Page 40 of Dangerous King (Savage Kings of New York #2)

We glide through the city like a shadow, past brightly lit buildings, past lives that aren't mine.

Enrico doesn't speak much, but his silence feels intentional, not distant, like he's giving me space to soak this in.

To breathe. In all the years I lived under the Giordanos' roof, my world never extended beyond the wrought iron gates of their estate and the sterile walls of whatever private school they enrolled me in.

My universe was marble floors, manicured gardens, and cold, watchful stares.

I never saw the city. Never heard it breathe or felt it pulse under my skin.

Now, sitting here in the car with Enrico, it hits me all at once.

The skyline stretches out like something from a dream, impossibly tall buildings glittering against the early evening sky, neon lights flickering in every direction.

Horns blare. Laughter spills from open windows.

Life hums in every crack of the pavement.

My breath catches in my throat. My fingers press to the glass, trying to drink it all in.

People fill the sidewalks, rushing from work, wandering about, just plain living. I've never seen so many faces, so many possibilities, and not one of them looks at me like I'm out of place.

A strange pressure swells in my chest. Hope. Longing. Awe.

Our hands remain clasped on my thigh for the rest of the drive. His thumb brushes lightly over mine every once in a while. It shouldn't make me shiver, but it does. Every. Time.

Finally, we slow in front of a building that doesn't even look real. It's all glass and black steel, several stories high, and reminding me of something out of a magazine with its honest-to-God red carpet lying on the ground. A man in a tuxedo opens my door before I even reach for the handle.

"Miss," he says with a polite nod.

I step out slowly, carefully, letting the hem of my dress fall perfectly into place. I stand tall, shoulders back, one of the things Camilla and her mother—before she died—insisted I learn. To walk, talk, and behave like a lady.

Enrico is right behind me, his hand on the small of my back, assuring, assuring, strong, and possessive in a way that makes my stomach flutter.

"Hungry?" he murmurs near my ear.

I nod because, for a moment, that's all I can do as I'm staring at the building's facade. He subtly increases the pressure at my back to guide me inside, and I remember my manners. "Starved, actually, and you?"

A mischievous smirk runs across his features, his eyes sparkle as he leans in lower, so only I can hear him, "Starved too. But the only thing I'm hungry for tonight…" his lips brush the shell of my ear, voice dropping to a dark whisper, "is your pussy."

My knees nearly give out. Heat rushes up my neck and pools between my legs so fast I forget how to breathe. He straightens, calm and collected, like he didn't just melt every last one of my brain cells.

I don't have a chance to recover; the hostess takes one look at him and rushes to take us upstairs.

The entire time, she flutters her long, fake eyelashes at Enrico, completely ignoring me.

She laughs too loudly at her own jokes and, in general, makes me want to punch her.

That thought hits me like a hammer to the chest. I've never wanted to punch anybody.

Not even Camilla when she was at her most snotty meanness.

Neither figuratively nor literally. But right now, I feel like I could smack my fist right into her artificially enhanced lips. It's a very disturbing realization.

Clueless as to where my mind is going, she leads us to a private balcony wrapped in fairy lights and ivy. There are only two tables. Ours sits against a wall of glass overlooking the glittering skyline.

"This is beautiful," I whisper, stunned.

Enrico pulls my chair out for me. "Not as beautiful as you."

The hostess coughs, throwing a veiled glare at me, before she sends a smile, all teeth, at Enrico.

"Your server will be right with you. In the meantime, if you need anything…

" She drifts off, leaving enough space to imagine what she's thinking.

My fingers curl into small fists. I'm overreacting.

I know that. I draw in a deep breath and take a seat, ignoring the hostess and smiling up at Enrico. "Thank you."

Menus arrive, followed by wine. A server appears so quietly that I don't even hear his approach. Everything is hushed and seamless, opulence without effort.

"I keep waiting to wake up," I say softly, tracing the rim of my water glass.

"You're not dreaming," Enrico replies. "You're with me. You deserve this." His gaze meets mine. "You saved my sister. You survived hell. You've held yourself together when most people would've shattered." He leans forward. "But if you think this date is some reward? It's not. It's the beginning."

I stare at him, every single one of my nerve endings alive and pulsing. The beginning , he said. I swallow. That one word can mean so much. Is it wrong to hope that he means us? The beginning of us? With that, the butterflies in my stomach stop fluttering. They soar.

