The Satin Sash

“I think so, yes.” She swung her gaze back to the offerings, a finger busily sliding down the list. “Though maybe I’ll try something different.Your salmon last time was delicious.”

“Ah yes, I think I’m having that.” Grey folded his menu. “Do you want to order something else and we can taste both?”

She slapped the menu shut. “Deal.You pick.”

Grey signaled with his hand, asking the waiter something about the wines.

“What do you do,Toni?”

“Pardon?”

“What do you do?” Heath repeated, stroking a finger down the length of a spoon. “When Grey isn’t taking up your time, I mean.”

The way his finger stroked . . .

She pulled her gaze back up, gathering her thoughts. “I’d say I take more of his. I love kidnapping him from work.”

“And he likes it?”

“Yes!”

He snorted, that great chest of his jerking as he did. The glimmer in his eyes was so playful she could not quite pull her lips back into place.

“I’m a graphic design artist,” she said, to answer him. “I used to work at a very prestigious firm, but I’m afraid I’m a bit . . .”

“Unpunctual,” Grey offered as soon as the waiter had left.

She spread her napkin on her lap, wrinkling her nose at Grey. “Yes. More or less. I don’t seem to thrive on nine-to-five hours. So I’m on my own. I’m not doing all that badly.”

“She’s doing wonderfully,” Grey proudly said. “Do you know Foxtrack, the motorcycle gear company?”

“Of course.”

“She did that one.Then there’s—”

“Why haven’t you done RS?” Heath interrupted.

He was unnerving her. She looked into his eyes and that bad-boy smile and presumed he was imagining her naked, which made her want to imagine him naked, which made it difficult to speak. He had a smooth, intelligent forehead that furrowed when he listened to her, and a nose that was shy of perfect. She would not even get into the small, intriguing scar on his chin.

“I’d intended to make a fabulous design for RS before Grey and I got involved.That’s how we met, actually.”

“She doesn’t sleep with clients. She won’t do anything for me.” Grey set his hand over hers on the table, his fingers caressing her knuckles. “I’ve offered her the world for a design and still get nay.”

“It’s just that I’d hate to bring business between us,” she explained to Heath.

&nbs

p; “I see.” He was staring at them holding hands, and she did not know why she felt guilty. Maybe because of the brooding expression on his face.

Within minutes the wine was uncorked, their glasses filled, hers with white and theirs with red, and the conversation steered to the big, busy world of RS Corporation. Properties, buildings, zoning commissions.

The men’s voices felt like touches, and goose bumps rose along her flesh. Grey’s low-pitched and clear. Heath’s the rumble of a motorcycle. The nearness of those large, tanned, overwhelming bodies was fatal to her imagination.

Rather than focus on the conversation, her mind flicked with images of them.Together. Naked. Not engaged in polite conversation but in sinful, highly erotic acts of lovemaking.

Her breasts throbbed as she imagined being in a clinch between them, feeling both their cocks, her flesh covered by theirs. She took a sip of her wine, and another.The burn sliding down her throat did nothing for the one between her legs. Oh, Grey, take me somewhere. . . .

As the men spoke about someone named Parsons, peppering their sentences with not very competent and troubles of a personal nature and dickwad—this one from Heath—the waiter appeared with their appetizers. A plate full of ice decorated with tiny toast points held a small bowlful of black sevruga caviar; a second similar one was topped with puffy white cream.