11. Smoke and Fire

Chapter 11

Smoke and Fire

Milo glares at me as he slides into the SUV, his judgmental gaze taking in the itty-bitty scrap of luxury fabric wrapping my body, hugging all the right places. I don't say anything, instead simply flash him a small smile, my combative eyes doing all the talking for me.

Make a comment. I dare you.

Since he refuses to elaborate or explain anything in detail, the phrase dress appropriately was far too vague for me to interpret with any certainty, so I opted to wear a dress I deemed appropriate for a nightclub setting.

His mouth opens for a brief second but then snaps shut like he knows I'm waiting for it, anticipating his displeasure, and he doesn't want to appease me.

He doesn't want to lose.

" Drive fast ," Milo tells our driver in a clipped tone, his attention focused on his phone. " We are late ."

Because you were late, I want to add but decide to keep my remark to myself. I'm sensing he's already in a foul mood, I wouldn't want to poke the self-proclaimed dragon.

At least not yet .

I cross my legs as the car hums to life, running my fingers over the hem of my charcoal halter dress that reaches mid-thigh. The seven gold chains attached to the back of the couture garment press against my bare spine as I lean back into my seat: the icy sensation from the precious metal cutting through the dizzying heat of Milo's presence.

I tilt my head, my mouth dry as my greedy gaze skims his ensemble. So understated. So simple. So goddamn enticing. He's wearing what he usually does – black slacks and a black dress shirt with the top two buttons undone. His sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, showcasing his black and grey tattoos; the scars on his arms evidence of his strength, his vigor, his power and...and I'm suddenly overwhelmed.

I'm overwhelmed by the tugging ache just below my stomach, the primal urge to rip the silk shirt off his perfect body, dig my nails into his flesh, touch him, mark him, taste him, consume him.

All of him. Every wicked inch.

Oh, fucking hell.

I expel a small breath, squeezing my thighs shut as I command my treacherous eyes to stop gawking at him but they're disobedient, bratty, rebellious .

They don't care that we're losing a battle. They don't care about the consequences. They don't care about logic or reason or strategy.

They just want to stare and admire and undress .

Fucking hedonists.

I pull a tube of red lipstick out of my clutch and touch up the corners of my lips, distracting myself from the magnetic pull of his aura. "How far is the club? Are we close?"

Milo doesn't bother to look up from his phone. "Not far. "

"Oh." At least he can't see how affected I am by his proximity.

For fuck sakes. Get it together. This is not part of the plan.

At all.

The drive to the club is silent, the type of silence that speaks thunderous volumes. He's pissed, anger diffusing from his pores, thickening the air in the Rolls Royce, making me flustered, hot.

So very hot.

He steals glimpses at me when I'm not looking. I can sense it. I can feel his leering gaze on my legs, my slender shoulders, my breasts. Everywhere . And I want him to look. I want him to study my body, remember it, crave it, do anything to have it.

Because that's power. And I have no qualms with letting power corrupt me absolutely .

The car abruptly stops, and Milo gets out in a rush, holding the door open for me as I slide to his side. As I hop out of the vehicle, my phone falls from my lap onto the sidewalk.

Shit, I thought I put it in my purse.

Crouching down in an elegant manner so as to not flash any bystanders, I rest my palm against Milo's upper thigh, steadying myself on my heels as I pick up the cellphone.

Milo clears his throat, drawing my attention. I peer up at him, his body towering over me.

He casts me a debased smirk as he cups my jaw, tilting it, his thumbs grazing my bottom lip. "You look good on your knees. But perhaps now is not the time, Kiara."

Fuck.

With shallow breaths, I trail my hand up the length of his body and stand up, leaning into his ear. "What a shame… Because you'll never see me in that position ever again."

Milo's eyes darken as he snakes his arm around my waist, yanking me flush against his firm body. His large hand weaves through the gold chains decorating my back. I stifle a contented whimper.

His touch is hot, scalding, possessive as he grunts, "You cannot even begin to fathom the kinds of positions I want to see you in, Kiara." He twirls a tendril of my hair between his fingers and adds, "Soon, you will be begging me to fuck you. It's written all over your face. You want me. So so bad."

Double fuck.

I let out a ragged breath, unable to form a coherent sentence as his fingers ghost down my spine and force a shudder. "No—" I stammer, wriggling in his arms. "I—I don't."

I can't.

"Yes. Yes, you do." His chest rattles against my shoulder as a low knowing chuckle spills from his lips. He releases me from his grasp and gives me an appreciative once-over. "Nice dress by the way," he hums, reaching for my hand. "But I told you to wear red."

I swallow as his fingers lace through mine. What is he doing? "I am wearing red," I whisper, attempting to gather my wit. I'm not going to suffer alone. "You just can't see it."

