HER ARMS WERE COILED around his neck, his around her waist as they swayed to Aaron Neville’s Don’t Know Much. Farida’s eyes traveled from a round, white-sheeted table decorated with champagne flutes, lit candles in ornamental candlesticks and a champagne bottle chilling in an ice-bucket to the heavy crimson drapes blocking out the windows, and the white crystal chandelier above and the crimson semicircle couches bordering their dance space.
She whispered into his ears. “I didn’t know you had this private room in Fever Pitch.”
“There’s a lot of Fever Pitch you haven’t seen yet.”
Farida pulled away slightly to glance up into his face. “How many ladies have you brought up here, hmm?”
Kurt ducked his head and kissed her neck.
“I shouldn’t ask, is that it?”
He nibbled at her ear and then
