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 Axel…Axel was different.
Waylan ached at the mere thought of disappointing him. He couldn’t walk away from him or tell him no.
It was crazy, yet undeniable.
So he followed.
“I would’ve come earlier if I didn’t have an evening class.” Axel’s voice was soft—a sound he could listen to all day and night.
Waylan frowned, glancing down at him. “Class? You’re a student?”
“I teach high school during the day,” Axel said, almost sheepish, “and a technical writing course at the community college at night.”
Waylan blinked, thrown off. Axel wasn’t just some rich do-gooder—he actually worked, gave his time and his talent.
The thought left a strange ache in Waylan’s chest.
The farther they walked, the air grew cleaner, the sand softer under his boots. It was like stepping out of darkness and into light as Waylan’s mind stayed torn between dread and desperate hope.
“I’m still confused about what we’re doing,” he admitted at last.
Axel’s hand was warm in his, steadying him.
“You can take all the time you need,” he whispered, that poetic reverence never leaving him. “I’ll be right there with you the entire way.”
Waylan shut his eyes for a beat, trying to believe that.
He wasn’t conceited enough to think Axel was bringing him back just for sex, not when he could have any man he wanted.
Besides, Axel already said he’d have his own room, with a lock on the door protecting his privacy. But he couldn’t help the suspicion that gnawed at him.
“Why me?” Waylan muttered. “You could have anyone. You don’t have to go…slumming it.”
Axel stopped him with a firm squeeze of his arm.
“Don’t say that about yourself…don’t even think it,” Axel bit out.
Waylan huffed, his depressing humor leaking out. “What if I’m a serial killer, huh?”
Axel’s reply was quick and unwavering, “There’s no killing in your eyes.”
The conviction hit Waylan dead center in his core.
“But Thorn will want to meet you. It’ll be like an interview, to explain what Belladonna really is…and he’ll do a background check on you. It’s standard for anyone coming to the house.”
Waylan had no problem with the check…it was kind of reassuring.
They walked on in silence, Skid Row at their backs, the mansion lights just visible ahead.
And then…Axel slowed. His gaze flicked to the shadows at their side, and Waylan felt it too, cold fingers pressing along his back.
Without thinking, he shifted, pulling Axel against him, shielding him with his body.
The moment his instincts flared, a figure stepped out of the night. Dressed head to toe in dark clothes, face hidden, a gun gleaming in his grip.
Waylan’s heart slammed, but his legs stayed solid. He shoved Axel behind him, turning his body into a wall.
“What do you want?” Waylan demanded.
The stranger’s voice was rough, distorted, and dripping with hate.
“I want Belladonna. And the devil hiding behind its walls.”
Axel’s gasp was hot against the base of his neck.
“And the man behind you is going to get me inside.”
The gun stayed pointed at Axel’s forehead as the night seemed to pause and hold its breath.
End of Season Three Episode One
Season 3, Episode 2
Belladonna Mansion
Rear Grounds
Virginia Beach Oceanfront
February 17th, 10:40 p.m.
Soaking in a steaming hot tub in the dead of winter felt like surrendering his body to fire while the world froze around him.
His skin ignited from the heat while the sharp, icy air kissed every exposed inch of skin, creating a hypnotic tug-of-war. It was a strange kind of bliss, half burn and half chill, that kept him lightheaded, raw, and alive.
The water lapped around them, steam rising and veiling them in their sins. Sharpe looked lethal and gorgeous. His black chest hair was slick against his cut torso, droplets sliding down the ridges of muscle.
His eyes glowed darker at night, dangerous, brooding, his lips swollen from being claimed again and again.
He pulled Sharpe close—he still hadn’t had his fill—burying his face against that rough jaw.
The water was deep enough that he could lift and anchor Sharpe’s legs around his waist.
Sharpe’s naked body dragged over his with just enough grit to keep him inches from the edge of orgasm.
Sharpe grunted low, his head tipped back, letting him devour his throat.
Lincoln hovered his lips against his ear. “Stay with me tonight.”
The detective’s mouth was insatiable, returning to his again and again, as though he’d found a well he could never drink dry. Each kiss was bruising, demanding, and worshipful.
Lincoln let his angry detective have what he wanted. He’d never deny his stubborn, starving heart.
He pressed Sharpe back against the smooth edges of the rock, laying him out like a sacrifice as the water sloshed over the edge.
His own cock swelled and throbbed as he leaned over him, pushing the head of his cock against Sharpe’s tight, unyielding rim. Just the tip, teasing, dragging circles that made Sharpe snarl and push back as if daring him to breach him.
“If I had a condom and lube,” Lincoln groaned, rocking lazy and hard into him, “I’d have you bent over this fuckin’ wall already.”