by Red Garnier
Grey’s father was the most handsome, compelling, sixty- five-year-old man Toni had ever seen. The man seemed immune to time, he was so attractive. Full head of luxuriant silvering hair, powerful square face, plus those same golden eyes she had fallen in love with.
He was also the biggest bastard she’d ever met.
All she’d needed to understand why Grey didn’t talk of his parents had been that one formal dinner, where they’d treated Toni like some lowly life- form out for Grey’s money—not that Grey’s money was theirs, because RS was Grey’s and Heath’s alone.
Grey had endured no more than two or three of their thinly veiled insults before calmly setting down his napkin and saying, “Mom. Dad. Enjoy your dinner.”
He’d pulled out Toni’s chair, so solid and composed when she’d been mortified at leaving the table so abruptly, and led her to his car. He said nothing on the way home. Nothing when they arrived. Nothing when they made love.The following week, while she was e- mailing a new proposal to one of her clients, he’d surprised her by whispering, “I wouldn’t change a hair on your head, do you know that?”
Stunned, she’d stopped typing and gaped.
“I know how much you wanted to impress my parents, and when you saw them for what they were and refused to play into them, you impressed me. All the money in the world couldn’t buy them your class.” He feathered his mouth across hers, and his lips twitched, forming a crooked smile. “Aren’t you glad fourteen nannies raised me rather than them?”
Toni had pictured a blond, gorgeous little boy trying valiantly not to care whether anyone showed up for his soccer practices.And when she tried to remember if he’d ever showed her a birthday picture where his parents were actually in it and found that there were none, she disliked Mr. and Mrs. Richards all the more. But oh, she loved their son.
“Toni was just telling us about your plans,” her mother was telling him.
“Was she.” The lack of a question in his voice told Toni he knew full well what was coming.
“Yes.” Her mother’s face furrowed as she wiped her mouth with a linen napkin. “Homer and I can’t say we agree. Antonia is thirty already, and she’s not getting any younger.”
Under the table, Grey’s hand went to her thigh, drawing her eyes to his. “Fill me in, sweetheart?”
Smiling, she patted his leg under the table, resisting the urge to do some other kind of touching, which was tempting with him near. “It’s not what you think. Sweetheart.”
Her mischievous grin brought a twinkle to his eye.
“Marriage makes people compromise,” her mother went on. “Toni would compromise for you as much as you would for her. Homer, I brought the meat loaf; could you bring more gravy?”
Her father grumbled a protest but promptly rose to fetch, and her mother beamed.
“See? Compromise.”
“Mom and Dad have been talking marriage and babies all afternoon, Grey,” Toni said, rolling her eyes and spearing a carrot slice from her plate.
Grey opted to fork something up from his plate, too.
“Well?” her mother prompted, pinning him on the spot with a direct look.
Grey faced Toni. “I’d say no more than two.”
She almost choked. She snatched up a glass, took a long sip of water, and plopped it back down. “Two what?”
“Kids.”
She sent him a puzzled look, her heart fluttering wildly, unexpectedly, and then she managed to steer the conversation to other, safer topics.
Grey listened to her father’s hunting tales, praised her mother’s new cookie recipe until she flushed, and Toni was left imagining what a little Grey would look like. She’d never thought of Grey in a fatherly way. He was too . . . proud and too . . . worldly. And yet he was so gentle and protective of Toni, it brought to mind how he would look lifting a little girl up high in his arms.
How could Toni not want that?
And why did she have a feeling Grey would give her a threesome a thousand times over a family?
The rest of the evening she fought bravely to push those thoughts aside.
Once they said their good-byes and crossed the walkway toward the street, she said, “Did you mean it, what you said in there?”
“What? About children?” He steered her toward the Porsche when she’d instinctively started for her own car. “Let’s take mine. I’ll have yours picked up tomorrow.” He waved her keys in the air, his eyes glinting. “Your tire’s fixed.”
“I didn’t know there was anything wrong with it until I saw you’d left your Porsche.” Stopping, she gazed into his beautiful eyes, filled with awestruck admiration. “But you don’t miss anything, do you?”
There was an almost imperceptible softening in his gaze. Tenderly, he ran his knuckles down her cheek. “It’s fixed,” was all he said.
