Page 21 of Rent a Mob Boss

Brave enough that when Dorian’s hand rests on his thigh under the table, I put mine on top of it.

He goes still for a second. Then his hand turns over and his fingers lace through mine. He squeezes once, and I feel it all the way up my arm and into my chest.

I lean into him. My shoulder against his arm. My head almost at his shoulder. I can smell his cologne, and the champagne is making me warm. I trace a small circle on the back of his hand with my thumb, and I feel him inhale. A controlled, deliberate breath. The kind of breath you take when you’re trying very hard to stay in one piece.

I lean closer, my lips almost at his ear. “Is this part of the show?”

“Quinn.” His voice is barely a sound.

“Because I can stop if⁠—”

“Don’t stop.” He says it fast, rough. And then, lower, “But we need to leave.”

I pull back. His jaw is set. His eyes are dark and focused on something in the middle distance, like he’s having a conversation with himself I’m not invited to. His hand holds mine tighter than before.

“Right now?” I ask.

“Right now.” He stands and pulls me gently up with him before turning to my parents with a smile so smooth it scares me a little. “Mrs. Thomas, Mr. Thomas, thank you for a wonderful evening. I’m afraid I have an early morning, but this was a real pleasure.”

Mom looks between us. She’s confused, but willing to let it go for now. “Oh, of course. Dorian, it was so lovely to meet you. Quinn, call me tomorrow.”

“I will.”

“Call me tomorrow,” she says, in that way that means you will tell me everything. Or else.

And then we’re off, navigating the room, weaving through tables. I almost have to jog to keep up with his long strides, and the whole time I have to act like this is completely normal. Like my heart isn’t ready to explode because this man wants to get me out of here all of a sudden, and I’m not exactly sure why.

There’s only one clear thought repeating in my head like a drumbeat, over and over.

I’m in trouble.

8

DORIAN

By the time the night air hits us, I have about four seconds of restraint left.

Four seconds between the doors of the Whitmore and the side of the building where the light doesn’t reach, and I use every one of them walking her there—my hand on her back, her heels clicking fast to keep up, the green dress catching the streetlight—and then the four seconds are up, and I turn her and press her against the stone wall and kiss her like I’ve been drowning, and she’s the life preserver that will keep my head above water.

Her back hits the wall, and she makes a sound against my mouth, surprise and something else, something warmer. My hands find her waist, and I pull her into me. I kiss her the way I wanted to kiss her inside, without an audience or the excuse of a show. Just my mouth on hers because I can’t stand another second of not having it there. She tastes like champagne, and she’s shaking, but her hands come up to my chest and grip my jacket, and she holds on.

When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard. Her lips are swollen, and her eyes are wide and bright in the half-dark, and she’s looking up at me with an expression I’m going to carry for the rest of my life.

“Nobody’s watching now,” she says. Her voice is unsteady. “You don’t have to—we don’t have to keep up the⁠—”

“Forget pretending.” It comes out rough, raw, stripped of every layer I usually wrap my words in. “I need you, Quinn. I need to be inside you.”

She goes still against the wall. Her fingers tighten on my jacket. I watch the words land on her, and I watch what they do—the way her lips part, the way her breath catches, the way her eyes darken—and then she says, quiet, barely a whisper, “I’ve never done this before.”

For a second, the city goes silent. Just her breathing and mine, and the muffled noise of the party on the other side of the wall.

“I’m a virgin,” she says, like she needs to make sure I understand. Like I might take it back.

I look at her. This girl pressed against a wall, giving me the one piece of information that should make me stop. That should send me back to the car alone, because a man like me does not deserve to be anyone’s first, least of all hers.

“Not for much longer,” I tell her, and her whole body responds—a shudder, a caught breath, her fingers pulling me closer instead of pushing me away.

I kiss her again, slower this time. Deliberate. Then I take her hand and walk her to the car.