Caesar wasn’t sitting in his spot for more than two minutes before a girl in a tight, black bodycon dress and sky-high red heels came to deliver his drink. She flashed him a sensual smile as her hand came to rest on her hip. His gaze drifted over her to take her in—she was sexy enough, as far as that went, but nothing stirred him to act.
“Anything else I can help you with?” she asked. “Maverick said to make sure you were pleased.”
Caesar offered the woman a charming smile. “For now, I am. Grazie, bella.”
Her brow lifted at his Italian, and she grinned a bit. Women always did like it when the foreign language came out to play—Caesar never really understood the appeal. He could make a woman come just as well in English as he could in Italian. Who fucking cared what he was actually saying while they were riding his dick?
“Just let me know,” the woman all but purred.
All it took was a flick of his hand, and the girl was gone. Maverick had trained his staff well, and the girls were used to being either the center of attention when it came to a patron, or dismissed altogether. Caesar usually fell into the latter category here because there was always something a little more interesting that came along to catch his eye.
Like that right there—damn.
The woman sitting on a couch just across from his had entirely passed his view as he scanned the club, and right then, she seemed entirely oblivious to him as well. Caesar liked that because if nothing else, it gave him the time to peruse her.
And damn, was she a sight to see.
The body-hugging gold dress draped over her shoulders dipped low enough in the front to give him a peek at ample, perky tits, and collarbones that made his dick hard. Yeah, he had a thing for those—liked to bite them, really.
A slit in the skirt of the short dress came up to her thigh, and when she crossed her legs, he swore he saw a flash of bright red lace hiding beneath. God save me. He would have groaned out loud if he were a lesser man, honestly. Anything red or lace was his weakness, and he wasn’t even ashamed to admit it.
Her black fuck-me heels helped to give her long, smooth legs the kind of promise that whispered they would look even better wrapped around his waist or head. Shit, he wasn’t fucking picky—she could even have it both ways, if she wanted.
The woman’s painted red lips and brown-copper curls framed delicate features, soft lips, and wide green eyes. Her gaze was darkened by smoky makeup he suddenly had every dark urge to smudge and ruin, and he wondered what that shade of lipstick she wore might look like when it was a ring at the base of his dick.
He needed to get laid.
By that female right there.
As though she could feel his eyes on her, the woman turned her head from whatever had caught her attention, and her gaze landed directly on Caesar. Those small lips of hers curved in the most wicked way as her green orbs took him in from head to toe. He knew what she was seeing—women usually liked what they looked at when it came to Caesar, and he did aim to fucking please.
Italian leather loafers.
Gold rings on every finger.
A let-me-fuck-you smile.
Sometimes, he could get them with just that smile of his alone.
Unashamed, the woman kept staring. Caesar lifted a single brow, and then pointed a single finger to the drink in her hand. Something red, by the looks of the little bit left in the glass. Probably sweet, but still enough bite to get her buzzed enough not to taste it. Her stiletto red—the same shade as her lips—fingernails tapped a beat against the glass.
“You want another one of those?” he asked.
Even over the thrumming bass from the music, and the noise of the club, he could tell she had heard him just fine by the way her nose crinkled a bit.
“No, thank you.”
Caesar stiffened at her voice.
Like the words stroked her lips with each one she spoke, and they probably tasted like sex coming out.
But it wasn’t even that which made him pause. No, it was the hint of the accent in the background of her words—Italian.
“Care to join me?” he asked.
The woman gave him a second look, and then nodded. It wasn’t a blink and a breath in time before she was gracefully standing from her own couch, and crossing to join him on his. He couldn’t help but take in the way her trim waist melted into shapely thighs. All that golden skin of hers looked good enough to fucking eat.
“You looked lonely,” he said to her after she had rested back on his couch. “Couldn’t have a beautiful woman being sad on my watch.”
The woman shrugged. “My husband flaked.”
God was good to him.
He was the worst kind of sinner.
And God still loved him.
At least, for tonight.