“Thank you. My hero.And I’m happy to report your car is intact!”
He walked her over to the passenger’s side, but rather than helping her into the vehicle, he flattened her against the door so fast she gasped from the shock of his weight. “I need to have you; I need to be inside you.”
Heart thundering, she stroked her hand lightly across the prominent bulge on his crotch, watching his face tighten.“And I want . . . this.You. Inside me.”
He pressed his forehead against hers. “God, take me. All of me.”
Her throat hurt at his plea. Rising up on tiptoe, she slid her hand around the back of his neck, loving the thick, muscled feel of it as she drew him to her lips. Her nostrils tingled at the dark coffee scent of his breath, and then she tasted. The shock of the cool flavor blended with the heat of his tongue shot a rush of electricity through her.
Pebbles on the gravel crunched beneath the wheels of a car as it passed by. It didn’t stop her, didn’t stop him from pressing into her.
Their mouths moved languorously, sampling, enjoying, the simple connection of their bodies, their tongues, moving her to her soul. She was him. He was her. His arm curled around her waist, dragging her closer.
“You’re in my head.” One hand sifted through her hair and tugged her back, his lips sliding along the curve of her jaw, up to her temple. “In my head. All. Fucking. Day.”
“I was so anxious for you to get home to me.” Her voice was a husky whisper breathed against his chin.“I was this close to touching myself.”
His deep-throated groan rolled across her skin like a caress.“You know that drives me insane.Why didn’t you?”
“I had to work, even if I didn’t actually get anything accomplished. I’m . . . a little nervous about my sash, Grey.”
Receiving no reply, she grew nervous and tried to draw away. “We should get going,” she said, but he caught her hand and halted her.
Tension rolled off him in waves. “It’s your sash,Toni.You make the call.”
“And what call would that be?” she questioned, playing with the fingers of the hand that held hers.
He seemed reluctant to speak, and equally as reluctant to let her go, but then he drew back and opened the door. “Get in the car. I’m taking you home.”
Home.
He’d made her home his.
He was in every organized compartment of her little place. He’d maneuvered somehow to pay the rent despite her emphatic protests, and all her expenses prior to Grey had suddenly, magically, become nil. He took care of everything.
She’d always thought maybe she’d feel less like a kept woman or some sort of mistress if he’d say those three important little words to her. She’d prepared herself to wait, and though she’d been accused of being proud, she’d swallowed back her pride and opened her heart to him, told him what she felt, praying he’d follow. She’d been so disappointed when she failed. She’d gambled with her heart, saying I love you to a man like him. . . .
Over a year and a half later, she was still waiting to hear it back.
Stubbornly waiting for him to be ready.
And one lesson in humility had been enough. She’d chew off h
er tongue before she had to beg for the words. Do something desperately needy like ask him. God! What suicide that would be. Putting him on the spot in that way. Would he feel forced to say yes? Or would he say the answer she thought was most obvious: I don’t know.
I don’t know was, simply, not good enough when you were head over heels for someone. In fact, it wasn’t merely not good enough; it was depressing.
Disheartened, she glanced out the window as he drove up to Lincoln Park. The night was dotted with gray clouds that seemed ready to burst open and cover the city with a deluge of rain.
After hushed moments, Grey said, “I spoke to Heath.”
She could feel his eyes boring holes into the back of her head. “Oh?” she said lightly, turning after three reckless heartbeats.
“We’re on for dinner tomorrow.”
“Dinner.” Her stomach churned.
His gaze shifted between the road and her.“We’re civilized people; we can do dinner.”
“Yes, of course.”
How to survive it was another matter.
But then maybe—and she dearly hoped so—by taking a second look at Heath Solis, she would realize he wasn’t such a powerful black force pulling at her, that he was just a . . . man.
“Relax.”
“I am relaxed!”
“You’re pale and you’re going to make that little lip bleed.”
“Let’s get you relaxed,” she countered, plunging her hands into his delicious blond hair, leaving it tousled as he pulled open the glass door of the small, upscale French restaurant.The moment Toni stepped inside, she eased her hold on her lower lip and tried for an appearance of elegance and relaxation. She’d chosen a simple black cocktail dress with a high neckline for the evening, her hair done in a loose twist at her nape. A sleek gold necklace hung around her neck, falling down to her navel.
