Hard As Stone (Beautiful Betrayal Book 1) (9 page)

Good God, I want to. “Please,” I moan, blinking as I regard him.

Without giving me a chance to reconsider, he kisses my mouth harder this time. He’s a little rough. Not too much, but delivers the kind of kiss that relays, without argument, he’s in control. Plunging his tongue into my mouth, he tastes of whiskey and sin, hot and consuming.

Tingles race from my breasts to my toes, from my mouth to between my legs. This man gives me a sample of what he could do, if he desired to do more. And that’s what I hunger for:
m-o-r-e
.

I crave his hands on my body, stormier than the edge of this kiss, and equally demanding. I arch against him as he holds my face, tongue banging my mouth. Our hips connect and the rigid bar of his erection presses into my belly. Seeking to get closer, I rise onto my tiptoes like heated ether. From devouring my mouth, he stops and drags his warm lips along my jaw as my breasts ache for his touch. I reach for him and he responds by hoisting my hands above my head.

“Are you as innocent as you look?” he whispers.

“Are you as seductive as you sound?” I taunt him.

He rakes his smoldering gaze from my face to my chest. “Affirmative. The things we could do. If you gave yourself to me.” He’s the perfect combination of cocky and gorgeous, pinning me to a wall in a dim hall.

“
If
?” I’m hooked by what he’s done so far.

“There’s a price tag. You’d have to agree that I’m in charge. Ever been owned for a night?”

I’m all ears, mouth, and ready. “Why not show me,” I toss out the challenge. Heaven help me but I’m ready to make a pack with the devil. And without a doubt, I’m sure he’s the devil’s agent.

Orion releases my arms and spins me around, recapturing my hands. “Are you sure?”

I gaze over my shoulder and meet his enigmatic eyes. A ripple of excitement bursts in my chests and my nipples tighten. “Need a written statement?”

He stiffens as if I’ve called his bluff. His large hand journeys to my hip and grips me. “Darlin’, that isn’t an answer.” He scrapes his jaw against my cheek as though punishing me for not giving him a direct answer. The dominating feel of him is so eviscerating, so bracing, I tilt my bottom, intoxicated by his masculinity. He tugs my hips, fitting me against his sculpted body.

I’m branded by the outline of his erection. Pure lust rivers into my core. I can’t help myself as I throw more fuel on this firestorm between us. “You seem to like a woman who isn’t a total pushover.”

“Depends.” He nips my skin. Unhurried, he trails his lips to my neck, sucking a point that has my eyes rolling back in my head. He pulls me closer, securing me against the front of him and I moan.

Flush to his rock-hard body, I tell him, “I can take whatever you have in store.”

His mouth moves to my ear. “Do you have any clue what you’re asking for?” He presses my palms to the wall. Without stopping, he taps my heels apart. Bending over me, he palms my derriere as his thumbs peel apart my cheeks.

My heart is hammering and my mind is racing. I should admit, I’ve bit off more than I can screw.
Shush!
I mute my indecision; tonight is about primal instinct. “If it’s anything like you’ve done so far, I’m game.”

In an ear-popping club, I decide this is my moment of flying by the seat of my pants, past the land of pastel pleasantries. I push back, swaying my keister against the column of steel in his trousers. Flexing, I ride a wave of unbridled need. He presses forward. His fingers curl possessively around my hips as he grazes his hardness right where I need him. We’re two seconds away from moving beyond dry humping to full-throttle sex in public.

His cell buzzes and he apologizes. “I’ve got to take this.” His hot breath caresses my shoulder. “That was some kiss. I’ve broken my promise. Not something I routinely do.”

Even with the music rebounding off the walls, I feel each baritone syllable he utters. A sultry reverberation like rough velvet grazes my skin. “I’m not complaining.” Actually, I’m stunned as I pivot toward him. My goosebumps have goosebumps. I watch as he removes his phone from his pocket.

The screen is lit and he hisses, “Shit. Another bombing.”

“What! Where?”

He shows me his cell and I gasp.
Oh my God!

A low growl escapes his lips. “I’ve got to go.” Something sharp and determined has replaced the white-hot smolder in his eyes.

I’ve met that driven expression before.
Business.
He bends forward, kisses my mouth and I get it.
One last time
. My breath hitches as I slant forward, wishing to elongate this moment into a week. I throw my arms around his neck. I don’t care! Crushing my breasts to his chest, I plant my lips against his in a sweet hungry kiss. Then less with a lingering mouth-to-mouth of his warm lips against mine. Too soon, I release him and he steps back as well.

