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)
But it wasn’t the outfit that gripped Galan—it was his presence.
The way Casey swept the room as if he owned it. The way he stood with four men flanking him, each carrying themselves like they knew exactly who they were.
“‘Joining us’ would imply that you and the Sir were having a mutually enjoyable conversation. That doesn’t appear to be the case.”
Damn, this guy has balls. And who talks like that?
The man had a no-nonsense set to his smooth jaw, his authoritative presence the only hard thing about him. Everything else—his compact frame, that sexy platinum-blond hair, and those pink bow lips—were all soft curves.
“I was just telling the Sir how nice it is to see him back in the club.”
“And now that you have, enjoy the rest of your evening, Shiloh.”
Casey raised a confident brow and motioned with his head in the opposite direction, indicating Shiloh should be on his fucking way—now.
The irritation was evident, but Shiloh obeyed and backed away from the bar, taking his overpowering cologne and cheap advances with him.
A round of applause kept everyone’s attention on the masterful display of roping being performed on stage, but Galan was gazing at something far more spectacular.
Casey stared at him for three full seconds before he slowly lowered his lashes over pale-blue eyes, laced his fingers behind his back, and rested his gaze on Galan’s throat.
The boy smelled of powder and sugar, soft, sweet, and clean—delicate. But there was steel beneath that silk. And it called to him.
Galan groaned under his breath as something inside him shifted.
He hadn’t seen Casey in The Kingdom before tonight, though he appeared to be well-known…and respected.
Two of the men who stood behind Casey wore collars—meaning they were contracted by another Dom—and to Galan’s surprise, the other two, including their leader, were not.
“Enjoy your evening, Sir.”
Before Galan could gather himself and ask Casey to join him, he’d already turned on the heels of his brown snakeskin boots and walked away with his entourage following.
Heads turned and men tried to get their attention when they passed, but they never broke formation.
Galan rubbed his hand over his full beard, baffled at how fast his heart was racing. Need and desire sputtered back to life as pleasure pooled in his groin.
“Compliments of the gentlemen.”
Galan blinked, surprised to find that one of Casey’s friends had doubled back and was extending an embossed black card toward him.
There was an oceanfront address, date and time printed on the back and a single word written in shimmering gold script on the front.
Belladonna
Pier Fortune Bar and Restaurant
1400 Atlantic Avenue,
Virginia Beach Oceanfront
Friday, 11:05 p.m.
Lucas didn’t know where the hell Oliver had disappeared to—no doubt locked in one of his “urgent calls”—but he was done waiting for him.
He tossed his card onto the bar, irritation coiling in his chest. Oliver had begged him to come out tonight and was left alone…with the bill.
He drained the last of his imported beer, savoring the bitterness, when a sudden burst of raised voices pierced the low hum of the restaurant.
A man dressed in a dark-gray suit came behind the bar and snatched the cordless phone from its cradle.
“What’s going on over there?” the bartender asked, craning around Lucas’s shoulder.
“Hell if I know.” The manager grumbled, rocking from side to side. “Some guy is harassing a customer and won’t leave. He’s getting more and more belligerent.”
“Who are you calling?” another server asked.
“The police, who else?”
Now it was really time for him to go.
Lucas didn’t waver when he got off the stool. He hated how much his alcohol tolerance had increased over the past few months.
Lucas almost cleared the bar area and was only a few feet from the door when he saw him.
A dark-haired man in an expensive black suit was trapped inside a booth with a man the size of a pro wrestler.
The hostile man’s tone elevated to the point it couldn’t be ignored. So much so that Lucas could hear the stinging insults he hurled at the man beside him with total disregard for the audience they had.
“I see you’re here alone,” the man scoffed, hard enough that spittle landed on his chin. “Of course you are. Your heart’s a goddamn titanium vault.”
The man’s jaw tightened with what he assumed was humiliation, as if the words—insults—were cutting him deep.
It was an expression Lucas recognized well.
It was the same way he looked when he stood in front of a mirror.
Something in him stalled, then shifted, and before he knew it, he was taking long strides across the linoleum floor.
The dark one’s lashes lowered, but not before Lucas caught the pain simmering there. His eyes—deep, glistening—lifted and locked on to Lucas’s, a silent plea between them.
Lucas moved faster, gravitating toward the expression of misery and fear.
“Evan, you’re high, you need to leave or let me out, right now,” the dark one hissed under his breath, his voice low, raw, roughened by strain.