Page 50 of Love to Loathe Him

“Liam, my boy!” the old geezer bellows.

“Lord Richards.” Liam doesn’t miss a beat, his hand remaining firmly on my back as he dips his head in a show of respect. Somehow, he still manages to look like an arrogant prick even when he’s being polite. “Lady Richards, always a pleasure. Allow me to introduce my companion for the evening, Gemma Jones.”

I’m not sure why but suddenly I feel like a hooker.

The old woman offers me a limp handshake. “Hello, dear. Don’t you look lovely.”

“Thank you so much, so do you. Lovely to meet you both.” I smile, trying not to wince as her husband’s clammy paw engulfs my hand. He pumps my arm like he’s trying to start a lawnmower, making my tits jiggle in my dress. I think he’s trying to shake them free.

Three pairs of eyes zero in on my bouncing tits, including Liam’s. I extract my hand from Lord Fossil Pervert’s grip, my cheeks on fire.

“So, Lord Richards,” Liam smoothly redirects. “What catches your eye at the auction this evening?”

The old lech’s watery eyes rove up and down my body, undressing me with his gaze. Gross.

“I’ve got my sights set on a stunning Henry Moore sculpture,” he rumbles, still looking at me. “A goddess, by all accounts.”

Yeah, I’m pretty sure he’s talking about me and my rack, not some priceless artwork. If he wasn’t old enough to be my great-grandfather and married, I might be flattered.

“Oh, we simply must show you!” his wife trills, waving the auction catalog. “Though I expect you won’t try to outbid us, hmm?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Liam replies smoothly, his hand still pressing against my bare back. I’m not even sure if he realizes his fingers are grazing my skin, but it’s making my nipples hard. Just perfect.

I nearly choke on my champagne when Lord Fossil Pervert whips out an honest-to-godlorgnette—one of those tiny opera glasses rich people used to use before they invented contacts.

He pretends to study the auction listing his wife is pointing at, but the crafty old bastard isn’t fooling me. He’s totally eye-fucking my tits through those ridiculous specs.

“Darling, show them which sculpture you mean,” his wife prattles on, jabbing a finger full of obscenely large rings at the pages.

But Lord Fossil Pervert isn’t even pretending to look at the catalog anymore. He’s got his beady eyes glued to my rack. I can’t believe he busted out a lorgnette just to get a better look.

And the worst part? Liam’s touch on my back has my nipples cutting against my dress.

His fingers flex against my skin, the only sign of his growing irritation. “If you’ll excuse us,” he grits out through clenched teeth, “we really need to be moving along.”

“Of course,” Lady Richards coos, totally unaware that her husband is mentally motorboating me.

Her husband looks devastated as Liam leads me and my tits away.

“Sorry about that,” Liam mutters once we’re out of earshot. “He was out of line.”

I snort. “Yeah, well, that’s a first for me. Getting objectified through a pair of antique opera glasses.”

Liam’s jaw clenches. Before I know it, he’s yanked me against him, his body hard and unyielding. I stiffen, caught off guard by the sudden movement.

“I’m sorry,” he grinds out, his voice low and rough. “I don’t want anyone disrespecting you like that.”

My nipples brush against his chest, the friction sending sparks of electricity through me even through the fabric. Wearing this dress was a mistake.

Before I can stop myself, I snap: “Maybe if you kept your damn hands to yourself, Lord Fossil Pervert over there wouldn’t have anything to stare at.” I instantly regret opening my big mouth. I don’t want Liam to know his touch is the reason I’m about to poke someone’s eye out.

One dark eyebrow rises as he removes his hand from my back. “Lord Fossil Pervert.” He chuckles. “You have a name for everyone, don’t you?”

I yank my shawl tighter around myself, trying to hide the fact that my body didn’t get the memo about hating Liam McLaren.

“Your hands are like ice,” I mutter, cocooning myself in the fabric and lies.

He makes a big show of rubbing his hands together, which are clearly not cold at all, the smug bastard. His eyes drag over me in a slow, deliberate once-over, zeroing in on my nipples beggingfor his attention beneath my dress. The heat in his gaze tells me he knows I’m full of shit, and my face burns, waiting for him to humiliate me with that stupid fantasy I wrote in my journal.