“George.” I incline my head, pressing my hand to the small of Evelyn’s back as I steer her into a darkened interior. She’d removed her veil in the car, leaving her neck and the graceful slope of her sun-kissed shoulders bare. As if her silky-looking skin wasn’t temptation enough, she has a tiny beauty spot partly obscured by the lace of her dress. It makes me wonder what other treasures her dress is hiding.
Like that thousand dollars’ worth of underwear.
Was her reveal accidental or a blatant come-on? I force my head from her underwear. I’m not going there, figuratively or ...
“Looks fancy,” she whispers over her shoulder.
Ignoring darker impulses, I take the opportunity and press my lips next to her ear. “At least we won’t have a problem with the dress code.”
She looks so delicate. So small. She’d look so delightful riding my cock.
Or not.
“There’s a dress code?” Her lashes flutter as though disconcerted by the news rather than the shiver that ripples through her at my tone.
“Yes.” My answer makes the tiny, escaped curl at her temple dance. I curl my hand into a fist to stop myself from touching it. It’s an automatic reaction, I tell myself. A small pleasure. Damsels in distress are not my thing, especially ones foolish enough to be taken in by Atherton. “No denim, no canvas, no shorts or T-shirts, nothing outlandish.”
“Because wearing a wedding gown for no reason isn’t at all over the top?” The corner of her mouth tilts before she looks away again.
“It’s better to be overdressed than under. In most situations.” The latter I add in an undertone, surprised to find myself imagining the fiancée of Mitchell Atherton naked.
Former fiancée,my mind unhelpfully supplies.
How the hell did he capture such loveliness? Curves in all the right places, luxuriant strawberry blonde hair, and soulful brown eyes that, in a blink, can burn like gold-flecked flames. I push the images away. I’m not interested in my nemesis’s sloppy seconds.
We pass the club steward who, like the doorman, is wearing a curiously wide grin. How strange. While always pleasant, the staff at my club aren’t given to an excess of happiness.This isn’t Disneyland.
“Most situations?” my companion teases.
“It wouldn’t do to visit the beach in a three-piece suit.”
“I think you could probably get away with it.” She slides me an appreciative look. “I’m almost offended by how good you look given I’m the one in the fancy dress.”
A surprised bark of laughter bursts from my chest.Thatwas a little more obvious. What a pity she’s not for me.
“Just don’t let the staff know you’re not wearing shoes, or we’ll be shown the door.”
“Something tells me they wouldn’t dare.” True, but I don’t say so. “What is this place?” she whispers as I steer her into the lounge, where dust motes dance in the sunlight. For the first time, I notice how the smell of whisky and old books overlays the scent of beeswax polish. At least the place isn’t busy at this hour.
“It’s my club.” I indicate seats in the bay window overlooking leafy Saint James’s Street.
“You mean, like a gentleman’s club?”
“They preferprivate members’ establishment.”
She glances around, taking in the Adam’s era fireplace and the dark paneled walls hung with portraits of long-dead members and frowns at a bronze bust.
“That’s a Samuel Joseph, I believe.”
“It looks like something from Harry Potter,” she says, sitting in one of the pair of oxblood leather chairs I indicate. “Or maybe a museum.”
“It is often full of old relics.”
“More original than poles.”
I pause. “Poles?”
“The kind with half-naked women swinging around them.”
