The torches were out, the record player gone and grill covered. Yet she could still hear the strains of the tango pulsing in her mind, feel Cade’s body tight against hers, the incredible heat of his mouth hovering over hers. She ran a shaking hand down her face. Grant had watched them, his eyes never dropping from their dance. At first, she’d been wrapped up in the moves, the intricacy of the steps, the flush of remembered rhythms and beats. Then she’d seen Grant. Every line in his body had been a classic portrait in relaxation but she knew him too well. She could read the intensity of his stare, the lust wafting from him. He was getting turned on watching her and Cade and, God help her, she’d used it. She’d upped the level of intimacy just to see her husband’s reaction. Blood stirred by music and fed by Cade’s touch had gathered power from Grant’s voyeurism. Then it hit her. Grant wasn’t watching her, he was watching Cade. She’d known for years that Cade was bisexual.
