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She’s no witless Janey E., that’s for sure.
One opens her legs and makes a fortune selling videotapes to the mass market; the other is an ice queen.
Doesn’t let anyone get close enough to see the real her.
Doesn’t let anyone between her legs—or at least, if she does, her conquests don’t talk about it after the fact.
And she doesn’t let anyone go unscathed by her journalistic prowess once she’s decided she doesn’t like them.
Though, in my defense, I have no clue what I did to upset Little-Miss-Newspapers.
Bringing my glass up and taking a sip of rich Okinawa whiskey, I keep my eyes locked on the goddess who does the weird cheek-kissing shit those at society parties insist on exchanging.Hello, darling. Suck my clit and beg me to like you.
Blah, blah, fuckin blah.
A dude in a black suit and tails makes music behind a massive grand piano, and a chandelier somewhat similar to another I destroyed earlier this year sparkles from the thirty-foot ceiling. Glass surrounds us, offering a dazzling view of the richest streets of New York City.
But even with all of that going on, all eyes remain on Christabellefuck-my-assCannon.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. The world outside this room stillexisting. My brothers, safely tucked in their homes. My life, chugging along.
Except for that nasty little detail of Ms. Cannon running a story on Archer’s life.
He and Minka are off-limits, in my book. Don’t fucking touch. And yet, this morning’s rag came with a picture ofthem. A cutesy story of the homicide cop married to a medical examiner.
It could’ve been a decent piece, if not for the ‘Is Archer Malone using his badge and powers to turn a city black?’ bullshit.
I mean, maybe he is. Maybe he twists things a little and solves a case how he sees fit. Perhaps he does favors for his friends and reports things with a slight Malone flavor. But fuck, whatever he does, it’s of no concern to a spoiled princess with plump lips and too much time on her hands. He’s on the other side of the country.
On my side of the country, couples dance in the middle of the room. Diamonds glitter, and music tinkles like rain on an old tin roof. Men approach the woman in gold, drawn to her the way moths are drawn to light, and of course she takes her pick and offers him her hand.
This is her job, after all. Pretend to be likeable. Act and look and speak like the perfect duchess. She has a role to play, because if at any point she decides to exit the merry-go-round and quit the socialite life, all the money goes away with it.
Well… notall. I’m sure the Cannons have an excellent accountant who long ago moved a good portion of their money to keep it safe. And that portion is, undoubtedly, more than enough for them, their kids, and their kids’ kids to live off of without ever feeling the pinch of poverty.
Nevertheless, no rich man—or woman—ever stopped and said, ‘I think I have enough now.’
I sit at the bar and watch the heiress sway with her chosen partner, sipping my whiskey in silence. Just enough to wet my tongue. Not nearly enough to cloud my thinking or get me in trouble so I wind up dead before the night is over.
I’m not the only one who watches. Soldiers mingle throughout the party, strapped up enough to wage a war, but dressed so well, no untrained guest could pick them out of the crowd.
Eyes linger on me. Not only those of my men, but other guests, too,apparently done staring at Ms. Cannon and her luscious ass. Among the attendees, men try to spy me in the shadows, no doubt wondering iftheFelix Malone has actually come tonight, while women, even the hitched ones with a husband on their arm, look me up and down.
I’m thirty-four years old, in the prime of my life. Fuck knows, Timothy Malone destroyed us in both mind and body, but he also handed down DNA that turns heads when we enter a room. He passed on jawlines women salivate for, and shoulders all the ladies swoon over.
I’m not modest, nor do I hang all my value on vanity. But fuck it, I know I look good.
If Ms. Cannon won’t say nice things about me and my family, perhaps she’ll write about my thick cock nestled deep in her throat.
Tipping back the rest of my whiskey and setting the glass on the bar, I push away from my stool and start toward the center of the dancefloor.
I came here tonight for one reason only, and I’m not a man fond of wasting time. So I stalk toward the dancing couple, coming up behind Christabelle so she’s none the wiser.
When her dancing partner clocks me, his eyes widen, and his hand, previously settled on her hip, jumps away like he thinks I’m going to break it.
“What are you—” Christabelle becomes rigid in his arms, tilting her head to the side, oblivious to my presence right behind her. So when I take her hand from his and spin her around, slamming her to my chest and settling her pussy to straddle my thigh, she blurts out a squeak of surprise.
That surprise turns to terror the moment her eyes lock on to mine.