Dinner begins with a small amuse-bouche that resembles art more than food. I stare at it for a second, fork in hand. Enrico watches me with that smug little glint in his eye. "What? Never had a beet foam and goat cheese cloud before?"

A soft giggle escapes me. Worded like that, the appetizer doesn't seem intimidating anymore; nothing really does, not when he's looking at me like that. His laugh rumbles low in his chest, smooth and sinful, and it twists something deep in my belly.

"Tonight is for you to relax. Eat. Smile," he says, pausing just long enough to make my pulse spike. Then his voice dips lower, darker. "And maybe let me spread those pretty thighs and taste you until you scream."

The fork slips slightly in my hand. My thighs clench under the table, and heat blooms across my skin like wildfire. I bite my lip, fighting the instinct to look away.

"That depends," I say, and I can hear the breathlessness in my own voice. "Are you always this persuasive?"

He leans back in his chair with the kind of quiet arrogance that makes my mouth go dry, lifting his wine glass like he's toasting something filthy and forbidden. "Only when I want something."

"And what do you want, Enrico?" I ask before I can lose my nerve. But I've been hiding for most of my life; now, I want to live. I want to live and experience it all.

His gaze pins me in place, all teasing is gone, his smirk too, replaced by a pure, raw hunger. I clench my thighs even tighter, crossing my ankles underneath the table to give myself some relief.

"You," he says. "Your mouth. Your cunt. Your everything. But for now…" His lips curve, slow and dangerous. "I'll start with that shy little smile you keep trying to hide. We'll see how fast I can turn it into a scream."

Oh shit— oh no, did I just curse ? Oh dang— I did it again .

Dio mio, my mind is one big, flustered tornado.

I can't stop the smile he asked for, it's already curving my lips.

He thought to scare me off with his vulgar use of the word cunt …

Before meeting him, maybe even before the lake, it would have made me blush like a fire hydrant.

Now… it only pools the strange wetness between my legs and awakens a pulse deep inside me.

I should be horrified by him… by myself. But… I'm not.

The left side of his mouth curls up in an amused, almost arrogant expression.

He knows exactly what his words just did to me.

I can't help it, though. I keep staring at that mouth, remembering his fingers and…

I shake my head, and my gaze flicks toward the skyline, just to gather myself.

He watches me like he's memorizing the angles of my face.

"So," I say, needing to ground myself, "do you always bring girls here? Private balcony, skyline view, moody lighting. Seems like a well-used playbook."

He snorts into his wine. "This is the first time I've been here, actually."

I raise a brow.

"Seriously," he says. "Yes, I've taken women to dinners. Events. Parties. But this?" His thumb brushes along the back of my hand. "Not to a place like this. I don't need to impress anyone."

I tilt my head, suddenly nervous. "No?"

"No," he says, voice lower now. "This is a date that I planned to thank you. To show you what you deserve."

I'm not sure what to say to that. I'm not used to kindness dressed in power. To gentleness wrapped in steel. I swallow and glance down at my plate.

"You really don't have to thank me," I murmur.

"I know," he says. "But I want to."

I'm not sure if I'm touched, offended, or hurt. He's confusing the hell out of me. Did he really only bring me here because he feels… gratitude? What about—and here I blush again—me, spreading my legs , as he so elaborately put it?

We eat slowly, plates arriving one after the other like a dream.

Enrico tells me about a vineyard he bought in Tuscany, only to learn he hates the taste of his own wine.

I tell him about the time I tried to sew my own prom dress and ended up accidentally stitching the armhole shut.

By dessert, we're both laughing so hard that the server keeps pausing before approaching.

When he sets the chocolate mousse down between us, Enrico picks up a spoon, scoops a bite, and lifts it toward me.

"You're serious?" I ask.

"Very."

I lean forward and take the bite. It's rich. Decadent. And very unfair.

"Now I know why you brought me here," I tease. "For the chocolate."

"Guilty," he murmurs, and brushes a crumb from the corner of my mouth with his thumb. He lets it linger there, just long enough to make my whole body burn.

"Enrico…" I whisper. My voice is trembling, but not in fear; it's from me, wanting him. Wanting him to do all those forbidden things he promised.