In a steely rasp, he says, “I’ll walk you back to your friends.”

“My friends?” Clearly this is an ending. In the wake of another bombing, I get how unsettling the news is, yet a small part of me doesn’t understand.
Was I too crazy? Too easy? Not enough?
My cheeks heat from embarrassment.

Raking a set of long fingers through his dark hair, he gazes down at me with that same unrelenting stare that first grabbed my attention. “You didn’t come alone. Did you?”

Almost so it seems. “Of course not, and no worries.”
Thrumming through my awareness: no more strong hands holding my hips.
No more tongue or lips.
Only a few paltry words
.
Jesus, am I selfish or what?

“You’re incredible,” he finally says, running his knuckle along my jaw. “If my schedule wasn’t so hectic, I’d ask for your number.”

I’m swathed by the edge to his Southern accent and I shiver. For a beat, he regards me as if he wants to say more. He doesn’t ask and I don’t offer. No way am I going to push myself off on another man. And the ensuing awkward silence is louder than the techno song in play. He lets his gaze slide down my body as I’m holding my hands over my stomach, staunching the butterflies in midflight.

“You’re leaving?” The words spill from my mouth before I can censor out the note of longing as not cool—don’t say.

“I am. Just stopped in for a drink. A friend’s birthday, and now it looks like I’ll be up all night. Given the havoc infecting the rest of the world, this isn’t the moment to make a mistake.”

A mistake?
My heart hammers in my chest. I stiffen as if he’s tossed ice water in my face. No longer are butterflies housed in my stomach but a swarm of stinging angry wasps. My face flushes red and I quickly glance down the hall. From years of practice, anger smacks a hot button in my psyche. I don’t snap. I sheath myself in a protective cocoon as I pierce my palms with my fingernails. The pain gives me a place to focus and into the void I return to the land of autopilot—devolving to how I am around my family. Ice on the outside and I draw out every iota of willpower I possess, affixing my mask in place. Only then do I shift my gaze and face Orion.

I look up and into his eyes—predator like and heavy-lidded—and
I’m once
again stripped bare. From deep in my core, I sense the barely controlled power in this man. I hear myself say, “It’s been some night, but I better get going, too.”

He says something, but my thoughts whirl. As if I’m swinging on a pendulum, I struggle to catch my breath. Snatches of his words echo. If I don’t leave, I’ll say something incredibly stupid. I order myself to walk away. In his presence, I’m naked and the alarm bells trill louder. It’s time to go!

Every atom in me shouts to bolt. Fisting my hands, I press my nails into my palms but I can’t feel the pain. It’s outclassed by the shard of longing piercing my ribs.
X, stop!
With this much power, he’s dangerous with a capital ‘D.’ Whoever Orion is, I should be glad this is the end of our short-lived meet up. That’s what I tell myself over and over as I turn on my heel, away from his arresting face.

Away from his unrelenting gaze.

Away from the hottest mistake of my soon to be long-gone pastel-colored life.

Atticus Stone~
Black Swan Theory

Thirty minutes ago.

“YOUR FRIEND’S FUNERAL is tomorrow,” Kurt says in a low voice as the others at our table are trading bets on the upcoming Nick’s game. His hawklike stare is unrelenting and I understand immediately some fuckery is in play.

“Who?” I grit out.

“Bloomberg,” he replies by way of his cell and the obituary displayed.

I scan the facts.
The judge hung himself. Found by the housekeeper in his basement…

“That’s a bitch,” I say under my breath and slide his phone across the table. It’s more than a bitch. As The Saint’s facilitator, Bloomberg was responsible for paving the way for my uncle’s reemergence by bribing or denoting who required strong-arm tactics. In commissions, the judge was paid handsomely.

Kurt frowns. “And not what it seems. I just sent you the coroner’s report. Before it was buried.”

Digging out my burner, I enter the dark web and login to a Sigaint account. I scroll for the message and rapidly read the contents before I delete it. “How sure are you the report is accurate?”

Leaning to the side of the table, he watches the others in our party and whispers, “I personally visited the morgue. No one slices their own neck, to the point of nearly severing the head.”

“Copy that.”

“Any instructions?” His brow tautens and I nod.

“Sit tight.”

