Page 34 of Sinful Hearts

She’s up before I can even register it, lunging around my desk and yanking the scarf off before I can stop her.

“Hey—!”

“Iknew it!” she crows triumphantly.

My face burns hotly as I yank the scarf back into place.

“Details, woman! Now!”

I groan. “It was really nothing. I went to this dumb club—”

“Ugh, I hate clubs.”

I know this. And same. But Fumi meansdanceclubs, not the kinky and dangerous sex club variety.

“Exactly. And as a perfect example of why we do, this guy was all over me.”

She scowls. “Like, didn’t take no for an answer ? Because I’ll fucking stab him.” She shrugs. “Legally speaking.”

I grin. “No, no, it was fine.”

She arches a quizzical brow. “Are there more hickeys…elsewhere?”

I flush hotly.

Yes. Yes, there are. On my tits, my nipples, my hips, probably down my back, on my inner thighs, at my bikini line. Vicious ones, at that.

“No, jeez. It was just this dumb thing.”

“Did you…”

“No!” I blurt, shaking my head. “We never left the club.”

Sustained on a technicality. Proceed.

“And will there be a repeat performance? Like, should I be stocking up on fashionable neck scarves for future Christmas and birthday presents?”

I roll my eyes. “I was just having some drinks and blowing off some steam. That was it. We didn’t even trade names.”

She groans appreciatively. “God, that sounds hot. Lie to me. Tell me you banged him in the bathroom, or at least got fingered under the bar. Give mesomethingfor the wank-bank, for fuck’s sakes.”

I blush deeply, shaking my head as I roll my eyes. “You need professional help.”

“No, I needdick—”

“Ms. Guin.”

I jolt at the sound of my boss’ voice in my doorway. Fumi turns the color of skim milk, going absolutely stock-still as Gabriel Black’s deep, rough baritone rumbles into my office.

“A moment?”

“Of course, Mr. Black.”

Taylor and I are on a first-name basis, at her insistence. Alistair is the same way, so long as we’re not with clients.

Gabriel is unequivocally, unimpeachably, “Mr. Black”, and God help anyone who tries to call him anything else. Though to be honest, with his black hair, black eyes, and swarthy jaw that somehow always makes me think of an eighteenth-century pirate king or something equally menacing, “Mr. Black” does fit him rather well.

Fumi grimaces at me before typing something at lighting speed on her phone. Mine buzzes on the desk in front of me, a text from her reading “he did not hear me say that, right?” popping up on the screen. I glance at her and give her the most subtle head shake side-to-side.

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