I can’t see Peter. He must be buried in one of the huddles somewhere, but it doesn’t take me long to spot Robert. My heart lurches. Robert looks sickeningly hot, as always, and I feel distinctly ordinary in comparison. He’s doing what he does best. Mingling. I watch his profile, seeing the familiar facial expressions that make him appear so affable, as if butter wouldn’t melt.

I watch his lips move as he chats away and then they pause and curl up into a beguiling smile as he nods at whatever the other person is telling him. My eyes stray to his chiselled jaw, the pronounced Adam’s apple, the perfectly straight line of his back—all so achingly familiar that my dick wakes from its slumber just at the sight of him across a crowded room. I surreptitiously reach down and punch my traitorous dick in the face, knocking it back to sleep with a single blow. I adjust myself, trying to minimise the tingle of discomfort I’m left with, but I still can’t take my eyes off Robert. I ogle the contours of his body. There’s not an ounce of fat on him. He’s all firm pecs and tight arse and anyone can tell by his confident stance that he’s incredibly full of himself. And why wouldn’t he be? He’s got everything going for him—the money, the looks, the power—it’s a wonder he doesn’t charge us mere mortals for being in his presence. I don’t know how he manages to look as sexy in casuals as he does in one of his elegantly tailored business suits. Because Lord knows I never tired of watching him walk through the door in one of those sharp suits. Let’s just say he didn’t stay zipped up for very long. But look at him now, flirting his tight arse in those custom-fit leather trousers.


God, I hate the cheating bastard!

Maybe I should leave now before he spots me.


Almost as if he can hear my thoughts, Robert disengages from the conversation he’s holding and jerks his head sideways to look directly at me. Those piercing blue eyes are like a pair of laser beams, transfixing me to the spot. His face drops momentarily and his skin turns ashen, as if he’s staring at a ghost. A tendril of his slicked-back hair drops forward over his face and he brushes it back.

“Excuse me,” I hear him say to the couple he’s been chatting to.


Oh fuck! He’s coming over.


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