Page 90 of The Sun & Her Burn

“What’s your oldest scotch?” I asked the male bartender.

He grinned. “An eighteen-year-old Laphroig.”

I nodded to confirm my order and slid a sidelong look at Linnea, who had propped her elbows on the bar to face me. The position propped her breasts in the corseted top, richly tanned skin spilling temptingly over the delicate white lace.

I wanted to tear it apart with my teeth and discover the color and taste of her nipples. Would they be pale or a rich raspberry? Were they sensitive to the mere flick of my tongue, or could they stand to take some abuse with my teeth and strong fingers?

“Adam,” she called, and her voice was clearly affected by the same lust coiling serpentine in my belly, hissing at me to act. “I thought you didn’t drink.”

“I’m not an alcoholic,” I explained as I accepted my neat scotch from the bartender and stepped closer to Linnea. Her dress had a slit in the back so the fabric gave as I pulled her against me, her feet straddling either side of my thigh. “I simply don’t drink often because it leads me to make bad decisions.”

“Mmm.” Her eyes glittered as she walked her fingers up my chest and slowly undid two more buttons so that the top of my chest was bared to her gaze. She pulled teasingly at the chesthair she found before looking up at me with her bottom lip caught between her teeth. “Bad decisions like dancing with your girlfriend?”

My gut cramped with longing.

The door to the suite opened, and a few men and women trickled in to greet Giselle and Sinclair. I recognized one of them as the rock star, Cage Tracey, and pulled Linnea a little tighter to me.

“I think that would classify,” I agreed.

“Drink up, then. You’ll need both hands if you want to handle me,” she goaded, swaying her hips to the music as she walked backward away from me toward the dance floor.

I watched as she let her eyes drift to half mast, her hands raising to collect her masses of gold hair and lift it off her neck. She was perfectly content to be the only person dancing even as more people filtered into the space and conversation began to undercut the music.

I let myself watch her for a while as I sipped my scotch, relishing the burn down my throat, the little bubble of isolation around me that subtly repelled the newcomers from approaching me even though I knew many of them and I stood at the edge of the bar.

Under the multihued lights, Linnea twirled and swayed with innate grace and sensuality despite the fact that I had also witnessed her become clumsy and ungainly at times. I found the contrast oddly endearing.

“Trottolina mia,” a rich Italian voice spoke so close to my ear, it almost made me jump out of my skin.

Only, I knew the voice better than I knew anyone else’s because it had haunted my thoughts for ten years.

So I didn’t flinch or even blink as Sebastian settled just a little too closely beside me. The heat of his hip against my side was a brand that sizzled down through my bones.

“Little spinning top,” he translated for me. “Always moving, always shaking things up.”

I hummed. “It suits her.”

“So does Sunbeam,” he approved.

It was a strange way to acknowledge the fact that we were both wildly attracted to and sort of courting the same woman.

“There is a famous Italian song,” Seb continued, and I looked over to watch him sip from his own crystal glass. I didn’t have to ask to know it wasgrappa. “‘Vattene amore.’ The last line is known by all Italians.” He shifted into a low, smooth singing voice that was surprisingly lovely. I didn’t understand the Italian, but when he was finished, he translated again for me. “‘We’ll wonder how it is the world knows everything about us. Maybe I’ll call you,trottolina amoroso…and your name will be the name of every city….your name will be the name on a billboard that does advertising for me…and your name will be the cold and the darkness, a curled tomcat who will scratch me…your name will be a month of drought and in the sky there is no fresh rain for me…and I will lose my head.”

Sebastian finished paraphrasing the song and laughed lightly to himself, staring into his glass as if it were a scrying mirror and he was capable of divining the future.

When he looked up to snag my gaze, his eyes glowed like polished gemstones. “It’s funny that the nickname I gave Linnea so long ago came from a song that so perfectly encapsulates how I feel about you.”

My throat was so dry it ached. I had to swallow twice, cough, and swallow again before I could find my voice. I raised my glass to obscure half my face so he would not see so much of the feeling I couldn’t hide.

“Have you hated me so much?” I asked.

Sebastian’s black brows raised. “Hated you? No, Adam. I have never hated you. Longed for you? Pitied you? Wanted to hityou, even?Si, certamente. I am a man with big emotions.” He shrugged in that Latinate way that seemed casual but expressed much. “Perhaps it is better to say you have haunted me, and now that I am faced with your ghost, I do not know whether to exorcize you or pray you come back to life.”

The VIP section was getting busy. Someone bumped into Sebastian, pushing him firmly up against my side. He didn’t move away, locking eyes with me the way mountain goats did horns.

“I feel as if I am coming back to life,” I admitted, sliding my gaze back to the dance floor, toward the warmth I could feel like sun on my skin emanating from Linnea.

She was still dancing, laughing with some women who had joined her, including Giselle, who twirled under Linnea’s arm.