Page 38 of Forty, Flirty & Fake-ly Yours

"Rosalind!" Emily Hanning materializes beside us like a journalist ninja. "I've been trying to reach you. I’d love to talk about?—“

"Ms. Hanning." Grayson's CEO voice is back. "I believe this is a private event."

"Oh, but I have an invitation." She smiles like a shark. "And so many questions about your relationship. Like how Seattle's most logical bachelor ended up with?—"

“Excuse us. I need to talk to Ms. Carpenter.” His brown eyes blink slowly. “Alone.”

I don't hear whatever else Emily says because Grayson's already steering me away, through the crowd and toward what turns out to be a coat check room.

The door closes behind us with a soft click, leaving us alone in a forest of designer outerwear.

"Sorry," he says, still holding me close. "I thought she might?—"

"Follow us into the coat closet?"

"It was tactical."

"Very strategic," I agree, trying to ignore how the small space seems to amplify every point of contact between us. "Though your AI might have some opinions about the statistical probability of?—"

I don't finish because suddenly Grayson’s eyes are on my mouth, and they’re not moving. But suddenly he is.

He inches closer, and soon, all thoughts of statistics and strategies disappear. Lowering his head, the icy CEO I’ve started to figure out does something un-figure-outable.

He kisses me.

And as his lips meet mine, a surge of heat courses through my body, igniting every nerve ending. I can feel the rough stubble of his cheek against my skin, the scent of his cologne wrapping around me—sensual and smoky. My own hands grasp his lapels, and pull.

The kiss deepens, becoming more intense, more demanding as his tongue brushes against mine, sending a jolt of electricity straight to my core.

I’ve never kissed a man this tall, this broad—this hard. And it makes me moan.

For as cold as Grayson Dixon is in every calculated move he makes, this kiss is anything but.

I’m a walking, talking puddle in his capable hands. Hands that curve into the dip of my lower back, pressing the cool silk of my gown against my skin. Hands that move lower still, tracing the line of my thigh through the fabric.

His touch is confident, sure, as if he knows exactly what I want, exactly what I need. And in this moment, I do need.

I need more of his heat. More of his hardness.

More of him.

And speaking of hardness…

I groan, rubbing myself at the growing erection between us making itself known.

God, if this man is as large as he seems…

The thought is interrupted by a thud outside the closet, and suddenly Grayson’s hands are gone as fast as they came.

Reality begins to intrude, the haze of desire slowly lifting. I look up at Grayson, his honeyed-brown eyes dark with passion, his hair mussed from my fingers, his lips slightly stained from my own.

And I realize, with a sudden, stark clarity, that this—that we—may never have been “just business.”

Lowering his dark gaze, Grayson takes a step back, breathing hard, rubbing his stubbled jaw.

“I’m sorry,” I start. “That had to have been?—“

"The champagne," he offers with a grunt.

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