Page 115 of The Grand Duel
“Careful,” he says, and nods over my shoulder. “Your little admirer is watching. He looks thoroughly disgusted.”
I peer at the guy on the door. “Probably because he can see how in love you are with your sister.”
He sniggers.
I run my hand up Charles’s neck, fisting the hair at the base.
He swallows, hand flexing on my lower back as his eyes narrow in warning.
Turning, I spin, coming back to him even closer, our noses brushing as I place my knee between his. When I feel the hardness of his cock against my stomach, I look up at him. “Charles, you’re my brother,” I say accusingly.
“Trust me, if I was your brother, I’d be going straight to prison.”
I laugh. “Elaborate.”
“No.”
I laugh harder.
We dance for a while, our hands lingering on parts of our bodies they probably shouldn’t and our attention so lost, so firmly on each other, we knock into people constantly. We laugh—Charles laughs, and it’s the most incredible thing to watch. We drink and dance some more. And then there’s a man at our side, face stern, clipboard in hand.
“Sorry, sir, the lady is taken for this evening,” Charles tells him.
I snort a laugh.
“Miss Aldridge, if you could please make your way to the room on the left-hand side of the stage to make payment on your items.”
“Oh, it’s Mrs,” I say, maybe a little drunk. “It’s Mrs Aldridge.”
His frown tells me he’s aware Charles is my brother. “Of course. Mrs Aldridge.”
I grab Charles’s hand and pull him from the dance floor, heading for the room to pay. We halve the boat and both add to our donations, and then we leave the venue.
“I need to eat.”
“Where would my wife like to eat?”
I drop my head to his shoulder, closing my eyes blissfully. “Hmm. How about pizza?”
“And ice cream?”
I sigh. “My husband knows me so well.”
Charles
We walk shoulder to shoulder down the corridor to our suite, Lissie too busy stuffing pizza in her mouth to manage any further conversation. Not that it matters. I seem to enjoy just being in her company enough.
My steps have been slow, leisurely, during the walk home. I could blame it on the shots she made me drink, but really, it’s because I don’t want this night to end.
I’m not sure I’ve laughed so much in years.
With the pizza box and takeaway ice cream bag held in my hand for her easy access to the pizza, I hold out my other. “The key. You put it in your purse.”
“Crap,” she mumbles, sucking the barbecue sauce off her thumb and forefinger.
My jaw flexes as I watch her tongue peek out, the memory of her crawling over my lap during our night at The Nightingale and licking across the head of my cock now at the forefront of my mind.
“I know you’re my husband, but you’re not supposed to look at me as if you want to eat me.” She smiles, placing the champagne bottle she swiped off the table as we left the gala on the floor. “Probably don’t need any more of that.”