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 will,” Axel said and left out the back door with his arms full of bags.
“What the fuck was that about…? And what was that gibberish?”
“Axel is a poet.”
“A poet? Seriously?”
Lincoln smiled, nodding. “He has a master’s in creative writing with a specialization in nineteenth-century poetry.”
Sharped frowned. “Who the fuck spends that kinda money for a poetry degree?”
“Perhaps don’t worry about his financial decisions and reflect on the words he recited when he looked into your eyes, Sharpe.”
He got lost for a moment in the calming tenor of Lincoln’s voice and the obvious attraction in his eyes.
A so-called gentleman with the abilities of a black widow. A power to lure innocent prey into its fatal clutches.
“Have you seen anything amiss yet, Detective?” Lincoln asked.
Sharpe’s goddamn cock jerked hard enough to make him flinch.
He shook his head like an idiot, unable to speak.
“Then we keep going.”
Lincoln nodded to follow him out of the kitchen into a wide hall with adjoining rooms on each side. He didn’t have much time to peek into them and keep up with Lincoln’s long strides.
There was a cleaning crew in a part of the mansion that he supposed was the ballroom.
It appeared he’d missed one fancy-ass party.
The confetti covering the floor and countless gold and black balloons were borderline overkill, in his opinion.
Lincoln came to a sudden stop in the middle of the dancefloor, and Sharpe had to pull up fast to keep from plowing into him.
“What the fuck?”
“Apologies,” Lincoln damn near purred.
Sharpe’s dick thickened in his tight jeans, and he just resisted pressing his palm into it.
Lincoln turned around, putting them chest to chest.
He tossed his mask to the side and ran his slim fingers through his loose blond curls.
Sharpe tried to turn away, but it was pointless. Lincoln knew how to keep his attention exactly where he wanted it.
He grunted at the realization he was already trapped in Lincoln’s clutches.
“Do you like to dance, Detective?” Lincoln stood a couple of inches taller than him, his mouth too close, his breath hot on his lips.
Sharpe bristled. “No.”
Lincoln inched back and narrowed his eyes. “You mean to tell me you don’t let loose at the annual police ball? Do they still have those?”
Sharpe removed all emotion or feeling from his tone. “I wouldn’t know because I don’t care.”
“Couldn’t find a date?”
If Lincoln hadn’t looked so serious, he’d swear he was teasing him.
“No interest.”
“Or you can’t dance.”
“What?” Sharpe was usually quicker than this, but not around Lincoln.
He was standing so close he had to bite his lip, hold his breath…anything to slow his pulse.
“You know…dancing.” Lincoln bent his knees and swayed his hips in a way that brushed their pelvises together, and Sharpe bit down harder. Lincoln’s bulge was more solid than his own.
Lincoln growled low and hot against the shell of his ear. “Like the cha-cha, salsa, or…maybe you prefer dirty dancing.”
I’m screwed.
“Fuck off,” was his intelligent response.
Lincoln didn’t move away, and neither did he.
“Your smell entices me, Detective.” Lincoln bowed his head, his voice ten octaves lower.
The world around Sharpe froze. He wanted Lincoln so damn bad, but something still felt off. Lincoln was a walking porno, and as much as Sharpe wanted to hate him for that, it was only pulling him closer.
“I know that expression, Sharpe…behind your mask.”
“Fuck. Off,” he snarled.
Sharpe wasn’t used to being reduced to the same two-word answer, but Lincoln had his body under his control, and his mind shifted to everything but investigative work.
It was a result of him denying himself pleasure for far too long.
Lincoln licked his lips as if Sharpe’s anger tasted delicious.
To his horror, he was the one who retreated first. He turned in a circle, looking up and down the walls as if he were suddenly interested in the architecture.
He’d had no other choice. He couldn’t breathe.
He had a well-constructed wall erected around his heart, and Lincoln was searching for the cracks.
“Would you like to see where the orgies are held, Detective? Or do you want the tour of the sex dungeons? The hooker drive-thru is on the eastern lot. That’s always busiest this time of night.” Lincoln tapped his chin as if he were thinking hard. “Let’s head over to the south lawn first so you can take a look at our pit bull fighting rings. It’s where most of our revenue comes from…that and the meth lab.”
Sharpe gritted his jaw at Lincoln’s grin.
Sexy fucking, irritating-ass son of a bi—
“Step lively, Sharpe. Crime waits for no man.”
Lincoln had put half the ballroom between them before Sharpe even blinked himself back to reality. Scowling, he shook his head and hurried after him.
After walking down another long hallway, Sharpe realized he was being led to the front of the house…where he and Lincoln first met.
He knew he should hightail it out of Belladonna because, right now, the last thing he was doing was recon.