His gaze darts to the part of my body that's screaming to be touched, to be ravaged. "Fuck…" He tightens his grip around my fingers, his eye full of restraint. "Kiara..."

Satisfaction spreads across my face. I won't lose. Not today. "I'm getting cold. Let's go inside."

Milo shakes his head, looking at me like I took away his favorite toy. "You will regret teasing me like this," he states as he leads me into Aria. "We will continue this conversation later. For now, I need you to smile and not talk, understand?"

Thumping electro house music sounds around us, the deep harsh bass vibrating my heart, my teeth. "What is our relationship?" I ask as he adjusts his grip on my hand.

"You are my date." Red and purple strobe lights blind me as we maneuver through a labyrinth of tables, Gio and Mateo on our tail. "Do not react when they speak Spanish. For all they know you're just an American."

"Okay," I mutter as we enter an area of the club that's littered with private alcoves. It's secluded here, slightly fewer people but it feels just as dirty, just as sinister.

I find myself squeezing Milo's hand as we approach the last tented seating area. Anxiety creeps into my chest as two men in black stand guard outside the table, their arms crossed, their expressions menacing.

I got this. This is easy. Don't talk. Only listen. I'm good at that.

Once they notice Milo, the two guards step to the side, nodding at him with respect as one of them gestures for us to enter the dim room. It's bigger than I thought it would be. My gaze bounces from the three men lounging on the plum velvet chairs in the middle of the room to the scantily dressed women perched on their laps. On the far side of the alcove, there are more people drinking, laughing, snorting cocaine off silver plates.

"Milo!" One of the men stands up, his voice deep, rough, like he's smoked his whole life. "Welcome, welcome." Milo detangles his fingers from mine to shake the hairy hand of the man who's wearing far too much cologne. "It's nice to finally have you back in Madrid, it's been far too long. Please sit."

"It is good to be back, Manuel," Milo says in a cool tone as we sit down on a chaise across the table from the three men. Two of the men stare at me, their grins causing me much unease.

"Ricardo," Manuel says, looking at the greasy man to his right, whose face is shoved inside a blonde woman's tits. Classy . "A drink for our friends." He faces us, and asks, "Mezcal is, okay? It's a twelve year from Oaxaca. Very good."

"Kiara?" Milo asks me in a whisper. "Will you have a drink?"

"Mhmm." I sidle closer to Milo. I don't belong here. He places a reassuring hand on my thigh as if sensing my discomfort.

"Hey!" Manuel shoves Ricardo who's in his own little world. "Get the fucking drinks."

"Relax, Kiara," Milo hums into my ear. "They are harmless."

"I'm not scared." And I'm not lying. My discomfort is not stemming from fear. I know I'm safe. I have Milo. And I have a gun in my clutch.

Ricardo comes up for air, pushing the blonde girl off his lap as he wipes his mouth on his sleeve. His gaze lands on me for the first time as he grabs a bottle of liquor from a small side table, pinching two shot glasses between his fingers.

"It's strong," he says to me with a grin. "Be careful."

I take the shot from his grimy fingers, tossing him a forced smile as he hands Milo a drink.

"To friends." Manuel holds up his drink in the air before all the men down their shots in one fluid motion. I take a small sip. I probably shouldn't get drunk. I need to stay focused. Coherent. Manuel frowns at me. "You don't like it?"

"I do," I say, taking another sip. "It's good. "

Manuel purses his lips, his gaze darting between me and Milo. "She's a quiet one. Not like—" He blanches immediately. Milo stiffens beside me and Manuel clears his throat.

"How's business?" Milo asks in a harsh tone. "Update me."

Milo and Manuel begin chatting about business . Not like who? No. Not important. Focus . Two more of Manuel's men join him on the couch. I stay silent as I listen to them talk numbers and shipments and money. So much fucking money. Hundreds of millions of euros. And they're unfazed, speaking about such wealth as if it's pennies.

A fat smile spreads across Manuel's face as someone passes him the platter of cocaine, a glass straw rolling on the curved surface.

"It's good shit." He shoves the tube up his nostril and snorts a line, letting out an ecstatic exhale. "Have some." He holds out the plate in front of me. "Have some fun."

"No," Milo shoots Manuel daggers, "none for her."

I eye the plate warily. "I'm good, thank you."

A greying man to the left of Manuel snickers, muttering in Spanish, " He probably gets pussy on demand . She's a good little dog ."

I clench my teeth together. Don't react. Don't react. I am not a little dog.

Another man adds with a chuckle, " I'd fuck that dog dry. "

Sucking in a sharp breath, I crane my neck toward Milo. "Maybe just a taste?"

He studies my expression, attempting to ascertain my intentions. I'm not opposed to drug use. I've never done drugs, but I don't like to judge those that do. I drink alcohol, technically that's also a drug. Also addicting .

