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)
“I never said I was interested,” Sharpe gritted.
“Oh, you’re more than interested, Detective,” Lincoln whispered darkly as he invaded every ounce of personal space he had.
If he really didn’t want Lincoln to be that close to him, drunk or not, Sharpe could’ve done something about it. But he didn’t.
He snapped his head up to meet Lincoln’s eyes, to give him his notorious scowl that scared the most hardened bastards, but the moment their gazes locked, Sharpe’s refusals, his insults, and his curses all died on his lips.
Lincoln glared at him with those dark, hooded eyes as if he were seeing right through all of his shit.
Maybe it was his inebriation, but none of his defenses were activating, leaving him vulnerable to Lincoln’s will.
“I don’t want—”
Uncalloused fingertips cupped his jaw, causing his protest to die unspoken.
“You like to wear masks, don’t you, Detective?”
“What?” he slurred.
“You were wearing one when we met, and you had it on at the station.”
Lincoln inched forward until their chests met, and Sharpe was sure he could feel his heart beating a drum solo behind his ribs.
“I almost didn’t notice it. You threw me way off my game, Sharpe.”
He locked his frown in place as Lincoln slowly pulled his hand away and slid a black business card into his inside jacket pocket, his knuckles brushing his right nipple.
“I’ll see you tonight, Detective.”
Lincoln’s whiskey-brown glare bore into him and filleted him where he stood.
“Come to me tonight, Channing.”
Lincoln left him there in the dark, pressed to the graffiti-riddled wall with a baffled look on his face, hard nipples, and a throbbing cock.
He waited until he heard the cowbell ding over the front door to the bar and a motorcycle engine roar to life before he slid down the wall and buried his head in his hands.
It took him a while, but he eventually pulled the card from his pocket and read the embossed gold lettering.
Belladonna Masquerade Ball.
If Sharpe got his ass up now and got moving, he’d have just enough time to sober up, take a shower, and get to that big-ass house by nine.
But he wasn’t going for Lincoln. He was going to snoop, investigate. He had an invitation now, and he wasn’t passing up the opportunity. That was what he told himself as he paid his tab, went outside, and waved down a cab.
This is all about police work. Nothing more. I don’t need anything Lincoln or Belladonna has to offer.
Season 2, Episode 1
A Gentleman’s Masquerade
Belladonna Mansion
Ballroom
Virginia Beach Oceanfront
February 1st, 11:35 p.m.
Thorn stood on the landing with his champagne flute raised in a toast.
“I want to thank all of you for another amazing masquerade! Was this a magical night, or what?”
Thorn waited for the cheers and whoops to die down. His men looked regal in their gold masks and black-on-black tuxes. Their guests had come up with some pretty elaborate masks that were the showpieces of the evening.
“The night is still young. Continue to eat, drink, and love!”
Thorn raised his glass one last time while keeping his eyes on the man at the back of the room with the royal-blue mask.
After the raucous cheers died down, Thorn descended the stairs. He accepted hugs and congratulations on another successful event.
The band—Casey had interviewed and selected them—began to play a romantic melody of soft music, and the dancefloor quickly filled up.
Arnold was already waiting at the foot of the staircase, standing tall and proud, but not arrogant, in his immaculate tuxedo.
His mask was black lacquer, cut sharp at the edges with a silver filigree design that caught the light when he tilted his head.
Thorn had chosen Arnold to come to Belladonna as a gentleman after several days of investigation.
He was referred by a prior trusted gentleman who ran his own fitness center and had told Thorn that Arnold was known to favor men of substance, men with breadth and bulk.
Men like Jonah.
Thorn searched the ballroom until he found Jonah—in the same place he’d been all night—half-hidden in the far corner, farthest from the buffet tables.
His tux fit him well. Thorn had sent him to his own tailor, who worked wonders with Jonah’s broad frame, but he still had his head bowed, eyes on the floor, as if it’d make him invisible.
He hadn’t danced, hadn’t mingled, and Thorn was certain he hadn’t eaten a single thing, no matter how many trays of food floated past him.
Thorn’s heart ached with both affection and frustration.
Jonah had lived in the mansion for almost a month, yet still refused to come out of his room until he was confident everyone was asleep.
Tonight, he meant to change that.
The masquerade existed for the timid and uncertain, the men who hadn’t yet found the courage to show their faces.
“Jonah,” Thorn called over the music.
Jonah started, shoulders stiffening before he crossed the room. Even beneath his mask, his hands fidgeted at his sides, and his gaze shot downward any time someone looked his way.