Torsten’s laughter was so high from arousal it came out a giggle. “There’s a good girl.” He was about to continue, but something diverted his attention. His, and everyone else’s—the people fondling me went quiet and all withdrew their fingers from me.
Torsten just grinned and shifted his weight from one foot to another, slinking his hips. “Ah, Mr. Croesus,” he purred. “Would you like to join us?”
I looked over my shoulder and it was indeed Smythe. He said nothing, only swished his cane angrily as if he was about to plant the greyhound-shaped handle into someone’s skull if they didn’t budge. The people who had been touching me scurried away like mice. Smythe may have been a small man, but every inch of him was possessed of authority; a power that rivalled Torsten’s own, if colder, stonier in comparison to Torsten’s sensuality and heat. Whereas Torsten was the very image of the Devil with his seductiveness and wit, Smythe was as rigid and as stern as an Old Testament prophet. That coldness, that stoniness crept into my every limb; I stiffened, so frightened I was far from orgasm, now.