Page 25 of Diamonds (Aces Underground #2)
ALISSA
S aturday.
Valentine’s Day.
I’ve never had a date for Valentine’s Day.
I’ve dated, of course, but no relationship of mine has ever crossed paths with the fourteenth of February.
Until now.
I don’t know if you could even call what I have with Maddox a relationship, at least not in the traditional sense. We’ve known each other for a little over a week. Not even ten days.
But I feel like we’ve lived a lifetime since then.
Valentine’s Day is not quite the spectacle in the UK that it is here in the States, but spouses and lovers still traditionally exchange cards and gifts. My Welsh cousins carve wooden spoons for each other.
But it’s never been a big deal for me. Because I’ve never been with a man this time of year.
The tragedy is that I can’t truly enjoy my first Valentine’s Day with Maddox to the fullest, because we’re using it as a cover to peer into the grimy underbelly of Aces Underground, see what secrets Rouge is hiding.
I took another day off work. I have over a month’s worth of sick days accrued, and apparently I’m going to burn through all of them trying to figure out exactly what happened to May.
Aces opens at nine p.m. on Saturdays. It stays open until three in the morning. We’ll have six hours to get Rouge distracted, peek around, and see if we can find anything that connects her to Svetlana’s disappearance or May’s murder.
I dug deep into my closet for the dress I’m going to wear tonight. It’s a light-pink off-the-shoulder gown that flares out as the skirt reaches the ground. I’ve accentuated it with off-white heels, some gold jewelry I inherited from my mother, and arm-length gloves the same shade as the dress.
Light pink seemed appropriate for Valentine’s Day, but it’s not the reason I chose this outfit.
The last time I wore this gown was the last time I truly felt like an artist.
My master’s recital at Northwestern. The last time I played my own choice of music to an audience of people I loved on the instrument that took me away from my terrible mother.
The flute.
The last time I felt truly whole was that wonderful night.
Yet how quickly I sacrificed the music that gave me such life. All because things didn’t fall into a neat little line like I’d hoped.
Tonight, I’m taking that part of me back.
I’m not picking up the flute, of course. Bianca Montrose, Rouge’s sister, headlines the Hearts section of the club, and she’ll certainly be performing with her band. I doubt they’ll need a flautist to complete the ensemble.
But I’m taking the part of me that glowed like a fiery ember the night of my recital.
The part of me that takes what she wants, that laughs at the risks.
Because Maddox and I will be entering Aces Underground tonight.
And I’m not sure we’ll be making it out alive.
The sun is setting, and clouds are rolling in. As I apply some final touches to my makeup, a clap of thunder shakes my entire apartment.
I drop my mascara brush in the sink.
Shit.
Oh well, my eyelashes are marvelous on their own, I suppose.
I peer through the window. It’s beginning to rain.
Thank God Maddox is picking me up tonight. I wouldn’t want to brave the L in this weather. Certainly not while wearing this little slip of a pink dress.
The doorbell rings.
Speak of the handsome devil himself.
I glide over to the front door and open it. Maddox stands there, holding a bouquet of red roses.
My God.
A man never looked so luscious.
He’s wearing a pressed and tailored tuxedo, black as the night we’ll be walking into.
Under his jacket is a blood-red bow tie with a matching vest and pocket square.
Mother-of-pearl studs line the ruffled button-down shirt he wears under the vest, and heart-shaped cufflinks peek out from his sleeves.
Any other man would look like a Valentine’s Day stereotype in this ensemble. But Maddox?
It’s all I can do not to strip naked right here and now. Allow him to do whatever he wants to my body. Carte bloody blanche.
He grins. “Alissa, you look beautiful tonight.”
“I should say the same to you.” I fiddle with my gloves.
He hands me the bouquet of roses. “I only wish these flowers were a fraction as gorgeous as you tonight, my love.”
Alarm bells go off in my brain.
My love?
It’s not the three little words I’ve been longing to hear, but it’s one of them.
A warmth fills my cheeks.
“Thank you.” I take the roses. “Won’t you please come in? I’ll put these in some water.”
He walks into my apartment, closing the door.
I head to the kitchen, reach under my sink to find a vase, fill it halfway with water, and place the roses in the water.
I take a step back to admire them. “Where did you get these, Maddox? These look like they’ve been trimmed off the gardens of Buckingham Palace itself.”
“Question asked and answered.”
“Very funny.”
“I got them from a florist who works near the haberdashery. Amber Bloom, it’s called.” He kisses my neck. “But no flower in the world could capture your beauty, or”—he inhales deeply, his eyes closed—“ aroma .”
I bite my lip. “Maddox…”
“Alissa.” He turns me around to face him, and he’s got the same unhinged look in his eye I saw that first night we made love.
I run my hand up his chest. “Do we have time?”
“There’s always time,” he growls.
In a flash, he’s picked me up into his arms as though I were weightless, and he carries me into my bedroom.
“Strip,” he commands.
I burn my gaze into his. “Or else what?”
His eyes don’t waver an inch. “Or else I’ll have to rip that little pink thing off of you myself.”
I don’t doubt his words. When he gets that look in his eyes, Maddox is ready to take what he needs and damn the consequences.
But if I’m going to strip for him—and I will, to the very last piece of clothing—I’m going to have fun with it. I’m going to make him ride out the anticipation of seeing my naked body as long as I can.
I grab my phone off my night table and open the Spotify app.
Within seconds, I’ve pulled up a recording of Camille Saint-Saens’s “Bacchanale” from his opera Samson and Delilah .
My Bluetooth speaker starts playing, filling the air with what is perhaps the most sensuous music ever written by a classical composer.
Maddox’s eyes widen at the music, but he doesn’t rebuff my move.
I approach Maddox and run my hands up and down his body, feeling him up through his shirt, sneaking fingers in between the gaps between buttons, and squeezing his muscles.
I lurch away from him as the strings surge forward in swirling arabesques while the percussion drives the frenzy with an unrelenting energy.
The music wails, the orchestra alive with undulating figures that coil and snap like dancers in the grip of ecstasy.
While this music of abandon plays, I allow it to overtake me, and I shimmy out of the top of my dress, slowly shedding the fabric—both the dress and the strapless bra I’m wearing—covering my breasts.
They fall forward, and I trounce away from Maddox, running my hands up my own breasts and pinching my nipples.
It feels good, but this is all for his pleasure.
He starts to rub his cock.
That’s my cue.
The music intensifies, the pace quickening. I turn away from Maddox, exposing my back and then the top of my arse at first while I hold my gown in place to keep the good stuff just out of view.
A moment of stillness then in the music before the final climax erupts in a whirlwind of sound. I quickly remove the rest of the dress along with my underwear and stand before Maddox, naked as the day I was born, ready for anything—everything—he wants to do to me.