The cocktail was lethal. Her pupils were so dilated she looked like she'd mainlined espresso and lust in equal measure.
"You—" she started, voice pitched low enough to make nearby wine glasses nervous.
"Careful," I cut in, dropping my tone to velvet-wrapped razor-blade territory. "Whatever filthy thing you're about to spit at me, remember I control your network's biggest exclusive. One call and your little empire gets the kind of public headache that requires two Advil and a career counselor."
Of course, she just smiled at my stupid tease... gods, she's so cute.
"I hate you."
"No you don't."
"I actively hate you."
I let my gaze slide south like it had a VIP pass. "Your nipples are so hard they're currently trying to unionize against that dress, Sable. Is that because you hate me?"
She looked down—pure reflex—then snapped her eyes back to mine so fast the flush detonated across her face like someone lit a match under her cheekbones.
Throat worked. Swallow audible.
