Hot and Bothered(68)
The event was black-and-white themed—“with a splash of color,” according to the invitation. The dress code made it practically impossible to pick anyone out of the crowd, let alone a petite woman in what he—with a throb of anticipation—knew would be a teeny-tiny black dress.
The ballroom was decked out in elaborate, expensive, black-and-white decorations—potted trees wrapped in silver and hung with black-and-white baubles, garlands of black-and-white fabric draped everywhere. The band played a lively tune and lines had formed at the open bar.
This was his own personal hell, reminding him of why he hated to perform at weddings. He felt awkward and self-conscious, like a boy playing dress-up. His tux strained across his shoulders, even though it was the size he always rented. Too much lifting, maybe—to take his mind off his sexual frustration, he’d been hitting the gym harder than usual.
Surreptitiously, he scanned the room for Haven again. He didn’t want to hurt Cindy’s feelings but he had to know where Haven was.
“Ooh!” cried Cindy. Hors d’oeuvres on a silver platter had materialized in front of them, courtesy of a smiling waitress, and he took a small mushroom puff while Cindy loaded up her napkin-covered palm. Not his kind of food, really. Too schmoofy. He bit into the puff (were you supposed to eat it all in one bite or not? He couldn’t remember, if he’d ever known). Bits of flaky crust floated down and landed all over his tux jacket, like a really bad case of dandruff. He tried to brush it off and left a little grease smear. Great.
He spotted Haven then. How could he have doubted that he’d find her? He’d know her anywhere, an impression of her size and shape, and the energy contained in her compact body as identifiable and unique as a fingerprint. She was, as he’d predicted, wearing a little black dress, but his imagination had been inadequate. The dress bared her back, a smooth expanse of skin he wanted to rest his palm against. When she turned, desire stabbed him in the chest. The dress had skinny little straps and a deep scoop neckline that skimmed along breasts he’d felt against his lips and tongue—that he could still feel against his lips and tongue. His fingers flexed slightly at the thought as he relived the sensation of her body clenching around him. Jesus. She should not have worn that dress. Not if she was serious about what she’d said to him about taking a hiatus. What about this was discreet?
Of course she was serious. Haven Hoyt was serious about everything.
For reasons known only to God, that set off a series of flashbulb images for him. The way she’d kissed him in her office, the way she’d felt against his tongue, coming in the dressing room, the way she’d looked on all fours on her bed, his cock disappearing between her red lips, her ass tipped up to find his hand.
The tux pants were not going to cut him any slack if he didn’t shut down this trip down memory lane ASAP.
Cindy moaned with hors d’oeuvres–induced ecstasy, but he barely registered it, other than to be grateful she was distracted by food so he could stare at Haven. Haven had told him, via text, that she’d warned Cindy he wasn’t interested in anything other than friendship and some see-and-be-seen dating.
Staking your claim? he’d texted back.
Trying to simplify your life a little.
Keeping his hands off Haven, exercising “discretion,” had been killing him, absolutely destroying him. The two of them had to be in close proximity frequently because they were working together to prepare Mark for tonight’s speech and for the exclusive interview that Haven had decided to grant Suellen Marvel at High Note. Most of the time they worked in Haven’s office. The office itself, and the fact that she always kept the door open, were like taunts to Mark. Remember what you did against this door, less than a week ago? You’re not doing it right now.