Honestly, aside from not wanting to look like a weak submissive woman, a part of me is actually curious what it feels like, why it's so popular, why Milo makes millions off this fine white powder.

"Just a little?" I ask again.

"Open your mouth." Milo lightly dips his pinky into the pile of cocaine, white dust falling on his pants as he brings it toward me. "Give me your tongue, Kiara."

I hesitate for a second before opening my lips, giving him access to my mouth. Milo smears the coke on the tip of my tongue; the taste is awful, horrendous, like acid and bleach.

Fuck, that's gross.

Milo stares deep into my eyes, his pinky still coating my taste buds. "Do you like it?"

"Mhmm," I lie, closing my lips around his finger as he pulls his pinky out of my mouth. His pupils dilate— hungry and surprised. "I love it."

" Lucky bastard ," someone says in Spanish.

This time I smirk, swallowing down the bitter taste of a drug I never want to try again. My throat burns as it flows down my esophagus.

"Are you going to have some?" I take a sip on the Mezcal, hoping it washes out the disgusting taste in my mouth.

"No." Milo shifts his body toward me. "I do not do drugs, Kiara."

I blink. "You don't?"

He subtly shakes his head, a hint of amusement in his weak smile. "No."

"Oh. Good to know."

Well fuck. I thought he was going to do it too. Oh my God, that sounds so pathetic. Oh my God, I just did cocaine. Okay. No need to freak out. It was just a little dab. Not even up my nose. It won't work. Nothing will happen.

Right?

Milo continues talking with his friends, glancing at me periodically, probably making sure I'm still alive. With every minute that passes, my body relaxes, their voices become clearer, sharper, everything turns brighter, vibrant. My fingers tingle, my heart rate increases, the Mezcal tastes so good, the smell of cigarettes is pungent and strong, and I want some.

I need some.

"Can I?" I ask Milo who has a Marlboro tucked between his index and middle finger.

"Only a little." He cocks his head to the side, holding the smoke in front of my face. I latch on to the end of the cigarette and suck, smoke filling my lungs, the combination of stimulants jolting me awake.

I can't sit any longer. I need to stand. I need to move.

"I want to dance," I say, exhaling a smoky cloud into Milo's face as I stand up. My knees feel weak, wobbly, but I don't care. Everything feels so good, so light. "I'll be on the dance floor."

His jaw tenses. "Five minutes. You can dance for five minutes."

"How generous of you, Mr. Di Vaio." I down the last of my drink and traipse out of the alcove. Gio follows behind me, not too close, but he's there, watching me, making sure I don't do anything reckless.

I close my eyes when I reach the center of the crowded dance floor, the carnal beats filling my ears, thumping in my blood as I move to the sensuous pounding music.

The air is moist and humid and thick, and I'm flying, running my hands through my hair, down my body, my curves. I become entranced in the dark melody.

Song after song, I dance, forgetting about everything. My past, my present, my future. None of it matters. Not now. Not when I feel like a fucking queen.

A hand grabs my waist and tugs me backward. Milo . His intense oaky cologne smells so fucking good, musky and spicy and masculine, and so goddamn sweet.

I don't stop moving to the music as he wraps his arms around my hips. No. I move more. I sway faster, harder, with more urgency.

"Mmm…" I lean back against his sculpted chest, winding my arms around his neck, my fingers tugging on his hair as my ass grinds against his pelvis.

"The things I want to do to you," Milo breathes, dragging his nose along the shell of my ear. He cups my breasts, rolling my nipples between his fingers.

I let out a moan, arching into his chest. "Like what? Tell me what you want to do to me, Mr. Di Vaio."

His hand coils around my neck, caressing my jaw, my chin, my lips. "Unspeakable things." He spins me around, raking his hands through my sweaty hair as he adds in a growl, "But not when you're fucking high."

"Do you want to fuck me right now, sir ?" I click my tongue. "I thought I was the one that was supposed to be begging, hmm?"

He doesn't like that. Not one bit. I knew he wouldn't. But that's why I said it. Why I poked the dragon. I want his fire. I want him to burn me. I want to feel something.

Anything.

"You're leaving." He snaps his fingers at Gio who rushes toward us. "Take her back to the hotel. Watch her. "

"Why?" I whine as Gio hands me my purse. "I don't want to leave."

"Go," he hisses, running a frustrated hand through his hair. "Now."

I roll my eyes, following Gio out of the club. There's no use in fighting. He always gets his way. Always.

I hate him. God, I hate him. Am I not allowed to enjoy myself?

My euphoric state dwindles on the ride back to the hotel.

Asshole.

Slamming my bedroom door shut, I strip out of my dress and slip under the covers, my body still thrumming off the last remnants of drugs in my system.

Closing my eyes, my hand travels down my stomach toward my sex.

Fuck Milo.

I can be my own dragon.