Page 159 of Powerhouse: Boxed Set
It should have filled me with shame, maybe, but it was desire I felt coiling low in my belly. I was hungry for that contrast, to take that pretty painted mouth and smear her lipstick across her cheeks with the head of my cock, to watch that mascara drip off her lashes as I forced myself into her throat. I wanted to mark her all over asmine, dirty her up with the blackness of my soul and see how far I could drag her into hell with me.
I was walking forward before I noticed what I was doing, my long legs making quick work of the stairs between us. There was no idea in my head of what I would do when I reached her, but suddenly face-to-face with her perfection, my body seemed to find an answer.
My tattooed hand at her throat where diamonds should have nested, my rose ink her only adornment, and then my mouth over hers, parting her lips like a sword through flesh.
Under my palm, she trembled.
I ate at her, the beast in me hungry, voracious for every inch of her mouth, the space behind her teeth, at the back of her tongue. She clung to my elbows as I held her still and took what I pleased.
When I finally pulled away, she was panting, her lipstick kissed off to reveal swollen lips made red by the scruff of the beard I hadn’t deigned to shave off.
A low growl of satisfaction rumbled through my chest before I could stop it.
And Bianca?
She caught the noise and offered me a tiny, tremulous smile as a reward for my possessiveness.
“You like it,” she guessed, recovering her sass enough to laugh at me with sparkling eyes.
I didn’t answer her because words would only give me away. Instead, I grabbed her hand and tugged her unceremoniously down the stairs. She giggled behind me, as if my rudeness was somehow charming.
I ground my teeth together.
Walcott, Ezra, Henrik, and Brando all stood together at the bottom of the staircase with matching shit-eating grins.
“You never kissed Mom like that,” Brando noted with all the candid awkwardness of a child.
I dropped Bianca’s hand like a hot coal and shot Brando a withering look, but he had already turned his attention to his sister, murmuring about how she looked like Wonder Woman, like an Amazonian princess.
“Here,” Walcott said quietly, pulling me away a few paces to press something into my hand.
It was a flat velvet box the same dark sapphire as Bianca’s eyes.
“No,” I said immediately, pushing back at him. “Absolutely not.”
“She’s representingyoutonight. The McTiernans, not the Morellis or the Constantines. She should look like the belle of the damn ball, T, not a pauper. Give it to her,” Walcott argued quietly but intractably, so the words wouldn’t reach Bianca’s ears.
He was usually the most good-natured of The Gentlemen, but today he was obstinate, jaw tensed around words carved from stone.
Fuck.
“What is it?” I muttered.
“Zelda McTiernan’s diamond locket,” he said, but I’d already known he would.
There was nothing else that would do for Bianca in that dress. Bianca on my arm.
For the ruined locket I’d stolen from her when she first arrived.
I scowled at him as I turned on my heel and went to her, tugging her away from my admiring thugs to pull her toward the door.
“Her coat!” Walcott called as I opened the door, letting the cool wind whip around our legs, stirring her feathers as if she were about to take flight.
I ignored him, pulling her by the wrist through the door, smiling wolfishly at the men inside the house as I slammed the door shut. The lion’s head rattled at me like an agitated animal.
“You seem…angrier than usual tonight,” Bianca ventured, more curious than afraid, the stupid girl.
I grunted, taking her hand again to lead her down the stairs to my Aston Martin Victor, its dark finish gleaming in the lamplight from the garden. It seemed more like Chiron’s morbid boat across the Styx than anything worthy of the fairy tale Walcott and Bianca seemed to think this night was.
