This time I shrugged. That was Pete. He liked his eggs runny and his steak like shoe leather. French onion soup sounded good, but I wanted Pete in bed more than I wanted the steak. Having the Frenchman under me would take my mind off Quinton Mann.
Pete arched his eyebrow when I murmured my suggestion to him, although his mouth curved in a sensuous grin, and my c**k twitched with interest. I breathed a sigh of relief. I wasn’t fixated on that hazel-eyed spook. I’d known all along I wasn’t. I grinned back at my friend and licked my lips. Pete’s gray-green eyes grew sultry.
“We will just have the soup for now,” he told the waiter.
“Bon.” The waiter left to put in our order.
“What did you have in mind, cher m’sieur?” Pete asked in all innocence. He knew damned well what I had in mind. Afte
