Breasts he’d tasted just hours before. A waist he’d gripped as he’d held her body over his, watching as she slid in a glorious rhythm, up and down his straining erection.
Cassandra.
His sexy temptation.
His gaze shifted from her to the man of the hour, suddenly seeing the resemblance in the shape of their faces, the arch of their brows.
The tiny hairs on the back of his neck that warned of trouble stood on end.
Cassandra was the admiral’s daughter?
Shit.
Standing on display, Cassandra kept her expression neutral and her shoulders erect. She hated these things. Her mother was as social as the admiral was bossy, which meant growing up there had been four over-the-top fancy functions a year.
Since Margaret Lane came from money—lots and lots of money—that meant the parties were not onl
