Page 39 of Capricorn

“What makes you think I want to marry you?”

That stops me cold. Unwittingly, I glance at the woman in the paintings, shrinking under the display of her bondage.

“So you want to ruin me for whoever wins, is that it?”

“I’m not taking your virginity, Novalee. I’m only using it as my way-in. The men in this group appreciate rare commodities.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You and I will give them an exclusive show, leaving your virginity intact.”

“But…what do they get out of that?”

“Poetic irony. The act of defiling something so innocent while preserving your maidenhead.”

“Maidenhead?” I scoff. “What is this, the sixteenth century?”

“I don’t think they had Vance’s elixir back then.” His mouth curves into a sly grin. “You’ll be under the influence again. The virgin doesn’t get to climax at this event.”

My eyes widen. “I’m not going.”

“It’s not a request. After my favorable vote today, you owe me.”

“I don’t owe you a damn thing! You voted to punish me.”

“And then I saved you.” Rising from his seat, he stalks to where I’m sitting, amber liquid sloshing in his glass. Slowly, he sets the tumbler aside and invades my space, arms braced on the back of the chair.

He lowers his head, attention dipping to my cleavage. It’s a brief moment, but I feel that glance everywhere. Heat creeps up my neck, and the memory of him loitering in my doorway last night floats through my head.

The darkened room.

The soft light in the hall.

The weight of his stare.

The slide of my fingers through velvety flesh, every movement soaked with arousal.

The release that never came.

That same restless energy throbs at my core now, and I smash my thighs together. He’s stirring things I don’t want to feel, each spiral of need dragging me back to Liam.

Back to Sebastian, whose paintings suffocate me, every brushstroke a silent judgment.

Grief and anger collide in my chest, threatening to steal the air from my lungs. I grab hold of my anger with the last of my mental strength, and something long overdue snaps inside me.

With a hoarse cry, I slam my hands against his chest.

But he doesn’t budge.

Like stone absorbing a gust of wind, he takes it.

I rear back to strike again, and that’s when he grabs my wrists.

“You’re about to find yourself in trouble.” His grip tightens, eyes burning like he welcomes the fight.

And maybe he does.

Maybe he wants me angry.

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