Submitting in Vegas

by Sam Mariano

  “Is your husband in town too, Carly?” I ask casually.

  She nods her head. “He’s at their house babysitting Skylar so I could be here for Laurel while she was in labor.”

  “I want video footage of Vince babysitting,” Rafe remarks, smirking.

  “Vince is good with kids,” Carly tells him. “Not all grown men are afraid of babies.”

  “Yes, I remember how good he was with Dom,” Rafe volleys back.

  Carly sighs, like dealing with him zaps her of every last ounce of patience she possesses. “Why are you the way that you are, Rafe? Didn’t your mother love you?”

  I glance at Laurel to see what she thinks about all this, but in her post-labor hunger, she can’t seem to focus beyond the delicious steak that she is devouring. I glance at Sin to see what he thinks, but he doesn’t seem to give a single fuck. His gaze shifts back and forth from Laurel to the baby snuggled against my chest, and never strays to Rafe or Carly.

  Remembering Rafe said Nicky wasn’t in a good mood when he held him, I ask, “Would you like another turn now that he’s in a better mood?”

  “I suppose I can try again,” he says, his gaze dropping to the baby on my chest. “You want to come see me one more time, or do you like Virginia?”

  The sweet little angel on my chest merely blinks up at him. As helpless and quiet as this baby is, he has already sky-rocketed to my top-three favorite people in the world, just a hair below Rafe. Give him a little time to coo at me, and who knows how the ranking will fluctuate.

  Now Rafe takes Nicholas and settles him against his muscular chest. I manage to stifle a dreamy sigh, but damn, only by sheer force of will. As often as my memory is a curse, I’m happy for it right now. I’m going to memorize every half-second of Rafe cuddling his newborn son, that way I can replay it over and over again at will. The kitchen made the wrong order and the customers were already being assholes? Just take a breath and picture Rafe cuddling his adorable newborn son. All better.

  After our visit at the hospital I head back toward the restaurant to get my car. When we’re a couple minutes away, I feel Rafe’s eyes on me, so I glance over to see what he wants.

  “What are you doing tonight?” he asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you’re not going back to work, but the night is still young. What’s the plan? What do you do when you’re not at the restaurant? Do you go out? Stay in? Do you knit?”

  That last part startles a laugh out of me. “Do I look like a knitter?”

  “I mean, kinda.”

  I grin, shaking my head. “No, I don’t knit. I actually used to crochet when I was 14 and 15, but then I got bored of it. I shouldn’t have told you that,” I realize, seeing his smirk.

  “No, I’m glad you did. The mental image is priceless to me. Did you sit in a rocking chair with a shawl and reading glasses that you wore low on your nose?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I mutter. “I’m younger than you, buddy, so don’t get cocky.”

  “Do you like to go out?”

  “Once in a while I’ll go out with people from the restaurant after work or on days off, but I’m not on your level, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “You ever hit the club scene?”

  “Not really,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t really drink. Once in a great while, but I’m a lightweight. I like food. I might go out to a restaurant or something, but nightclubs aren’t really my scene. I don’t have anyone to go with, and it’s not the kind of thing you do alone.”

  “I go alone sometimes.”

  “And stay alone?”

  “Well, no,” he admits.

  “Exactly. I don’t hook up with randoms, so the allure isn’t really there for me.”

  His lips curve up faintly and he teases me. “Why not? You’re such a good girl, aren’t you, Virginia?”

  “Compared to the girls you’re used to, yes,” I say, unashamed. “I don’t doubt it’s fun to go out with you, but it’s not the kind of thing I do myself, no.”

  He nods, his expression seeming to indicate acceptance. Just as I start to wonder if he’ll find that answer lame, he says, “So, let’s go.”

  My heart stalls and my eyes widen. “What?”

  “I don’t have plans, you don’t have plans. Let’s do it. Let’s go out and have a good time.”

  My brain crashes—just completely shuts down. It can’t process words, let alone come up with any. I’m lucky we’re driving a straight stretch of road right now, or I might run us into a pole.

