MILO

11. Smoke and Fire

Milo glares at me as he slides into the SUV, his judgmental dark eyes 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 of 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.

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

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

"Oh," I hum. 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.