“KATE.” He steps forward, pushing me against the bathroom counter, the line of his body hard, fitting perfect into my curves, one of his legs moving forward, in between mine, a stiff line of muscle against an area that hasn’t gotten any attention since Craig in Hong Kong. “It’ll be fine. I’ve met her husband before. Everything … will … be … fine.”
He drops his eyes from mine and down to my lips. His hands are resting on either side of me, flat upon the counter, caging me in, and I flinch when he moves just his thumbs, the scrape of them slowly caressing the sides of my hips. I can feel the delicate shift of air as he exhales, his eyes tracing over the lines of my lips, and I wet them in preparation. I should step aside, make a joke, mention the time. Instead, I close my eyes, my chin lifting, and wait for his kiss.
I hear his groan in the moment before he pushes off the counter, his body leaving mine, my skin suddenly cool without the heat of his touch. I open my eyes and he is there, against the wall of the bathroom, his hand worrying over his mouth, then crashing through his hair. He steps through the doorway, and then there is the slam of the connecting door, and I am alone.
I sag against the counter and let out a curse.
Him
My shoes clip across the hotel tile, a dominating sound that grounds me, another piece of the external appearance of control. I need the illusion, while inside, I fall to pieces.
My company needs her.
I need her.
And, unfortunately, so does my cock.
And that right there, is how things fall apart.
I step toward the ma?tre d’, and hope like hell she doesn’t come to dinner.
Her
My hair up, I wear my best suit—a sexy YSL number that Trey bought for me in New York. He had groaned when I had stepped from the dressing room with it on. A very similar groan, in fact, to the one that had ripped from him in the bathroom.
Maybe he likes to torture himself. Or maybe he can only get himself off, and women are all just pawns in his ridiculous game of arousal.
Whatever the reason, this dinner is too important to let our misplaced sexual tension get in the way. I pass the hostess stand, my heels careful on the slick wood floors, and move through the tables, looking for him. In the back, in an elegant four-top overlooking The Strip, his eyes meet mine. He rises from his seat, and I step toward him.
Mira and Edward are from San Diego. She is a hugger, and I brace when she wraps her arms around my shoulders, her height putting her face uncomfortably close to my breasts. She’s in a low-cut red dress, one that shows off impressive curves and olive skin. She’s not traditionally pretty, but has the sort of face that is transformed when she smiles, her energy infectious. Her husband is more of the strong and silent type, a courteous gentleman who rises alongside Trey and extends a polite hand toward me. He is our mark—his upscale department stores the perfect home for our lingerie. We are in town for an expo, and Edward, apparently, loves any excuse to gamble.
“Trey was just telling us all about you.” Mira leans forward, tucking a dark curl behind her ear and lowering her voice as if this is a secret of some sort. “He said you used to work at Lavern & Lilly.”
“I did.” I make a face. “It wasn’t nearly as much fun as working for Marks.”
She gives me a knowing smile. “Oh, I believe that. I worked with Trey before. I know how well he keeps his coworkers entertained.” She steals a shrimp off the appetizer platter and turns to Trey. “Isn’t that right, Trey?”
Trey attempts to give her a stern glare, one that loses its impact in the curve of his mouth. “It’s not like that, Mira.”
Goosebumps pop along my arm, and I study her face, the way she smirks at him before dipping the shrimp into sauce. From under the table, I feel Trey’s hand settle on my thigh, his fingers squeezing, a brief warning that is entirely unneccesary.
“I’m sorry.” I smile politely. “I didn’t realize that you two worked together.”
“It was at Bloomingdale’s,” Trey lifts his glass, the ice cubes settling in the amber liquid. “Mira worked in their accounts department.”
“I seduced the poor boy,” she interrupts grandly, holding up her wine glass to her husband, who lifts the bottle. I watch the dark red wine pour, and wonder exactly how many Bloomingdale’s employees he went through. “And, honestly, he didn’t have a chance.”
“I wasn’t exactly a boy, Mira.” Trey lounges, his arm reaching behind my seat, the tips of his fingers brushing against my back. “I was twenty-four, same as you.”
“I was wise beyond my years.” She turns to her husband, who seems completely unconcerned about their history. “Wasn’t I, babe?”