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Harper stares at me, his rawboned face not betraying shock or disgust, but curiosity and something else. A muscle ticks along the granite line of his jaw, and emotion, tamped down, flares in his eyes with blue heat like a gas flame.
“I’d like that very much,” Harper finally says. “As long as it’s not just to get back at your husband.”
Is it?
Of course, it is, not that Trey will care. What’s good for the Trey is good for the Sinclaire, but it’s more than that. It’s more specific than that. If I had stumbled in here and met someone else, I’d already be in an Uber on my way home. But I sat on him. I talked to him. Harper made me laugh and relax.
And want.
“It’s not all that,” I admit. “Because of Trey, I mean. I’d be lying if I said none of it is because he’s here living out his ménage trois fantasy.”
“Trois?” One dark brow quirks.
“A couple.”
“A threesome? Well you know what that means.” His full lips take on a wicked shape. “We gotta be filthy.”
The air clogs with lust motes, and my heart pounds, a bass drum, a mallet behind my ribs. My hands shake, and I long for my glass of wine to hide behind and drown in, but my head is much too clear. I’m not drunk enough to blame this on the alcohol tomorrow. I know exactly what I’m doing.
It’s a night to be brazen, so I stand, reach behind me to tug on the zipper securing my dress. The bodice droops away from my arms and shoulders, the sleeves falling loose and empty at my sides. The body shaper beneath my clothes added a layer of confidence, of armor, and even though I’m still covered, the delicate rose appliques on the straps, the boned silk bodice, the color, like a blush across my skin—tell him more about me than my nakedness would, if he’s astute enough to see. It would tell him that no matter how modest my clothes might be, I have an appetite for luxury. It would tell him despite my husband’s occasional indifference, I never stopped trying to tempt him. It could tell him that despite my misgivings about tonight, I wore my prettiest underclothes because I secretly hoped maybe, just maybe I’d find some measure of pleasure, too. That for once, it wouldn’t be all about Trey.
I think he sees. I think he knows. His eyes soften, and he stands, bringing him so close I smell the copulation of scents, cologne and his natural clean, masculine smell. He reaches out to follow the line of my collar bone with one long finger. He has elegant hands. The hands of an artist, a painter. A writer. Someone preoccupied with documenting the beauty of life, and he’s looking at me now like I’m a work of art.
Slowly, never breaking our stare, he slides one finger beneath the strap of my body shaper so it slumps over one shoulder, and my breasts, heavy and held up, dip a little. Every place his gaze traces—the shallow well at the base of my throat, the tops of my breasts over the cups of satin, the dusky cleft of my cleavage—seems to catch fire. I try to control my breathing, but the longer he looks at me, staring like a wolf licking his chops, the louder my breaths come in the quiet room. His finger trails from my neck to the other strap of the shaper, the only thing securing the material that hides me from him.
“May I?” he asks, finger poised to expose.
I can’t form words the anticipation is so thick in the air, in my throat, so I nod dumbly. He tugs and the cool air hits my skin when the straps fall away. My breasts spill forward and he swoops to hover his mouth over one brown nipple.
“May I?” he asks again, breath hot over me, and though his voice sounds exactly as it did when he asked that question a moment ago, there is something tighter there. Something straining, like it’s about to snap. Like he’s about to snap, and I want to see. Possessed by some siren, or bold temptress, I cup my breasts, plumping them up until one distended nipple brushes his lips. His control fractures, slips and he closes his mouth around the tip with a greedy suction, with a feral sound that sends a bolt of pleasure between my legs.
He flicks one nipple with his thumb, and bites and sucks the other, eyes closed tightly so long lashes fan against his tanned skin. His cheeks hollow as he seems to lose himself sucking me, his mouth greedy at my breast. He busies his hands on my body, dragging the zipper past my hips and ass so the dress pools at my feet. My knees are weak and rubbery, the cartilage gelatinous and unsupporting. He releases my breast with a loud pop, and pulls back to stare down at me. The shaper pinches my waist in and snaps between my legs. He slides one finger over the stiff silk encasing my torso, my waist and hips. Without warning, he drops to his knees. My fingers tremble with the need to plow through his thick dark hair, to muss the waves. He taps my inner thigh with enough force to sting. The tiny slap sends a thrill through me, and I wonder how he’d slap my ass. If his large hand would cover one cheek. If he’d mark me where no one else could see. Because that’s where I’ll carry the recollection of tonight, of him. Beneath my clothes and under my skin, a subcutaneous memory.“Spread your legs,” he orders, his deep voice spiked with gravel. With no thought of resisting, I spread my legs to the width of my shoulders. He leans forward and down even further until his face is at the juncture of my thighs. I have a moment of self-consciousness with him so intrusive, so close in the most private place in a way only Trey has been, and take a step in, narrowing the gap between my legs.
