Page 8 of Gilded Desires

“I’m Belle.” I offer my hand. Calluses glide over smooth skin and for every inch of real estate he claims under his warm touch the hotter my insides turn.

What is this guy? A walking sex factory? He’s got the looks, the voice, and the strong grip made for a woman’s body.

Strong fingers wrap around my hand, and he gives a light squeeze. He’s holding back on his grip but the way his eyes devour my mouth and cleavage is a whole other story.

He drops my hand and steps back for me to enter. The room is painted in black—shocker—with gold accentedeverything.From the high-hanging chandelier to the gold light fixtures on the walls. Even the elegant floral design etched into the walls. If it’s not black, it’s gold. Even the large desk taking up a large portion of the back half of the office matches the decor.

My gaze zeroes in the sexy cowboy and I nearly fall back from the intensity in the dark pools when our eyes connect. I lick my suddenly dry lips. My dress suddenly feels like way too much clothing, and I find myself wondering if his lips are as kissable as they look.

Some days I wish I was the good girl. Meek and mousy. But nope. Not me. I’m full steam ahead and doubting myself is rarely the norm.

“This way.”

Today is one of those times I wish I could stop myself from being so eager to get into trouble. I guess it doesn’t matter. I don’t have time to stop and ask questions as I follow.

Two

Belle

Being the sister to a mafia king has its pros and cons.

Pro: getting out of a traffic ticket with a simple name drop because the chief of police is taking money under the table from my brother.

Con: the five stone-faced bodyguards my brother insists I keep with me at all times.

I bet you already know how many times I’ve had a man in my adult life.

Z.E.R.O.

I’m changing that today. But first I have to ditch my clingy security detail. Seriously, all five of the black suits stick like Gorilla Glue on my ass.

I’m sorta impressed they’ve kept up with me through Chicago’s lunchtime traffic.

I tuck today’s newspaper under my arm and slide into a cute boutique selling everything from high-end shoes to lipstick andvibrators if you know where to look for discreet options. And I do. Between you and me, I might know where the vibrator selections are because Imighthave bought one in every color since my brother slipped a black credit card into my stocking two Christmases back.

I look toward the back and spot exactly what I need to pull off a little magic trick.

I tap the shoulder of a girl about my age. She’s slender, wears leather pants like they are painted on, and gives me a serious case of envy with how good her ass looks in black. “Excuse me, miss?” The chick turns bright eyes my way.

Wow. Seriousin need of sugar daddy vibespour off her in bucket loads. I’m not sure if it’s the baby doll T-shirt or the cherry candy-colored lip gloss, or the pigtails that make me think her nights are spent loving on a silver fox’s dick. Could be the combo effect.

I give her a sincere smile and lean in a little as if to whisper a secret. She does the same and it’s like we’ve been besties since kindergarten.

“I was wondering if you could help me. I wanna surprise my boyfriend. Give him a taste of something…I don’t know. Maybe brunette? I like the long black-haired piece too. I’m thinking we could use a little spice.” I finger the ends of my honey-colored hair and her pretty-in-pink smile turns sensual.

I let a slow smile glide over my lips. The one I use on just about anyone to get what I want. The black credit card I pull out does the rest of the talking to get her moving faster. I take a quick look over my shoulder when the bell goes off over the front door.

Eyes covered in dark aviators seem to locate me quickly.

“All is cool here.” I give a cute, innocent wave he seems to buy. Dumb ass. Money might buy brawns but never brains.

My detail gives me a curt nod like his life depends on my safety—which it does—and slips out to stand at the door Secret Service style. The four other goons aren’t far behind him.

“Sorry about that.”

My attendant waves off the exchange. “I think I can help you. I’m Nyx, by the way.” Her voice is cool, rough around the edges and I don’t mean to judge but there’s no way a man’s dick isn’t affected by the way she sways those hips with each step as I follow her toward the back.

“Thank you, Nyx. That black-haired wig. Do you think you could help me slide into it? Oh, and that dress.” I point to a pretty black number with an impossibly low-cut front and no sleeves. She peers at me with one of those over-the-shoulder gazes that says she doesn’t buy my lame story for a second, but she wisely doesn’t ask questions. Bless her. I don’t know how to explain I’m a mafia princess trying to outrun my security detail without sounding pompous or like I belong behind bars.

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