that mouth.
He dragged his fascinated gaze away from it with a strength that deserved a gold medal. But nothing, not even God Himself, could cleanse his mind of the acts those curves elicited. Acts that left him throbbing and greedy.
“Did you need a glass of champagne?” she asked, lowering her eyes to the tray she held.
No, keep your eyes on me.
The order rolled up his throat and hovered on his tongue, but he locked it down. Damn, with just a few words uttered in a silk-and-midnight voice, he’d devolved into a caveman.
Once more, a warning to walk away clanged inside him, but—like moments earlier—he ignored it. Nothing else mattered at the moment. Nothing but having that sex-and-sin voice stroke his ears. Having those hands slip under his clothes to caress his skin. And those oval-shaped eyes fixed on him.
“What’s your name?” He delivered a question of his own, answering hers by picking up a glass flute full of pale wine.
If he hadn’t been studying her so closely, he might’ve missed the slight stiffening of her shoulders, the minute hesitation before, head still bowed, she said, “I need to continue...”
She shifted away from him, preparing to escape into the crowd.
“Wait.” He lifted his arm, instinct guiding him to grasp her elbow to prevent her departure. But at the last moment, he lowered his arm back to his side.
As much as he wanted to discover how she felt under his hand, he refused to touch her without her permission. Rich assholes accosting the waitstaff was as old a story as a boss chasing his secretary around the desk. Even though his palm itched with the lack of contact, he slid his free hand into his front pocket.
The aborted motion seemed to grab her attention. She raised her head, a frown drawing her eyebrows together.
“Gideon Knight,” he said, offering her his name. “You have my name. Can I have yours?”
Again, that beat of hesitation. Then, with a small shake of her head, she murmured, “Camille.”
“Camille,” he repeated, savoring it as if it were one of the rich chocolate desserts that would follow the dinner course. “It’s a lovely name. And it fits you.”
Her eyes widened, an emotion he would’ve labeled panic flaring in their depths before she lowered her lashes, hiding her gaze from him. Again. “Thank you, Mr. Knight. If—”
“Gideon,” he corrected. “For you, it’s Gideon.”
Her full lips firmed into a line seconds before she met his stare with one glinting in anger. How insane did it make him that he found the signs of her temper captivating...and sexy as hell?
“No offense, Mr. Knight—”
“In my experience, when someone starts a sentence with ‘no offense,’ they intend to offend,” he drawled.
Once more he saw that flicker of anger, and an exhilaration that was usually reserved for fierce business negotiations surged in his chest. The exhilaration meant he was engaging with a worthy opponent.
“I’m going out on a limb and assuming your ego can take the hit,” she shot back. Then, as if she realized what she’d snapped—and who she’d snapped at—she winced, briefly squeezing her eyes shut. “I apologize—”
“Oh, don’t disappoint me now by turning meek, Camille,” he purred, arching an eyebrow.
In a distant corner of his mind, he marveled at who he’d become in this moment. Flirting, teasing, goddamn purring—they weren’t him. His mouth either didn’t know this information or didn’t care. “I assure you, I can take it,” he added.
Take whatever she wanted to give him, whether it was her gaze, her conversation or more. And God, he hungered for the more. Greedy bastard that he was, he’d claim whatever she chose to dole out.
“Mr. Knight,” she began, defiance clipping his name, “I don’t know if approaching the staff and toying with them is one of your usual forms of entertainment. But since you’ve invited me not to be meek, let me tell you this might be a game to you, but the waitstaff aren’t toys to alleviate your boredom. This is a livelihood for workers who depend on a paycheck and not getting fired for fraternizing with the guests.”
Shock vibrated through him like a plucked chord on his favorite Martin D-45 acoustic guitar.
Shock and...delight.
Other than his mother and family, no one had the balls to speak to him like she had, much less reprimand him. Excitement—something he hadn’t experienced in so long he couldn’t remember the last occurrence—tripped and stumbled down his spine.
“I don’t play games,” he said. “They’re a waste of time. Why be coy when being honest achieves the goal faster?”
“And what’s your goal here, Mr. Knight?” she challenged, not hiding her sneer.
If she understood how his pulse jumped and his body throbbed every time she stated “Mr. Knight” with a haughtiness worthy of royalty, she would probably swear a vow of silence.
“Cop a feel in a dark hallway? A little slap and tickle in a broom closet?” she asked.
“I’m too old to cop a feel. And I don’t ‘slap and tickle’ either, whatever that is. I fuck.”
Her head jerked back at his blunt statement, her eyes widening behind the dark frames. Even with the din of chatter and laughter flowing around them, he caught her sharp gasp.
A voice sounding suspiciously like that of Gray Chandler, his business partner and best friend—his only friend—hissed a curse at him. How many times had Gray warned him to temper his brusque, straightforward manner? Well, to be more accurate, his friend described Gideon as tactless. Pretty words weren’t his forte; honesty was. Normally, he didn’t regret his abruptness. Like he’d told her, he didn’t indulge in games. But in this moment, he almost regretted it.
Especially if she walked away from him.
“Is that why you stopped me? To proposition me?” She dropped her gaze to the champagne glass in his hand, and with just that glance let him know she didn’t buy his pretense of wanting the wine. He shrugged, setting it behind him on one of the high tables scattered around the ballroom.
“Why single me out?” she continued. “Because I’m so beautiful you couldn’t help yourself?” she mocked. “Or because I’m a server, and you’re a guest in a position of power? What happens if I say no? Will I suddenly find myself relieved of my job?”
Disgust and the first flicker of anger wormed its way through his veins. “Do I want to spend a night with you? Inside you? Yes,” he stated, and again her eyes flared wide at his frankness before narrowing. “I told you, I don’t lie. I don’t play games. But if you decline, then no, you would still have a check and employment at the end of the evening. I don’t need to blackmail women into my bed, Camille. Besides, a willing woman, a woman who wants my hands on her body, who pleads for what she knows I can give her, is far more arousing, more pleasurable. And any man
