Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 67966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
He forced a small smile, though his pulse still thrummed with the echo of that creepy voice.
“Whoever that was, they won’t touch what I’ve built here…just like all the rest who’ve tried.”
End of Season Two Episode One
Season 2, Episode 2
Belladonna Mansion
Masquerade Ball ~ Ballroom
Virginia Beach Oceanfront
February 2nd, 12:32 a.m.
It was late, and Lincoln was getting annoyed that the one guest he’d invited hadn’t arrived. Lincoln swiped his fifth glass of champagne off a table while the staff began to break down the setup.
He wasn’t drunk, but he had a nice-enough buzz going that he wanted to use to get into a bit of trouble.
He passed a few people still lingering and consuming Thorn’s generous supply of premium liquor. Some men were engaged in drunken conversations about everything from politics to a popular porn site recently banned in the state.
Lincoln shook some guys’ hands, not wanting to stop and chat with anyone. He gave an old client and his new husband a quick one-armed hug and escaped through the patio doors.
It was too cool for anyone to be lounging poolside, but a small group of men huddled on the deck smoking. Lincoln went around the side of the house where the moonlight didn’t reach and leaned against the deck railing.
He stared at the black ocean for a long moment before his gaze wandered farther down the coast. A dark figure stood about a hundred yards away, just beyond where the waves pushed water onto the shore.
Lincoln’s lips turned up in the corners, his heart skipping a beat.
He was off the deck and crossing the grounds before he could think twice. He thought he heard someone call out to him, but he didn’t turn around.
He was stealthy with his approach, not wanting to spook a homicide detective, but given the relaxed set of Sharpe’s shoulders, Lincoln had a feeling he knew he was approaching.
Lincoln didn’t stop until his chest was just touching Sharpe’s back. He stared at the water over his shoulder, turning his head a fraction toward Sharpe’s neck to inhale that amazing scent. His smoky heat, mixed with the salty tang of the ocean air, made Lincoln want to drag his tongue over his throat.
Lincoln’s intoxication stripped away his usual restraint, compromising the part of him that knew better. He leaned in until his mouth was against the hard curve of Sharpe’s ear.
“I thought you were curious about the mansion,” he murmured, words heavy and daring.
Sharpe didn’t turn around, but he didn’t put space between them either.
“Not my kinda crowd,” Sharpe rumbled.
Lincoln wanted to hear that fuckin’ voice in his condo, in the dark, because if the color black could make noise, it would sound like that.
“But you came,” Lincoln said, slanting closer, “…for me.”
Sharpe turned, immediately roaming his dark eyes over Lincoln’s face concealed behind his bronze-colored mask outlined in soft brown feathers before lowering them to his lips.
Sharpe was danger cleaned up just enough to be a bit less intimidating.
He smelled like masculine soap and a midnight musk aftershave he’d splashed on his freshly shaved jaw…that was just begging for teeth marks.
His salt-and-pepper hair had been wrangled with product, but not enough to tame its wildness.
Lincoln’s pulse thrummed.
True to Sharpe’s defiant nature, he’d blown off the formal dress code as if rules were made for everyone else.
He wore a coal-dark button-down he’d left untucked, paired with black jeans that clung to his strong thighs.
His combat boots weren’t just footwear. They were rough, scarred leather with tread deep enough to stomp anything or anyone that got in his way.
Lincoln had attended enough parties, galas, masquerades, and seen enough men dolled up in suits and polish, but none of them looked as sexy as Sharpe did right now.
“You look hot as fuck.”
“You’re drunk.” Sharpe swallowed thickly, still staring at his mouth.
“Not that drunk, Detective,” Lincoln shot back. “You’ve had me doing laps around my house for hours.”
He wanted Sharpe to know his absence had been noticed.
“I was hoping you’d come tonight,” Lincoln tempted.
“Why?”
“I wanted to see you in my element for a change.”
Sharpe slid his hand up one side of his neck, his knuckles rough against his jaw, and tilted his head back until his throat was stretched tight. The move was slow, controlled, but there was nothing gentle about the way Sharpe’s thumb pressed the hinge of Lincoln’s jaw, as if he were testing the submission in him.
Lincoln’s inhale caught. He was already growing hard against the constraint of his slacks. Only from a handful of words, a rough voice against skin, and the weight of a calloused hand.
“Careful,” Sharpe warned with his lips hovering over his, the one word dripping with threat and temptation. “You keep looking at me like that, and I’ll forget you’re supposed to be a gentleman.”
Lincoln was already breathless. He should’ve been scared. Instead, the reckless part of him made him lean in harder. It’d been years since he’d had a heart that was a true challenge, and never since he’d found one he wanted to keep.