  Unconcerned with my silence, Rafe adds, “You can’t wear that, though. We’ll swing by your apartment and you can put on a dress and heels.”

  “I—” I clear my throat, shaking my head, trying to find words. “I don’t own any dresses.”

  “What?” he asks, like I just admitted to having alien ancestry.

  “I work six days a week. I don’t have anywhere to wear dresses, so I don’t have reason to buy one.”

  This explanation doesn’t seem to be adequate. I have a hunch Rafe was under the impression that a dress or six must be included in a handy female starter kit we all come readily equipped with, but he eventually accepts this foreign reality. “Huh. Okay. Well, that’s no big deal. We’ll stop and buy you one.”

  I can’t find the words to agree, but I can’t seem to say no, either. I’ve never gone out somewhere with Rafe before. I don’t get ahead of myself thinking anything too crazy, though the temptation is real. More than anyone else, I know how casual Rafe is. He has a million casual relationships. He has gone out with hordes of women to clubs, so inviting me to come out with him doesn’t mean anything. He’s bored, that’s all. He’s still taking his break from casual hook-ups, but he just met a son he never intended to have, so he probably needs to blow off some steam, and he wants someone to do it with.

  I don’t know if I can be here for him for this, though. As much as I’d love to go out and spend time with him, I need to stay in my box. Do I really want a memory of going out with him on the town? Then every girl he brings through for dinner before they go out clubbing, I’ll know what she’s in for. I’ll know what I’m missing out on. A happy memory will turn into an envious one.

  Rafe Morelli’s world is not mine, and I’m apprehensive about the possible ramifications of straddling that line. His world moves much faster than mine, and I’ve always known that even if by some mistake of fate I ended up in his path, it would be a massive risk. Sure, it’s possible I could win his heart if I came in at exactly the right time and we hit it off the way we do in my mind, but the more likely result would be we lose it all. Risk our existing relationship for some cheap thrills, it doesn’t work out, and then what do we have?

  I would much rather always have Rafe in my life the way he is now than risk fucking it all up for a long shot at having more.

  Getting more deeply involved in his world also complicates my own life, and while I value his place in it highly, I’m not quite prepared to toss out everything I’ve worked for, either. I’ve already paused my life for Rafe, but I’m young; I can afford to do that. Canceling it is another thing altogether.

  There’s no reason to, though. I’m worrying more than I need to. He’s not trying to kiss me or fuck me, he just wants me to go to a club with him. It will be a nice memory. I can control myself. I don’t have to get jealous of everyone who comes after me, as long as we keep it strictly platonic.

  My brain calls all kinds of bullshit, but my head nods yes. “Sure. Okay. That sounds like fun.”

  His easy smile exudes all the bad things—charm, pleasure, interest. God, he should not look at me that way. It does things to my head and my heart. Neither can function properly when his amber eyes glow with pleasure, all because I agreed to spend some time alone with him.

  Oh, God, that’s such a bad, bad idea.

  I tell myself it’s not. I tell myself it’s fine.

  It’s fine that I’m going to a club with Rafe Morelli. />
  It’s fine that he stops and picks out a sexy black dress and strappy heels for me to wear while I’m out with him.

  It’s super fine that he drapes an arm casually around my waist as we head toward the club, that his touch—even through this thin layer of clothing—makes my skin burn with heat. It’s fine that my heart races and my brain short circuits.

  Everything is just fine.

  4

  Rafe

  Virginia is incredibly fucking nervous. I suppose since I’ve tried to maul her a time or two in the past, I could draw the conclusion that she’s nervous about being with me in a club environment like this, but I can’t tell if that’s what it is. Her feelings aren’t hard to read, but despite knowing her for years, there is so much about her I don’t know. It’s peculiar that someone could live on the outskirts of my life for so long, someone I have maintained a casually friendly relationship with, and so much about her is still a mystery.

  Actually, maybe the odd part is how I feel like peeling back those layers and finding out why. Why is she nervous?

