"Better sit up and fix yourself before we arrive," I drawl.
She glowers at me, but pushes herself up onto the seat, then reaches for her phone. She checks her appearance, pats her hair, and touches up her lipstick. By the time we arrive at the venue, all traces of the woman who almost orgasmed around my fingers is replaced by the innocent facade of hers which she once used to fool me.
"Still a consummate actress, I see."
"Still a vicious twathole, I see," she snarls back.
"At least your insults have improved."
"Yours haven’t."
We pull to a halt in front of the venue. I push the door open, step out, then hold out my hand for her.
She scowls at it, then up at me.
I glare at her, she pales, then places her hand in mine. I help her out as the flashlights from the assembled media go off in our faces.
"Cade, who’s your date?"
"Cade, are you excited about the upcoming cricket tournament?"
"Cade, is it true, you’re retiring from cricket?"
I pause, then turn and train my gaze on the journalist who asked the question. I haul Abby close, bend her over my arm and kiss her. She stiffens, but when I bite down on her lower lip, she opens her mouth. I sweep my tongue over hers, drink from her, and the taste of her—that sweet, potent, complex taste of her goes straight to my head. My cock thickens, my thighs spasm, and a melting sensation squeezes my chest. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What the hell is happening to me? I tear my mouth from hers as more flashes go off.
Her eyes are enormous, the pupils so dilated there’s only a circle of green left around the circumference. Her features are pale, her expression as stunned as mine. "Such a good little slut," I whisper, and her lips tighten.
I straighten her, wrap my arm about her waist and pull her close. "Smile, baby. Get those socialite skills of yours working now." I kiss her cheek, then turn to the journalist who asked the question.
"Do I look like I’m retiring anytime soon?"
He laughs. "You look in good shape, mate." He raises his camera and proceeds to click a few more pictures.
I turn and walk through the doors of the V & A Museum. She tries to pull her hand from mine, but I tighten my grasp. "Keep that game face on, Sparrow. I’m not letting you fly away yet."
Then, just because I know it’s going to piss her off, I bring her hand to my face and kiss her knuckles.
A shiver grips her.
"Seems your body likes what I do to it." I smirk
She scowls. "Doesn’t mean anything."
We’ll see about that. I guide her through the groups of people talking to each other. The men are dressed in tuxes, the women in gowns. Most come from family money, some from aristocracy, and a few, like me, have made it on our own steam. Billionaires who’ve made their money through their own wits and charm, and in my case, hard work on and off the field. Luck played a role, too, but it would have all come to naught if I hadn’t been prepared. If I hadn’t been ready to embrace my own destiny since I worked my arse off to snag that scholarship to the private school Knight and Abby attended.
I pause in front of a waiter, take a glass of champagne and hand it over to her, then take one for myself.
"You can release me now," she hisses.
"I’ll decide when it’s the right time to let go of you."
I walk a few steps forward with her in tow, then stop in the center of the room. Curious gazes follow us. I’m recognizable right away, no doubt, while many have put a name to her face, too. There are a few whispered comments, and many more raised eyebrows.
Another waiter pauses in front of us with a tray of canapés. I release Abby, then snatch up a few pieces and pop them into my mouth. Abby, however, waves him off. He begins to leave, but I hold up my hand. The waiter stops, looking between us.
“Why aren’t you eating?” I frown at her.
“I’m not hungry.” She glances away; her cheeks are a bright shade of red. And the room is not warm, by any stretch of imagination.
“When did you last eat?”
“None of your business.” She sips from the champagne. “These bubbles are good; you should try them.”
A-n-d I know a diversion when I hear it.
“You look hungry, and it’s going to be a long evening. Best you shore up on the canapes. Not that they’re substantial, by any means, but if that’s all the sustenance we’re getting this evening, might as well eat a few.”
“I’m fine.” She tosses back the rest of the champagne, then flags down another waiter, and hands off her empty glass to him before snatching up another flute. “See? A liquid diet works just as well for me.”
“Ah…” I lower my chin. “Is that why you’re not eating? Because you’re worried about putting on weight?”
“Honestly, can you yell it out any louder?” She shoots a sideways glance at the first waiter holding the starters, who’s still hovering in our line of sight.
I nod at the waiter to follow us, then guide her over to one of the cocktail tables at the side. I place my champagne on the table, then take the tray of canapes from the waiter and slide that onto the table as well. I tip the man and send him on his way.
“What are you doing?” she hisses at me.
“We’re tucked away in a corner of the room. There’s no one watching us, and you can eat without being self-conscious,” I murmur.
She squeezes her eyes shut. "Am I that obvious?”
“No, but you need to eat.”
She cracks open her eyelids. “Why are you concerned about feeding me?”
“I need you focused for this evening, which you can’t be if you’re hungry.”
“I’m really not hungry,” she snaps.
“Now you’re getting hangry.”
“I’m not—“ Her stomach rumbles, and I incline my head.
“You were saying?”
She glances down at the tray of food, then toys with her champagne glass. “I... I can’t be seen eating in front of everyone. What if someone takes a photo? The next thing you know, my picture will be up on someone’s social media feed— stuffing my face. Imagine how that’ll look? ‘A fat girl feeding her fat face.’” She hunches her shoulders.
“Firstly, you’re not fat.”
“My scale says otherwise.”
“Your scale is lying.”
“Like you always speak the truth?” she scoffs.
“Not something anyone can accuse me of, but in this case, I am. You’re gorgeous, earthy, and the most stunning woman in this room today. Everyone else would die for your curves. Everyone else here is jealous of your—”
“Large thighs?”
“Your shapely thighs which are exactly the right size for you to wrap about my neck when I lick your pussy from arsehole to clit.”
She gapes at me, “You’re crude, you—"
I slide the canape between her lips.
She closes her mouth, chews, then swallows.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” I hold up another canape. When she hesitates, I glare at her. “No one’s going to take a photo of you, and if they do, I’ll track them down, teach them a lesson they won’t soon forget, and have the photo taken down.”