By J.A. Coffey
Holy shit. Had she just…? Had they?
Mary shook her head. Whatever they’d done, holy was definitely not it.
She willed the room to stop swimming in Cristal and the scent of burnt paper. This was not the party she’d spent hours planning for her ex-employer. It was something much more. There was an undercurrent of danger beneath the tinkling glasses and the photographer’s flash. The piped-in music was garish. To her left, a woman shrieked with laughter. Mary winced. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something about the night was…off.
She’d wanted a little taste of revenge but not the full buffet.
“What is it, my dear?” Stirling arched his elegant brow. The man was so devastatingly handsome; there was no question she’d followed along with his suggestions. In fact, from the moment sexy Stirling Drake had swept her up in his sleek black car, he’d had her in his thrall. She wasn’t sure she liked it.
Mary wet her lips. “Did we just…do something we shouldn’t have?”
“It depends.” His dark eyes were studying her.
“On your definition of what we should or shouldn’t do.” There were a whole lot of things she wanted to be doing with him and none of them had to do with incantations or candles.
Well, maybe the candles.
His hand went to her knee under the table, and she felt the sway of his words strumming through her body like too much champagne. “From the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew you were meant for me. I think the more important question is what you want to do, Mary.”
He was intoxicating; his presence both piqued and steadied her, just when she was feeling vulnerable.
“I wouldn’t mind those jerks getting a dose of karma.” She jerked her chin at the Pastry Bitch setting out treats at the far table. Treats that Mary had ordered. “But I’m not the vindictive type.”
He laughed, a delicious warm sound that set her thighs quivering. She was certain he could feel tingles pricking his palm as his hand slid from her kneecap to decidedly higher ground. The tip of his finger dipped beneath the elastic of her garter belt and a pulling sensation blossomed in her middle.
“Maybe you are, and you just don’t know it yet.” His dark gaze focused on her mouth.
“No.” She wrinkled her brow and the room righted. “I’m not.”
Stirling met her eyes and his smile grew wider, even predatory as he leaned in closer. His fingers slid another delicious inch up her leg. “So, you have a little fight left in you, Mary. That’s good. You’re going to need it.”
“Fight?” Her throat constricted, in the same rhythm of his fingers stroking up her thigh. “Why would I need to fight you?”
“Not me, love.” He leaned back in his seat and nodded towards the dark shadows gathering in the burgundy velvet curtains behind the Pastry Bitch. “Them.”