  Speaking of things I want to peel back, I should have bought her a different fucking dress. Her eyes lit up when she saw the little black number she’s wearing now, but it’s not what I would’ve picked out for her. The dress has two personalities—part class and sophistication, part sex appeal. The black eye-trap has a plunging neckline with little more than a swatch of sheer lace covering her breasts. Then there’s an even more evil V of missing fabric from her hip to her mid thigh, with just a tiny panel of the black sheer lace there so you can’t see her panties when she walks—but it’s so little, and the dress is cut so deviously, you can’t stop watching to see if maybe you can catch a glimpse.

  It’s a truly evil dress. The dress is a trick. I don’t know what it says about her that she’s drawn to the damn thing, but I bet it’s nothing good. She’s probably just like the dress, somehow hiding in plain sight. Prim and proper from a glance, then you look twice and see she’s a secret sex-trap. I can’t keep my mind from wandering to her sexual interests, and I need to keep myself in check. Virginia’s sexual interests are none of my damn business.

  The real problem is I’m already too interested in her, because I like her in a non-sexual way. Any girl at the club could wear an even more blatantly sexual dress and it wouldn’t hold my interest for more than a few fleeting seconds. It wouldn’t be complicated. There’s no reason I shouldn’t look at those girls.

  Maybe it is because Virginia is a little forbidden, and I do very much like playing with toys I should keep my hands off of.

  I should not look at Virginia that way. It’s not even as simple as that with her, and I fucking know it, but looking at Virginia in a sexual light—regardless of reason—would open up a whole new can of worms that I don’t want to deal with. If I fuck around with her, it won’t end well. Then she’ll leave and I’ll miss her.

  The gist of it is, I should’ve bought her a different fucking dress.

  I keep a hand on her hip as we make our way through the glut of people. It’s not that late, but the club is already full and I don’t want her getting lost in the crowd.

  Of course they know me here, so despite the crowd, we walk right in. They didn’t know I was coming though, so they didn’t save me a spot in the VIP section. The club manager rushes out to apologize and let me know they’re taking care of it and they’ll have a booth available immediately.

  “Wow,” Virginia says, leaning in so I can hear her. “Look at you bumping someone right out of the VIP section.”

  I flash her a smile. “I’m kind of a big deal.” Nodding at the dance floor, I put my hand on her hip and move her toward it. “Let’s dance while we wait.”

  “Oh, I don’t—I don’t really think…”

  I ignore her and push her through the crowd. She sighs at me, but keeps walking through the throng of bodies around us.

  “Rafe!”

  Aw, shit. That didn’t take long. My fingers dig into Virginia’s hip since she’s walking ahead of me. The touch gets her attention and she turns back to look at me, her long dark hair moving over her shoulder.

  It’s loud as hell over here, so I hold up one finger as I say, “Give me a second.”

  She nods and looks around for why we’re stopping. The bright-eyed girl I went out with a few times makes her way over to me with a drink in one hand and a tiny-ass purse in the other.

  “Rafe,” she exclaims again, grinning and throwing her arms around my neck for a hug. “How are you?”

  “Hey, Galina. I’m good, how are you?”

  “Better now. So good to see you.”

  “I thought you were in New York now,” I tell her.

  Nodding, she says, “I’m just in town for the holidays. My brother got engaged!”

  I have no godly idea who her brother is. I’m sure I never met him. Her eyes are wide with expectation though, so I go ahead and say, “No shit?” anyway, as if we’re pals and I’m floored by the news. “Give him my best, will ya.”

  “I will,” she says, grinning. She glances away as someone bumps into her, then brings her gaze back to mine. “What are you doing later?”

  “Nothing’s set in stone yet,” I tell her, keeping my tone non-committal.

  “Well, I’ll be around. You still have my number?”

  “I do.”

  “Good.” She smiles again, her eyes traveling down my chest and back to my face. She doesn’t have to verbally offer her company after that.

