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)
The tension between the four of them was thick enough to stifle him.
“But hey, if I had a team of twenty lawyers to cover up my shit, I’d be at a party too.” Sharpe cocked his head at Thorn. “About to get balls deep in a tight—”
“Channing!” Lincoln snapped.
To his surprise, Sharpe closed his mouth.
Lincoln got in front of him, blocking the detective’s view. He placed his palm against the back of Sharpe’s neck and pulled him close enough to whisper in his ear.
Sharpe’s body tensed all over at whatever Lincoln was saying, and Lucas used the distraction to make their escape.
Belladonna Mansion
Virginia Beach Oceanfront
February 2nd, 12:59 a.m.
Lincoln’s hand was a branding iron on the back of his neck, the heat of his palm searing into his skin. His lips brushed his jaw when he whispered, voice husky, stern in its softness.
“Channing, stay with me.”
Sharpe’s chest heaved once, hard, betraying the storm brewing inside him.
He caught the blur of Thorn and Lucas disappearing up the stairs, but he couldn’t focus on them—not with Lincoln’s mouth so close, stealing his concentration, infusing heat into his bloodstream like a slow-acting drug.
“Keep that anger on me,” Lincoln murmured, his sensual words laced with dominance. “Give it to me. Let me have it.”
His breath caressed him, then his lips were there against his pulse—soft and careful, just enough to make him want.
His body tensed at the unusual ache, low and brutal in his gut.
It had to be a distraction, a game, a con. Something to unsteady him and throw him off his uncompromising track.
Sharpe had been in interrogation rooms where suspects tried every trick in the book—tears, rage, charm—but never this. No one had ever undone him with body heat and reverence.
Lincoln’s grip tightened when he tried to pull away, voice going low and coaxing. “Don’t fight, Channing. Don’t fight me.”
Sharpe’s head felt fuzzy, logic slipping through his grasp. The scent of Lincoln—red wine, expensive cologne, and male bravado—wrapped around him like a trap.
His cock was straining, throat dry, every inch of him screaming to give in.
Then the louder, meaner voice in his head broke through, the one that never shut up. No one stays with you. No one fights for you. He’ll walk away in the end, just like all the rest.
He shoved back, breathing hard, eyes burning with something he was too embarrassed to name.
Distance. He needed distance.
Lincoln stood there, infuriatingly calm, as if he’d known just how close he’d gotten.
Sharpe shook his head once, retreating a step, then another.
His voice was rough and menacing in his mind.
He wanted Lincoln so damn bad. And wanting meant weakness. Wanting meant losing.
I won’t do this shit again. No fuckin’ way.
So, he did the one thing he knew how to do.
He turned, locked his spine tight, walked away, and didn’t look back.
He wasn’t a coward or a runner. He just couldn’t survive being gutted again.
The second he slid behind the wheel of his unmarked Dodge, Sharpe slammed the door so hard the frame rattled. His hands were trembling, and that pissed him off more.
“Fuck!” he roared.
He punched the steering wheel once, then again. Harder and harder until the horn blared in protest.
He was breathing hard, sweat running down his temples despite the winter chill seeping in through the glass.
What the hell is wrong with you? You should’ve never gone.
He gritted his teeth, pounding both palms on the wheel.
Lincoln’s touch still branded his skin, his lips still grazing his jaw, his words replaying like a goddamn broken record: “Give it to me. Don’t fight me.”
He squeezed his eyes shut as he dropped his head back against the seat.
He’d spent his entire career—life—mastering control. And then one smug, sharp-tongued bastard walked in, and suddenly, control was a foreign fucking language.
“Goddamn it.” He hit the wheel again, his teeth grinding so hard his jaw ached.
Wanting Lincoln was dangerous. Worse than dangerous—it was fatal. Because he knew how this story ended. People didn’t stay in his life. Not his mom and dad. Not his foster parents. Not his partners. Not the few lovers who’d taken a chance and braved his rough edges.
They all ended up leaving him with nothing but wreckage.
And Lincoln? Lincoln was the biggest temptation he’d ever had to refuse.
But he knew he was too gorgeous, arrogant, too goddamn persistent.
He’d tear down his walls just to see if he could, and when he’d been victorious, Sharpe was terrified of what inevitably came next.
Heartache.
He took a deep breath, counted to five, then let it out slowly—just as the department’s therapist instructed—he continued to do that until his breathing slowed.
He started his car and drove away from the oceanfront, back to the other side of the city where he belonged.
His chest still burned with vulnerability, but he shoved it down where it belonged and locked it in a place where it’d never see the light of day again.