes, her eyes flashing mischievously. Then, since I’m not answering her about dancing, I guess, she takes the decision into her own hands and starts moving. Her moves are deliberately slow and playful, her eyes still teasing. “You ever danced with a spy before, Rafe?”

“Not such a bad one,” I tell her, unable to keep from smiling. “You just blew your cover, dumbass.”

She bursts into laughter. “Wow. I’ve never been called that before.”

I shake my head, striding closer and grabbing her waist, tugging her closer. “First time for everything,” I offer.

“Are you going to turn me in to my spy agency?” she teases, bringing one hand to rest on my shoulder, but keeping her other hand to herself.

“Maybe we can work something out,” I t

ell her, my gaze trained on her face—which probably isn’t where I should be looking when her body is moving like this. I bet her tits look great behind that little lace panel right now. I could look down right now and get a good glimpse of cleavage.

But her cheeks are flushed, and she’s realizing her joke is inching too close to flirting, so she shuts up and averts her gaze, looking around the dance floor. “There are a lot of people here tonight.”

That’s an inane comment. I can’t believe that’s the best thing she came up with. It makes me smile and tug her even closer. As expected, her gaze darts to mine, a little more guarded now than a second ago.

She should be guarded, because there is a damn sure a predator in her midst. Moving this close to her is bringing out all kinds of instincts I haven’t used much lately. I’ve been working and abstaining from indulging in random pussy, but now I have a beautiful woman in a sexy dress dancing in my arms, and I want to play with her.

I let my hands slide down to cup her ass, pulling her about as close as I can get her. Her hips keep swaying, her tits brush my chest as she moves, but she shoots me a look of warning. “Watch your hands, boss.”

“I know where my hands are,” I tell her, watching her face as I run my hand over the curve of her ass, directly ignoring her half-assed objection. Her gaze drops and she licks her lips, but she doesn’t reprimand me. “Touch me.”

Her eyes widen and dart back to my face. “What?”

I nod at the hand hanging by her side. “You have a free hand. Use it.”

At first, she doesn’t appear to know what to do. She looks at my shoulders, then her gaze drops to my chest while she debates what I’m asking, compares and contrasts it with what she’s willing to do. At least, I assume that’s what’s taking her so damn long to listen to me.