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)
Holy-fucking-hell.
Where had Casey been all his life? Someone sweet, selflessly submissive, and cultured, but most of all, someone who would reciprocate his affection. Or at a minimum, appreciate it.
Galan unbuttoned his suit jacket as Casey’s lustful gaze roamed over his chest. He shrugged it off his shoulders, never breaking eye contact, and draped it over the piano.
Casey wet his lips when he unfastened the first three buttons of his dress shirt and eliminated the last inches of space between them. He placed his hands on Casey’s shoulders before moving them up his long neck.
“Put your arms around me, sweet boy.”
Casey’s eyes shone with unguarded emotion as he wrapped his arms around Galan’s waist and squeezed him so tight and close he almost forgot to breathe.
He fit against him like the perfect piece of a puzzle. Casey pressed his cheek against his chest, whimpering softly as he rubbed his face over his pecs.
Galan returned the intensity, letting Casey know he felt it too.
Galan was solid and throbbing in his thin pants, and he could feel that Casey was in the same predicament, but he didn’t feel the need to do anything about it…yet.
Galan rested his chin on top of Casey’s head, inhaling the scent of vanilla while he stared out at the ocean.
He didn’t know how long they stayed wrapped in each other’s arms. Time seemed to slow in this place, and Casey didn’t appear to be close to letting him go anytime soon.
They had powerful chemistry. There was no denying that. Galan couldn’t hold in his satisfied groan as blunt fingertips dug into the muscles in his back.
Casey took a deep inhale as he began to tremble against him.
“Just a few more minutes, Sir. Please,” he begged.
Galan’s heart thudded.
After being discarded as if he were nothing, to be wanted this desperately was almost too much.
No boy had ever clung to him this way. Casey wasn’t acting out of duty or performance. This was pure need.
Every Sir had his reward. For Galan, it wasn’t the obedience, the “Yes, Sir,” or the kneeling. It was this: his boy shaking in his arms, asking nothing more than to rest his cheek against his chest.
Thank you.
Galan was thanking every higher power there was that Belladonna was already working.
Now all he needed was Thorn to tell him where to sign.
Belladonna Mansion
Media Room
Virginia Beach Oceanfront
1:16 a.m.
Lincoln was tired of the silence of his condo, so he opted to relax in the media room to stay invisible and not interrupt anyone’s evening.
He used to be able to snuggle at night with Casey, but even he had a gentleman now.
“Ugh.” Lincoln kicked the heavy blanket off his legs.
He was happy for his friends, but Thorn had also promised someone for him, except again he hadn’t received a file this week.
Lincoln had a talent for mending hardened, angry hearts.
He was always given the men whose souls weren’t just shattered, but jagged, furious, and dangerous to touch.
He carried those men’s fury until they softened beneath his touch…and they always softened.
The gunfire on the TV had lulled him toward sleep, but the chime of the doorbell jolted him wide awake.
He glanced at his watch—da’fuc—no sane person should be visiting at this hour.
He rose slowly, fastening his shirt as he went toward the mansion foyer.
When he opened the door, a man and woman stood waiting and watching him with unnerving patience.
It wasn’t until the three-way stare-off became annoying that Lincoln gritted, “Can I help you? Are you lost? You look lost.”
The woman stood nearly eye to eye with his own six-foot height.
One side of her hair was colored moss-green and shaved close, while the other spilled into a cascade of multicolored dreadlocks that brushed her upper shoulder.
The pale canvas of her alabaster skin was inked with unique tribal designs, and her eyes, nose, ears, and lips were all punctuated with matte black Gothic piercings.
Her scuffed combat boots were laced over torn skinny jeans, emanating raw sex wrapped in renegade confidence.
If only Lincoln were into untamed goddesses…he wasn’t. Which was why his gaze snagged on the man at her side.
Holy fuck!
The goddess’s counterpart leaned casually against one of the stone pillars with his motorcycle boots crossed at the ankles and his arms over his chest.
He was everything Lincoln liked in a man: dark, silent, full of attitude, messy, unkempt hair, and a strong fuck-off vibe.
Lincoln always enjoyed a good challenge.
“Are you Thorn Blackwell?” The woman spoke up first.
She pulled a gleaming gold badge from her back pocket and held it out in front of her.
“No. I’m not.”
Lincoln was still watching her partner, who’d done little more than glare in his direction. But he didn’t miss the mystery in those dark eyes…or the interest before he glanced away.
Lincoln chuckled under his breath.
That half-second of recognition burned hotter than a drag of whiskey and carried the same bite—attraction hidden under scorn.