Bull (The Buck Boys Heroes 1)

As Bette heads back to the kitchen, Trina turns to me and raises her glass in the air. “To red wine.”

“To red wine and red dresses.” I follow that with a slow sip as I rake my gaze over my wife.

Leave it to me to marry the most stunning woman on the planet. She just also happens to be the woman who wants nothing to do with me outside of the office and our temporary arrangement.

Five fucking courses.

I had to sit through five fucking courses staring at Trina while she savored the meal.

The food was fine, but the experience of watching my assistant eat was sensual. She closed her eyes after several bites, moaned her approval, and kept running her fingertip over her bottom lip.

I suspect that was designed to catch any wayward crumbs, but my dick didn’t get that memo.

It took it upon itself to get hard and stay hard as I watched my wife eat her way through five dishes that I can barely remember at this point.

Bette cleared the table ten minutes ago, and now, she’s peering at us from around the corner.

She may be a great cook, but her skills in being stealthy are sorely lacking.

Trina leans her forearms on the table to close the distance between us.

The movement results in an unexpected gift for me. My wife’s breasts are pushed together, giving me a clear view of the top of them.

I reach for my wine glass, finish what’s left, and then for good measure, I finish Trina’s wine too.

She shoots me a frown, I think.

I only catch the briefest glimpse of it as I tear my gaze away from her tits.

“Graham,” she whispers my name, and Jesus Christ, I’m ready to crawl over the table, bend her over and take her right here and now.

I’ve always found solace in the soft sound of her everyday speaking voice, but this is next level.

“Yes?” I try to mimic her tone, but my voice comes out sounding strangled.

Her blonde brows perk. “Are you all right?”

That depends. Are we speaking in general terms, or is the question rooted in my body’s desperate need for her?

She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Do you think Bette is spying on us?”

Leave it to my trusting wife to deduce that two hours into this dinner. I sense she always gives people the benefit of the doubt. Her first impression of Bette was that of an experienced private chef. Mine was more cynical. I knew that Lloyd had an ulterior motive for this dinner.

Bette has likely been texting him updates throughout the evening. I’ve caught her with her gaze locked on her phone’s screen a few times.

“I’d bet everything I own on it,” I say with confidence.

“Even the pelican statue?”

“What the fuck?” I whisper shout. “What are you talking about?”

I’m wealthy to a point well past obscenity, but I have never sunk a dime into a pelican statue. That much I know.

I glance in Bette’s direction to catch her fingers flying over her phone’s screen.

Fuck.

She’s likely mistaking this for an argument.

I cover by grabbing hold of my wife’s hands, her very soft, perfect hands.

That draws her gaze to my face.

“I don’t own a pelican statue,” I point out, although to be fair, if Trina asked me to commission one from the greatest sculptor alive, I’d give it serious consideration.

I blame that thought on the wine.

It’s never my drink of choice. When I indulge in too much wine, my mind wanders and gets trapped in places too emotional for my liking.

“You do,” she counters.

Pasting a smile on my face for Bette’s benefit, I grit out three words, “I don’t, dear.”

Trina’s lips curve up into a grin. “Oh, but you do, darling.”

I squeeze her hands, not hard, but enough to keep her attention trained on my face. “You’re mistaken.”

“No, you are.” A sugary sweet smile accompanies those words.

I want to kiss that off her face.

“I’ll bet you that you have one,” she says, tilting her head.

“What do I get when I win that bet?” I ask, even though I know I’m already victorious.

She studies me, likely contemplating what the hell she can wager that I would want.

Her.

The answer is that simple.

I want to kiss her again, so I take the initiative. I lower my voice. “I don’t own a pelican statue, Trina. I know I’m right. If I win this bet, you’ll have a drink with me at the bar across the street.”

“You have alcohol here.”

I lean even closer to her. “Bette is here.”

She drops her chin in a subtle nod. “Understood.”

“And if you win?” I question. “If I own a pelican statue…” I chuckle my way through that statement. “What do I have to do?”

“Dishes for a month.”

Chapter Seventeen

Graham

“For the record, I have a dishwasher, and I would have hired someone to put the dishes in it.”