Grey spoke to the maître d’ in a hushed tone, and the woman blushed. “Why, yes.Yes. Of course! Mr. Richards.” She fumbled for the menus. “Your table is ready, if you’d both follow me.”
In the willowy redhead’s wake, he guided her toward their usual booth at the far end. Lovely jazz music drifted in the background, the space graced with sleek, dark wood tables and edgy, colorful Warhol pieces. The booths against the walls were upholstered in chocolate-colored suede with striking white stitching.
As she walked through the scattered tables, some boasting sleek, tall arrangements of pussy willow shoots, her legs felt so stiff she marveled that she did not stumble on her heels.
They reached the dark corner booth, and she quietly commended herself when Heath rose to greet them and she did not gasp. He was as overwhelming as she remembered. Swarthier. More beautiful. God. He should be locked somewhere. In a bedroom. With her and Grey.
With enviable calm and self-assurance, Grey urged her forward. “I’d feel extremely ridiculous if I had to introduce you two.”
Her cheeks burned as she stretched her hand out.
“We’ve met,” Heath said, his voice masculine and deep as he shook her tentative hand. His grip was firm, his palm dry and rough, sending prickles of awareness up her arm.
She’d thought, many times throughout the day, that this dinner would serve a purpose.That she would realize that no, Heath Solis wasn’t some god of the underworld intent on eating her heart.
It wasn’t working.
Her heart felt like someone had taken a bite out of it, and it cost an inhuman effort to tug her hand free and slide into the booth. Her stomach muscles contracted as the men greeted each other. Grey wore a loosely buttoned black dress shirt that highlighted the blond streaks in his hair; Heath, blue jeans and a black crewneck that molded around his shoulders. They were so stunning, so blatantly male.
Any moment now, she expected the heads in the restaurant would swivel their way and people would wonder what she—five feet four, not very bosomy, and not blond—was doing with the two of them.
She took the menu the waiter handed her and studiously eyed each of the offerings as though she’d never read them before. On her right, Grey scrutinized the thick, velvet-covered wine menu. On her left, Heath was scrutinizing her.
“I’m thinking red wine?” Grey remarked. “An Hermitage?”
“I’ll have white,” she quickly said. She’d have a bottle, thank you.This was so awkward.
“White. Excellent. Would Les Chaillets—”
“I love it. And a bottle will do nicely.”
His eyes sparkled as he gazed at her, and the corner of his lips lifted in amusement before he returned to the menu.
She risked a glance at Heath, and his attention was on her hair. His eyes slid along the gathered strands in slow, thorough inspection, then down to linger on her nape.
When he pulled his gaze back up, his eyes positively smoldered. “What did you do to your hair?” he asked. Thickly. Like a lover would murmur in the dark.
“I’m . . . nothing. It’s just tied back.”
“The oysters here are excellent, Heath.”
“Oysters.” Heath reclined in his seat. He did not stop staring at her. All of her. As though he were thinking of dinner and she was it. “I might have those.”
“The lobster is good, too.”
Your woman is good.
Heath didn’t say it, but she felt the words buzz through his mind. Buzz through her body. His eyes weren’t black, she now noticed, but a brown so dark you could barely make out his pupils.
“Toni? You’re having your usual?”
“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.
Stopping their conversation abruptly, Heath signaled at the offerings once the waiter left. “Do you like caviar,Toni?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” she said primly.
Before she could pluck up a toast point, Heath dipped his middle finger into the plate full of crème fraîche and lifted his creamed finger to her mouth.
“Lick.”
She fought the staggering impulse, remembering Grey’s test, how she was fully determined to pass with flying—
“Lap it.”
She gazed into burning amber eyes when he spoke, the urge to please him intense. She’d liked to think it was mutual, the way Grey seemed intent on pleasing her, the way she craved to please him.
Into her ear, he poured his hot whisper. “Baby,” he purred, “I said, lap it.”
Her cunt squeezed. And she found herself trembling with eagerness as she turned her head and snaked out her tongue, tasting the cream, feeling it melt against the roof of her mouth.