Page 92

Manon closes her eyes, very slowly, as if praying for a power cut.

"Funnily enough, we're in the same industry," I say. "I also work with dead people. You handle the arrivals, I handle the departures. You might not be amazed how few people at parties want to stand near either of us."

Daphne laughs so hard, she slaps the bar while nodding vigorously. "That's hilarious. Manon, he's hilarious—you said he was difficult. He’s right, too. Wait," she narrows her eyes on me, and for one moment I think she's seeing through me, "do you two, like, talk about it at home? The mortician work thing. Over dinner? That's the most romantic thing I can ever imagine."

She has understood absolutely nothing, and I like her enormously.

"Excuse us, Daphne." I take the blue drink out of my wife's hand and set it on the bar. "I need to dance with my wife."

"I don't dance with stalkers," Manon says, but her friend shoves her toward me, giggling to herself.

I size her up once, twice, because I'm a thorough man.

"Lucky for you I'm innocent tonight. Ask my lawyer." I scratch my jaw. "That dress is very short."

"Is it?"

"There's not a lot of it."

She nods like I've raised a good point. Then she turns around and starts looking for something. On the floor, behind her. She checks under the table, actually bends down to look, then straightens up and pats her chest like she might've tucked it in her bra.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Hang on." She turns a full circle. Peers into her friend's drink. "Nope. Not in there either."

"Manon."

"I'm looking for the fuck I give about your opinion." She stops, faces me, and puts both middle fingers up about an inch from my nose. "Can't find it. Weird. Must be because I never asked for it."

Her friend chokes on her drink.

I don't laugh. I close the gap instead, place a hand on the small of her back, and pull her in until her middle fingers are crushed flat between us. Her mouth is at my collar. Mine is close to her ear.

"Two things," I say firmly. "One. It bothers me that other men can see what’s under the dress, and two, I've never been harder in my life."

I don’t let her come up with the answer. I just drag her to the dance floor.

Her hair is loose over her bare shoulders. She's warm and flushed from the cocktails, swaying against me with her arms around my neck, and I'm even harder in under a minute—from a steel rod to a fucking beam in no time. How is that possible? I watched this woman dance in other men's arms before, and I would have committed serious crimes to be the one holding her. Tonight I'm the one holding her, and I'm about one song away from committing crimes anyway.

I slide my hands lower from her waist, toward the part of her I want to kiss and worship. She catches the right one and moves it back up. It goes lower again, because I can't help myself. She catches it again.

"Laszlo," she warns me, but there's amusement in her voice.

"The dress started it."

"Behave. Daphne⁠—"

"—is at the bar ordering another monkey. She'll survive." I bend to her ear. "There's a bathroom eight steps behind you. Door locks."

"We are not⁠—"

"Fire exit, then. Very private. Romantic lighting from the beer signs."

"You're unbelievable."

"There's also my car. Heated seats. I'm presenting options, ma macabre, because if you keep moving against me like that, the flamingo is going to witness something it can never unsee…"

That's when a table goes over.