Jokers: BBW Billionaire Menage Romance (Billionaire Brothers, II Book 2) Read Online Free
Author: Meg Watson
tell you how I know. Is that scent embedded deep in our brains somewhere? Had I been waiting for it all this time?
“OK, we will both open it,” I bargained.
She nodded once, extending an amethyst-lacquered nail toward the corner nearest her. We each pulled upward, dragging off the box’s cover and releasing an unfurling garland of tissue paper and a hand-penned invitation resting upon some fabric that gleamed sensuously from within its nest.
“Sweet baby Jesus,” Melita breathed.
“Yeah…. Well,” I swallowed hard over my dry tongue, “I guess I have a proposal to write.”
CHAPTER 4
The dress was blood red, skin tight, and utterly bad ass. The limousine arrived outside Melita’s bungalow at seven o’clock and I climbed into it feeling positively feline.
I couldn't stop touching it. I loved the way that the thick satin embraced my belly and hips. Like the midnight blue dress that Melita loaned me, this dress had a similar cup-shaped neckline that supported me amply, but the back plunged so low that I had been forced to go braless. My breasts jiggled and bounced sensually within the supportive confines of the satin, and I grew excited at the thought of just what Lyle and Owen were going to do with that.
I brushed my finger pads lightly against the raised rhinestone crust of my small handbag. Now that I had almost nothing to my name, getting everything into a tiny, fashionable purse was refreshingly easy. Inside the bag was a neatly folded presentation, just notes printed on white paper. I relished rehearsing the way I would describe it all.
At first I had fretted over it, glaring at Melita's computer screen like it had betrayed me. But once I told myself to just shoot for the stars - why not, what did I have to lose anyway - the words simply seemed to flow out of me like I had had them the entire time. I couldn't wait to explain my vision to them.
The limousine pulled to the curb in front of the Nantucket theater, an elegant vintage building with all the glamour of the Old Chicago Theater District. I could feel the eyes of passersby and theater patrons swinging toward me like spotlights as I exited the limo and stood for a moment on the sidewalk to collect myself. As I stroked my hands over the curves of my dress I felt it settle around me like a second skin. I could have lived forever in that dress.
A stranger in a tuxedo approached me, holding out his hand for mine. He cast his eyes away deferentially.
“The Misters Jack will be slightly delayed,” he murmured politely. “They have requested that I escort you to their private box.”
I nodded silently, praying that my mute demeanor could be interpreted as confidence and an appropriate level of entitlement.
The valet led me through the lobby and then through a small, ornate doorway and up a flight of stairs carpeted with handsome patterned rugs.
He bowed politely in front of a narrow door and opened it for me. I nodded to him as though I had any idea if nodding was the appropriate response — was I supposed to tip him or something? — and entered the small booth, pushing aside the heavy velvet curtain with one hand.
The private booth was dark and cozy, with three plush, wooden chairs with scrolled backs arranged in front of the ledge. Aside from the small lights at ankle height it was a completely dark, private space. I stood at the hip-high railing and stared out into the theater to watch patrons gradually filling the seats on the main floor below me. The sound of their murmurs filled the air like moths fluttering upward toward the hand-painted night sky on the domed ceiling.
The crowd subdued itself to whispers as the orchestra began the musical opening. I stood for a few moments more and then settled into the middle seat of the box. Though I wondered where the Jacks were, the thrill of waiting for them was delightful.
The music swelled, filling the space with the sumptuous sound of a full orchestra. I let the reverberations of the
“OK, we will both open it,” I bargained.
She nodded once, extending an amethyst-lacquered nail toward the corner nearest her. We each pulled upward, dragging off the box’s cover and releasing an unfurling garland of tissue paper and a hand-penned invitation resting upon some fabric that gleamed sensuously from within its nest.
“Sweet baby Jesus,” Melita breathed.
“Yeah…. Well,” I swallowed hard over my dry tongue, “I guess I have a proposal to write.”
CHAPTER 4
The dress was blood red, skin tight, and utterly bad ass. The limousine arrived outside Melita’s bungalow at seven o’clock and I climbed into it feeling positively feline.
I couldn't stop touching it. I loved the way that the thick satin embraced my belly and hips. Like the midnight blue dress that Melita loaned me, this dress had a similar cup-shaped neckline that supported me amply, but the back plunged so low that I had been forced to go braless. My breasts jiggled and bounced sensually within the supportive confines of the satin, and I grew excited at the thought of just what Lyle and Owen were going to do with that.
I brushed my finger pads lightly against the raised rhinestone crust of my small handbag. Now that I had almost nothing to my name, getting everything into a tiny, fashionable purse was refreshingly easy. Inside the bag was a neatly folded presentation, just notes printed on white paper. I relished rehearsing the way I would describe it all.
At first I had fretted over it, glaring at Melita's computer screen like it had betrayed me. But once I told myself to just shoot for the stars - why not, what did I have to lose anyway - the words simply seemed to flow out of me like I had had them the entire time. I couldn't wait to explain my vision to them.
The limousine pulled to the curb in front of the Nantucket theater, an elegant vintage building with all the glamour of the Old Chicago Theater District. I could feel the eyes of passersby and theater patrons swinging toward me like spotlights as I exited the limo and stood for a moment on the sidewalk to collect myself. As I stroked my hands over the curves of my dress I felt it settle around me like a second skin. I could have lived forever in that dress.
A stranger in a tuxedo approached me, holding out his hand for mine. He cast his eyes away deferentially.
“The Misters Jack will be slightly delayed,” he murmured politely. “They have requested that I escort you to their private box.”
I nodded silently, praying that my mute demeanor could be interpreted as confidence and an appropriate level of entitlement.
The valet led me through the lobby and then through a small, ornate doorway and up a flight of stairs carpeted with handsome patterned rugs.
He bowed politely in front of a narrow door and opened it for me. I nodded to him as though I had any idea if nodding was the appropriate response — was I supposed to tip him or something? — and entered the small booth, pushing aside the heavy velvet curtain with one hand.
The private booth was dark and cozy, with three plush, wooden chairs with scrolled backs arranged in front of the ledge. Aside from the small lights at ankle height it was a completely dark, private space. I stood at the hip-high railing and stared out into the theater to watch patrons gradually filling the seats on the main floor below me. The sound of their murmurs filled the air like moths fluttering upward toward the hand-painted night sky on the domed ceiling.
The crowd subdued itself to whispers as the orchestra began the musical opening. I stood for a few moments more and then settled into the middle seat of the box. Though I wondered where the Jacks were, the thrill of waiting for them was delightful.
The music swelled, filling the space with the sumptuous sound of a full orchestra. I let the reverberations of the
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