Only Kurt is off the books and we’re running our own game in covering each other’s back in a way that can’t be discussed out in the open. Congressman Kurt Sheppard from New Jersey and I see eye-to-eye. When the Russian cartel infiltrated the hockey team Kurt played for, he was thrust into politics like me in a sink-or-swim offer. Except he and I refuse to be pawns.

Jax slants over and asks, “What’s got you keyed up?”

I need a goddamn cover and I need one now. I do a double take, swinging my gaze back to the dance floor.
Who’s that girl?
It’s as if a stick of dynamite goes off in my head. There’s something so familiar about her—but my brain fulminates. Whatever I might’ve begun to plot for a CYA disintegrates.

Kurt interjects, “Fuckable. Six o’clock.”

I train my focus on the two women across the aisle draped over an acquaintance. “They belong to Miles. Good luck with those two,” I reply, steeling my reaction to the Bloomberg news.

“Unless you’ve got an Oscar up your sleeve. McCarthy’s fan club is growing in leaps and bounds,” Jax mocks and turns away, placing an order for a bottle.

Kurt’s attention shifts to the dance floor then back to me as if in question yet he remains silent.

“As you were saying.” I drum my fingers on the table, considering options.

“Those types are out of our league,” Kurt returns and I shrug.

If he’s referring to the sold-our-souls-league, no argument, he’s right.

“You in?” Noah asks. “Last chance. I’ve got the Celtics 2-to-1?”

“Not my game.” I should channel my focus to Noah’s basketball pool but I don’t. Out on the dance floor I zero in on the woman who I almost used as a CYA and it’s as if I’m caught, unable to look away. I eat her up, inch by incredible mind-blistering, dick hardening inch. What’s not to like? Not a damn thing except Kurt nailed it. She isn’t my usual dish. She’s a shade of innocent someone like me should never touch.

And she’s a blonde
. Skin too pale. Too easy to mark. I’m an ‘ass’ man and normally go for brunettes with lush hips and small tits. This girl’s got something visceral that ensnares my concentration. I train my focus on her face and find myself at a loss. Those ice-blue eyes of hers should come with a warning. Across a crowded club, I absorb the hazard factor of her intoxicating gaze. All at once cool and collected while imparting a searing burn. Ice Princess struts on long, toned legs like a Vegas showgirl and the way she rocks her hips is stupefying. I’ve had zero lap dances in my life, but that little minx sorely tempts me to try one out if she’s up to the task.

On the dance floor, she doesn’t disappoint. Intrigued, I watch, sipping my drink as she dances, swathed in colorful light and splotches of shadow. Her nipples dart the sheer shiny material of her dress that stretches over her round breasts. She pivots as if reading my mind and I enjoy a 360-degree view. Mystery girl is braless and has my full attention. Free of being encumbered, she’s got the type of lush tits I could suck and slide my shaft between for hours. But it’s not just her body, her expression and the way she moves warrant a closer inspection if I wasn’t here on official business. Some indefinable quality about her screams a secret verse that only my cock seems to hear.

On that note, I decide this captivation has got to stop.
Shifting in my chair, I feign interest in the conversation between Kurt, Noah, Jax, and Ethan. My underground business partners and congressional associates from the Capitol—they’re engaged in another argument on foreign policy after the Syrian airstrike. But for the hundredth time, I find myself gazing at a woman who dances as if she’s in a dream.
Mine.

Jax smacks me on the back. “Tuck, you in for a shot?”

I return my focus to our table. “To wish your sorry ass happy birthday, hell yeah.”

The server smiles and places a bottle of bourbon and glasses on the table. We all do a shot and then follow with another. Afterwards, I glance back at the dance floor just as the girl opens her phenomenal eyes and our gazes connect. It’s an adrenaline torpedo to my senses and my heartbeat sprints. I lift my drink and study her. Every last thing about the girl reaches inside me and demands that I get hold of her soon
.

Jax guffaws and says something about Patricia Ryan’s last media blitz and asks my reaction.

“Foot in mouth. But according to the polls, it works,” I retort about the Veep. It’s my standard answer when asked about any of the potential candidates, especially to these asswipes I call my Hill friends.

Don’t get me wrong. We’re close, but I trust no one. Not even Vince, who is positioned at the bar on lookout and my unofficial muscle. He’s bending the ear of some girl but our gazes intersect. He signals an ‘all clear.’