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He’d asked her to wear something sexy for their date tonight, but she didn’t show it like most women did. She looked dressed appropriately as if she were going to work. The sexy came in the form of her lace cami that showed a tiny hint of cleavage, and her killer heels. Her idea of sexy paid off; she looked far sexier than a woman who chose to wear something tight and revealing.
She took another sip of her wine, then cocked her head and nibbled her lip, clearly confused at Smith’s statement about their mother. Brock interjected to explain why they had such hatred for the woman who had raised them. “Our mother wasn’t motherly.”
Kyra frowned. “But she adopted both of you, didn’t she?”
Brock leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, understanding her confusion. No one but Brock and Smith knew the truth about their dear old mom. He stayed silent as a waiter strode by the table, then said, “Marjorie was our foster mother, not adoptive.”
Smith took a drink of his red wine. “A foster mother who only took us in for the checks.”
Kyra placed her wineglass on the table and looked at them again, her eyebrows drawn together. “What checks?”
Brock unfolded his arms and lowered his hand to her thigh, spotting the concern in Kyra’s features. A caring woman too, he liked that. “Marjorie received a monthly stipend for each eligible foster child she took in, which was why she fostered kids. It was never about loving children or wanting to provide them a home.”
Kyra stared at him for a long moment before she took Brock’s hand on her thigh and reached for Smith’s on top of the table. “Did she feed you?”
Brock inclined his head, thinking her sympathy sweet. “That was one thing Marjorie did do. Three meals a day and one snack before bed.”
Kyra looked down at Smith’s hand joined with hers. “Where is Marjorie now?”
“Dead,” Smith bit off.
She lifted her head, and her eyes searched Smith’s. Her voice softened. “You have no other family?”
Brock shook his head, running his thumb over the silky skin near her knee. “Just each other.”
Something shifted in Kyra’s gaze, a tenderness he hadn’t seen from her reaching the depths of her eyes. She’d been so strong, confident, and focused. Now, she looked undeniably gentle. He liked that look on her.
Kyra’s sympathy for their loveless childhood shone in her expression, and maybe now she understood why they stuck together as they did—because they always had to. They’d tried living apart right out of high school when Brock moved in with his ex-girlfriend and Smith rented his own apartment: they were both miserable.
Once Brock's girlfriend dumped him for speaking of wanting a threesome, he moved in with Smith and told him the reasons behind the breakup were because Brock held an interest in a ménage relationship. Smith indicated his interest too, and one month later had been his and Smith's first ménage encounter. They’d never looked back. While they each dated separately, it wasn’t what either of them wanted, so they’d both given up and stuck to sex clubs.
Sharing women just worked.
Brock didn’t want the night ruined because of a past neither he nor Smith
could change. He slowly moved his hand upward on her thigh and met the hem of her skirt. When she gave him a look, he paused as she said, “You want to do this now?”
“Yes. I want to do this now,” Brock replied. “That conversation changed the mood. I want to lighten things.” He smiled. “Watching you come will do that.”
“Do I need to remind you we’re in a restaurant?” Kyra looked around quickly as she held his hand, stopping his travels. “And that we’re surrounded by a lot of people.”
“Nope, I’m well aware.” He attempted to move his hand up her thigh, but she pinned his hand to her leg.
Her eyes narrowed, even if the refusal on her expression looked weak. “What if I say I don’t want you to?”
Smith lowered his voice. “Kyra, we all know you won’t, because you don’t want him to stop. Move your hand away. Let us have some fun with you.”
Only a short pause followed before Kyra released Brock’s hand, allowing him to continue to move his hand up her thigh. “Tell us, Kyra, what do you do for a living? Your ad never said anything about your employment.”
She shivered beneath Brock’s hand. Her breath whooshed out before she sucked it back in, and once again, gave them a disapproving look. “And you want me to talk while you're doing that?”
Brock’s hand inched higher up her sexy thigh and finally sneaked up underneath her skirt. “Open wider for me.” He hesitated until she opened her legs for him, then continued. “Yes, that’s right, nice and wide.” She spread her legs wider, giving him access to her panties, which he was pleased to discover were lace. “As to your question, yes, Kyra, we’d like to learn more about you.”
He tickled her inner thigh, close to the edge of her panties, and she inhaled a sharp breath. “I work in management for Silverholt.”
Brock glanced at Smith to see his eyebrows arching before Smith asked, “The PR agency?”
“Yes,” she exhaled.
