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“Something like that.” I take a step toward her and gesture to the car that’s still there. “As I said, we should talk.”
“I’m talked out.”
“Dakota…”
“I don’t like you, Orion. I like him even less.” She takes a step to the right of me, opening up the gap. “Now move so I can go home.”
“Get in the fucking car.”
“No.”
“Dakota.” I manage to grab my ire tightly. “Come with me, please.”
“So you can… what, fuck me and get off?”
I’ve had enough. I close the space between us and grab her arm, pulling her against me. “I’d fucking love to get off, but I really mean talk. I have a place in the West Village.”
“Another hotel?” she asks.
“A place I own.” I smooth her hair from her face, letting my fingers linger. It’s not a fair game I’m playing, but I’m here to win, not play by rules.
I lean in and feather my lips against hers and she sighs, her mouth parting. I take advantage, deepening the kiss into something like a slow dance, something that spreads a warmth through my skin, flips my stomach, and makes my heart beat erratically.
She melts against me.
Her heart is wild, too.
And they start to beat together in the way that sends things tumbling and crashing around us.
Finally, I break the kiss.
“Come with me, Dakota.”
She stares at me for a long minute, conflict in her hard gaze. She lets out a breath. “Okay.”
TWENTY-SIX
dakota
It’s obvious he barely uses the place since there’s no food other than absolute staples, booze, and a few items of clothing in the bedroom with the floor-to-ceiling view that looks out over Manhattan and parts of Brooklyn and Queens.
The high-rise is one of those impossibly expensive places in a new building, and the furnishings are gorgeous, generic, and showroom ready.
His place in Bushwick might be pure Orion, but this is… I don’t know who this is. Maybe the man on the yacht he was pretending to be or maybe another persona I don’t know about.
He definitely works with Smith, and that means he’s up to no good. Only people who have mysterious jobs are up to no good.
He has a beer in one hand and he leans against the pristine kitchen island in the open-plan living area.
I grab a remote control from a nearby table, but there’s no television. I start pressing buttons and the modern painting on the wall suddenly turns black and CNN flashes on the screen.
I turn it off.
“I’m trying to work out who you are,” I say.
“Dakota, look. Smith asked me to watch over you. I couldn’t keep away, and I know I should have. I don’t need to be up close, fucking you to protect you.”
“Wait, let me guess. You brought me here to tell me it’s over but you want a final farewell performance before you let me go?”
