Does he know Kathryn?
Oh, hell, does he know Kathryn? The woman sauntering into our private dining room in one of the hottest blue dresses I’ve ever seen?
I’m not good at fashion terms, but they suddenly spring to my mind as I see my queen brush off Monroe’s assistants with an icy hand. Ow. My heart. My gut. My cock.
Queen Anne has nothing on Kathryn and the way that neckline frames her breasts. The sapphire blue fabric hugs her body as it travels down her long torso and grabs her hips like I often want to. Dark blue heels cut into the carpet, ass sashaying, French-tipped nails clutching a Chanel… clutch. (I’m starting to lose it here, sorry.) What kills me is her hair and frosty makeup. When she’s out and about, Kathryn likes to wear her light blond hair up in a French twist, either with dangling earrings – three rattling blue beads each – or none at all. One of my favorite things to do is rip that twist apart when in the throes of lovemaking. It’s a very convenient way to grab all of her hair and pull until she’s crying from the powerful ecstasy we share.
“Ian,” she says coolly, the very incarnate of the ice princess the papers love to say she is. I’m swooning, like the biggest sap in the universe. “And… Mr. Monroe.”
They exchange an even icier look. I knew it. They do not like each other. Why would they, when…
Monroe holds out his hand, and to my surprise, Kathryn gently takes it with a glittering smile. “Please. It’s always Damon for you, Kathryn.”
I am not the only man in this room who notices the way she looks away and sputters through another smile. What? No. No way. Monroe is not flirting with my woman in front of me. I know he isn’t. He’s a cocky, arrogant bastard, but he’s not stupid, right?
Furthermore, why is my sweet Katie giving this fucker the time of day?
Tension mounts in the room, although I think Kathryn is the only one not feeling it. She draws her hand back and turns to me again. Her eyes linger on an empty chair next to me. I pull it out, eager to have her near me and not him.
“Sorry I’m late,” she says. “Or early. I can’t remember if I was supposed to join you.”
“I think you’re early.”
Monroe chooses now to interrupt, even though his assistants are packing up their things and conferring about the rest of their boss’s schedule for the day. “Is that Martine Collette?” He gestures to Kathryn’s dress. “My, you are on the forefront of fashion, Kathryn. You better wear that to my party next weekend. There are going to be many fashion blogger vultures hanging outside the fence. They’d love the show, I’m sure.”
“Perhaps I will.” Wait, we’re going to his party? We were invited, but Kathryn and I rarely go to parties unless it’s pertinent to business or someone we know really well. Monroe is neither at the moment. Fuuuuck, she’s still flirting! What has gotten into her? “Yes, this is Martine Collette. I was at her boutique before coming here. Do you like it?” She’s asking both Monroe and me.
“You know I love blue,” I say.
Monroe goes on some obnoxious diatribe about fabric, cuts, and Fashion Week. Apparently he goes to those. Kathryn is so flattered that he has noticed these details on a simple blue dress that she’s blushing, and she hasn’t even had a drink of wine. I’m pouring her more than a glass. Not that I think she needs it. If anything, I probably need to get her a cool ice pack to quell these flames.
Hey! Look at me! Pay attention to me!
I’ve seen Kathryn flirt with other men before. Sometimes it’s to stroke their egos and get her way, and other times she’s just flirting. It usually doesn’t bother me. For some reason this is riling me up, and not in the sexy way.
Okay, a little in the sexy way. My alpha tendencies, which I am usually very good at keeping quiet, are ready to rage. Kathryn desperately needs to be thrown on this table and shown who her damned boyfriend is.
If she’s not calling me Master by the end of tonight…
My hand wraps around her leg beneath her hem. She barely notices.
“Martine Collette is going to explode this next year, mark my words.” Monroe is up, pulling his coat on and shaking more of that cologne in our direction. Gee, sure would be nice if Kathryn would stop grinning at him like a love-sick idiot. My hand goes from her leg to the small of her back, and then around her torso. Mine. Mine mine mine. I didn’t spend months chasing after her, training her in the world of submission, and convincing her that it was okay for us to be in love for Damon Monroe to come waving his cock around like a rival baboon.
Dear Paris: you’re a bit too open-minded for me. Chill on the ménage a tois vibes. With other guys, anyway.