in
Helsinki and Oman, none of that mattered. Those long, sticky, stupid nights in Brazil when she was alone and he’d fill her
thoughts? Imagine her fingers were his? Just her mind playing
tricks on her relatively desperate libido. Okay, excessively desperate libido.
Xander would get in the car and they’d drive
off. Period. Soon as Phil got his ass back in the car, the weasel.
Even before the doom and gloom warning about Xander and the
revelation of the li’l Missus, Kizzie had no intention of staying,
even less intention of letting the bossy Dom into her head or her pants—the last part might have been a lie. Bottom
line, Phil wasted his time preaching to a pastor.
The impromptu soap opera went on with Kizzie
playing voyeur at her own torture. Xander turned to walk away, but
the woman— his wife , Baldwin —tugged him back. Mrs.
Duquesne smiled and flirted, and ultimately convinced her husband
to go with her. Xander paused half a beat and faced the car,
staring directly at Kizzie.
Her breath caught, and she froze. He was
looking for Phil obviously, but it felt like he knew she was
there.
Xander removed his phone from his pocket,
head bowed while his fingers moved over the screen. Hand at his
woman’s elbow, the Dom and le subbie covered the short
distance to a light-colored sedan. Xander saw his wife inside, went
around and got in the driver’s seat. Seconds later, they were
reduced to departing taillights.
The Citroën’s door opened, bringing a blast
of frigid air and intruding on Kizzie’s shock. Phil slid behind the
wheel. “Can you believe 15 Euros each for these? Highway
robbery.”
The binocs dropped into the open box of
truffles and Kizzie took the two shot glasses. Each depicted the
Eiffel Tower drawn sloppy enough for the artist to be a 3-year-old.
That Phil wanted her to believe he had to hunt down this
important glassware meant he thought her about as smart as one.
He handed her the tablet off the dashboard,
started the car without the battle with his conscience, and checked
the mirrors before pulling away from the curb, driving
perpendicular to the street the Duquesnes had taken.
The neighborhood flashed by outside Kizzie’s
window, one continuous blur. “Subtle as an anal probe,
handsome.”
“Don’t know what you mean, darlin’.”
* * * *
I n hindsight, Xander
should have ordered two hot chocolates. The espresso was bound to
keep him awake, and he desperately needed sleep. He’d been running
on fumes the last couple weeks, but with so much to do, there was
no sense in believing he’d get a rest anytime soon.
He unlocked the door of her flat and Naima
sidestepped to pass him. He stopped her with an outstretched arm
and a glare. She rolled her eyes and he smirked, neither of them
speaking. He always went first—hadn’t she learned that by now?
Moving just inside the door, he disarmed the
alarm system he insisted on having installed—another point of
contention between them—and followed through with a visual check of
the place once the lights came on.
Satisfied all was well, he returned to the
living room. Naima was in the kitchen pouring water from a pitcher
taken from the fridge. By the look on her face, she wished it were
bourbon. She loved her bourbon. Couldn’t hold liquor worth a damn,
but she was a firm believer in practice making perfect and strove
for perfection as often as possible. Only one thing in the universe
could get her to give up her Wild Turkey cold turkey.
She came around the breakfast bar and
pressed a glass of the clear liquid into his hand.
“ Solidarité .”
Grinning, Xander touched his tumbler to hers
and then took a swallow. Naima toed off her heels and set her glass
on a coaster on the coffee table before heading to the desk in the
corner.
“Keep kissing me like that,” Xander dropped
into the love seat, “and we’re gonna have a problem.”
“Saving yourself for marriage, are you?”
Naima asked in her lilting British
Helsinki and Oman, none of that mattered. Those long, sticky, stupid nights in Brazil when she was alone and he’d fill her
thoughts? Imagine her fingers were his? Just her mind playing
tricks on her relatively desperate libido. Okay, excessively desperate libido.
Xander would get in the car and they’d drive
off. Period. Soon as Phil got his ass back in the car, the weasel.
Even before the doom and gloom warning about Xander and the
revelation of the li’l Missus, Kizzie had no intention of staying,
even less intention of letting the bossy Dom into her head or her pants—the last part might have been a lie. Bottom
line, Phil wasted his time preaching to a pastor.
The impromptu soap opera went on with Kizzie
playing voyeur at her own torture. Xander turned to walk away, but
the woman— his wife , Baldwin —tugged him back. Mrs.
Duquesne smiled and flirted, and ultimately convinced her husband
to go with her. Xander paused half a beat and faced the car,
staring directly at Kizzie.
Her breath caught, and she froze. He was
looking for Phil obviously, but it felt like he knew she was
there.
Xander removed his phone from his pocket,
head bowed while his fingers moved over the screen. Hand at his
woman’s elbow, the Dom and le subbie covered the short
distance to a light-colored sedan. Xander saw his wife inside, went
around and got in the driver’s seat. Seconds later, they were
reduced to departing taillights.
The Citroën’s door opened, bringing a blast
of frigid air and intruding on Kizzie’s shock. Phil slid behind the
wheel. “Can you believe 15 Euros each for these? Highway
robbery.”
The binocs dropped into the open box of
truffles and Kizzie took the two shot glasses. Each depicted the
Eiffel Tower drawn sloppy enough for the artist to be a 3-year-old.
That Phil wanted her to believe he had to hunt down this
important glassware meant he thought her about as smart as one.
He handed her the tablet off the dashboard,
started the car without the battle with his conscience, and checked
the mirrors before pulling away from the curb, driving
perpendicular to the street the Duquesnes had taken.
The neighborhood flashed by outside Kizzie’s
window, one continuous blur. “Subtle as an anal probe,
handsome.”
“Don’t know what you mean, darlin’.”
* * * *
I n hindsight, Xander
should have ordered two hot chocolates. The espresso was bound to
keep him awake, and he desperately needed sleep. He’d been running
on fumes the last couple weeks, but with so much to do, there was
no sense in believing he’d get a rest anytime soon.
He unlocked the door of her flat and Naima
sidestepped to pass him. He stopped her with an outstretched arm
and a glare. She rolled her eyes and he smirked, neither of them
speaking. He always went first—hadn’t she learned that by now?
Moving just inside the door, he disarmed the
alarm system he insisted on having installed—another point of
contention between them—and followed through with a visual check of
the place once the lights came on.
Satisfied all was well, he returned to the
living room. Naima was in the kitchen pouring water from a pitcher
taken from the fridge. By the look on her face, she wished it were
bourbon. She loved her bourbon. Couldn’t hold liquor worth a damn,
but she was a firm believer in practice making perfect and strove
for perfection as often as possible. Only one thing in the universe
could get her to give up her Wild Turkey cold turkey.
She came around the breakfast bar and
pressed a glass of the clear liquid into his hand.
“ Solidarité .”
Grinning, Xander touched his tumbler to hers
and then took a swallow. Naima toed off her heels and set her glass
on a coaster on the coffee table before heading to the desk in the
corner.
“Keep kissing me like that,” Xander dropped
into the love seat, “and we’re gonna have a problem.”
“Saving yourself for marriage, are you?”
Naima asked in her lilting British
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