  I watch as she turns and disappears into the crush of people as quickly as she emerged, then I turn back to Virginia, half-expecting to see annoyance written all over her face. At the restaurant she doesn’t pull shit like that, but she’s usually not the woman I’m out with. Most of the girls who come out with me casually know the score, they don’t waste my time with jealousy, but relationship girls get downright pissy about stuff like this. Laurel would be irritated as hell right now. Hell, even when I took Mia out in Chicago while I was playing a part in one of Mateo’s productions, she got annoyed over a cashier who flirted with me—and Mia’s madly in love with her husband. Relationship girls want your attention all to themselves when you’re out together, and that’s it.

  I’m positive Virginia is a relationship girl, but rather than betray any jealousy, she smiles. “Should we dance here, or keep moving?”

  Gesturing toward the girl who just walked away, I explain, “That was Galina.”

  “Okay.”

  “She’s Russian,” I add, for no real reason.

  “Good for her. Is that a yes on dancing here, or should I keep moving?”

  “Her brother’s getting married.” I don’t know why I’m still talking about Galina. Waiting for some kind of emotion to register, I guess, but she’s giving me nothing. If I can’t tell she’s pissed off at me, how am I supposed to smooth down her feathers?

  She says something—pause something? I don’t know what the hell she said.

  “What?” I ask, leaning closer so I can hear.

  She moves closer, leaning in my ear and calling, “I said congratulations—in Russian.”

  “I don’t speak Russian. Why do you speak Russian?”

  “I’m a spy,” she jokes, her eyes flashing mischievously. Then, since I’m not answering her about dancing, I guess, she takes the decision into her own hands and starts moving. Her moves are deliberately slow and playful, her eyes still teasing. “You ever danced with a spy before, Rafe?”

  “Not such a bad one,” I tell her, unable to keep from smiling. “You just blew your cover, dumbass.”

  She bursts into laughter. “Wow. I’ve never been called that before.”

  I shake my head, striding closer and grabbing her waist, tugging her closer. “First time for everything,” I offer.

  “Are you going to turn me in to my spy agency?” she teases, bringing one hand to rest on my shoulder, but keeping her other hand to herself.

  “Maybe we can work something out,” I t
ell her, my gaze trained on her face—which probably isn’t where I should be looking when her body is moving like this. I bet her tits look great behind that little lace panel right now. I could look down right now and get a good glimpse of cleavage.

  But her cheeks are flushed, and she’s realizing her joke is inching too close to flirting, so she shuts up and averts her gaze, looking around the dance floor. “There are a lot of people here tonight.”

  That’s an inane comment. I can’t believe that’s the best thing she came up with. It makes me smile and tug her even closer. As expected, her gaze darts to mine, a little more guarded now than a second ago.

  She should be guarded, because there is a damn sure a predator in her midst. Moving this close to her is bringing out all kinds of instincts I haven’t used much lately. I’ve been working and abstaining from indulging in random pussy, but now I have a beautiful woman in a sexy dress dancing in my arms, and I want to play with her.

  I let my hands slide down to cup her ass, pulling her about as close as I can get her. Her hips keep swaying, her tits brush my chest as she moves, but she shoots me a look of warning. “Watch your hands, boss.”

  “I know where my hands are,” I tell her, watching her face as I run my hand over the curve of her ass, directly ignoring her half-assed objection. Her gaze drops and she licks her lips, but she doesn’t reprimand me. “Touch me.”

  Her eyes widen and dart back to my face. “What?”

  I nod at the hand hanging by her side. “You have a free hand. Use it.”

  At first, she doesn’t appear to know what to do. She looks at my shoulders, then her gaze drops to my chest while she debates what I’m asking, compares and contrasts it with what she’s willing to do. At least, I assume that’s what’s taking her so damn long to listen to me.

  Finally, her free hand comes to rest tentatively on my other shoulder. It must have made her feel safer to have only one hand on my shoulder, to have one side of this embrace open in case she wanted to bail. I don’t allow her that, but she doesn’t fight me on it.