Page 139 of Scorned Beauty

“Maybe the bet should have been if you were going to destroy my dress.”

“Those buttons have been driving me crazy all evening,” I muttered. I slipped out my phone and texted the driver to bring the limo to the back of the venue. Afterward, I shot off a message to Trevor to keep an eye on Lucy.

Kirill would forever be a wild card, and even if the chances of him hurting my sister were low this evening, complacency was never an option when dealing with the Russians.

The hallway was dark when we left. My soldiers were stationed around, communicating with each other.

“You’re like the president and they’re Secret Service,” Sloane whispered. “How did you get Kirill to go along with that?”

I didn’t answer Sloane until we were in the back of the limo. Unlike our drive to the gala where we kept to our sides of the vehicle, this time, I had her on my lap and was nuzzling her throat. Inhaling her. All I could think about was splaying her on the bed and fucking her into oblivion. I didn’t want to talk about Kirill, but Sloane wasn’t having it.

“Dom, stop it,” she hissed. She wiggled her ass over my growing erection.

I chuckled. “That’s not helping, baby.”

“Tell me what’s going on. Or I’ll leave you blue-balled.”

I sighed. “Way to kill the buzz. Kirill and I came to an agreement to get rid of Tomlin. With the existence of the recording, he’d become a liability Zahkarov Holdings wanted to have nothing to do with. Lucy wanted to do it big, and flash his arrest on the screen, but Kirill vetoed it. In fact, he was this close to strangling my sister in the one and only meeting the three of us had together with the feds.”

“Phil?”

“Never say his name right after I’ve fucked you,” I growled.

“Stop being a jealous asshole. Phil is just a friend.”

“A friend? He framed you.”

“It wasn’t supposed to go down that way.”

My arms tightened around her, and I said in her ear, “Let’s get to the penthouse before we talk about this shit.”

Chapter

Thirty-Six

Sloane

Domand I hadn’t exchanged another word in the charged atmosphere of the vehicle. We’d engaged in a silent battle, but no matter how our views conflicted, one thing was certain: he was done giving me space. I appreciated his patience. I wasn’t that clueless to think that I’d turned Dom into my lapdog. That wasn’t the man I was attracted to.

I wanted the boss. The confident man who ruled his crime family, but I refused to be relegated to the corner again.

Dom kept me plastered to his side, and it was only when we entered the penthouse that he loosened his arms and let me go.

The decisive click of the lock turned me wary, but it was the kind of wariness that was a combination of excitement and indignation.

I crossed my arms. “You didn’t want to discuss the situation until you got me into the penthouse. Were you afraid that I was going to bolt?”

“Drink?” He ignored my question and walked to the minibar.

“No. Answer the question.”

Infuriating man that Dom was, he went ahead and poured himself a scotch before turning around to face me. The only satisfaction I got was noticing the tremor in his hand as he raised the glass to his lips. He was as tense as I was, and I wasn’t a foregone conclusion.

“You’re mine. I’m yours. I’m moving back in,” he told me.

“Are we sharing a bed?”

“I just came inside you, baby. Damn right you’re sleeping in my bed. You’re not a hypocrite, nor are you obtuse.”