Page 141 of Morally Black Betrothal
Still. Despite the fervor written all over his face, despite his tendency to take charge in every situation (including my jobs), Brendan Black was asking for permission when it mattered most.
And it only made me want him more.
I drew a line over his cheekbone, down to his jaw, then to his mouth. Obliging my curiosity, he opened it and bit my finger. Just slightly before he sucked on the tip.
I shivered from head to toe. “Consider us on hiatus for the evening.”
He closed his eyes. “Thank fuckin’ God.” When he opened them again, there was nothing but intent there. “We’re going to our room. As far as I’m concerned, the party is fuckin’ over.”
He carriedme up a back stairwell likely designed for servants when the house was originally built. Brendan clearly knew the place like the back of his hand as he darted down a few more corridors, stopping only to kiss me thoroughly against another wall or two, until we reached what he said was the east wing of the house.
There, he finally allowed my feet to drop to the ground so he could unlock a pair of double doors.
“What do you think people will say when they find my shoes abandoned in the hall?” I joked. “Will they go looking for Cinderella, do you think?”
“If they do, they’ll be shit out of luck. She already has a prince. Even if he is a villain too.”
“Room” wasn’t an adequate word to describe Brendan’s suite. I followed him into a space that consisted of a sitting room, a walk-in closet in which our clothes had already been unpacked, a bathroom bigger than half my apartment in JP, and a bed the size of a small ship. Windows looking out to the full moon hovering over the peacefully lapping Atlantic.
“Wow, look at that trim.” I pointed to the ornate plasterwork framing the ceiling and the spiraling medallion above yetanother chandelier, albeit not as large as the ones hanging from twenty-foot ceilings downstairs.
“Simone.”
I turned to where Brendan still stood by the door, hands behind his back where they were still holding the doorknob. “Yes?”
“Do you really want to talk about interior design, baby? Or would you rather I strip your clothes and split you like peach until you scream my name?”
All thoughts of the room and its decor fled my mind. “I—um?—”
Brendan tipped his head to one side. A different kind of darkness had returned to his expression—one that should have sent me running.
“The, um, the second one,” I managed. “I want that.”
My Black Prince grinned.
It was blinding.
“Good.” He crossed the suite, shucking his tuxedo jacket in harsh, efficient movements without taking his eyes off me.
I backed into the bedroom until my knees hit the edge of the mattress piled with snowy linens. I barely noticed. Because he was there, towering over me, hunger clouding his face. His hands found my waist as he pulled me forward and brushed his lips over mine.
Once, twice.
But it was just a tease before he released me to sit on the bed and stepped back.
I could barely conceal my mewl in response.
That mouth curved into a wicked smile. “Stay there, angel.”
And then I watched as Brendan Black, billionaire and CEO, performed a striptease. First came the bow tie, then the tuxedo shirt, revealing taut skin stretched tight across a broad chest and a washboard stomach.
I hiccupped.
Brendan paused. “What?”
“How—how do you look likethat?” I demanded. “Don’t you work in an office all day long?”
Brendan looked down at his body, then back at me with a cheeky grin that made my stomach flip over. “Stress relief, sweetheart.” The endearment came out with a flattenedrin his natural accent, the only sign that he was struggling with restraint as much as I was. “Boxing helps. So does a trainer.”
