Page 60 of Beautiful Sinners

A pushy asshole encroaches into my space, his shout obnoxiously loud. “Damn, baby. You are one hot little piece. Come sit on my lap, pretty girl.”

Hearing his disrespectful comment, a hot wave of rage curls its tendrils around me.

Tristan tips back on his stool to see who said it. “What the fuck did you just say?”

Con stands up in a single, smooth, intimidating movement, ready to beat some manners into the annoying ass, but it’s Syn who puts the wanker in his place.

“Why would I want you when I have them?”

One by one, she pulls Con, and then Tristan by the collar, and kisses them. Every second I wait for her to come to me is torment. When she does, Syn slides gracefully off the bar into my lap, grabs my throat in her delicately strong hand, and strokes her tongue inside my mouth like she fucking owns me—which she does. I taste the tequila she must have been drinking, and I swear I get drunk off her kiss.

The breathy mewl she releases when I fist her hair at the nape and pull is something I’m desperate to hear over and over. With the long line of her neck exposed for the taking, I fucking take, not caring one iota that we’re in a bar and have eyes on us.

The lights above us dim, and the music pulses a slower, hypnotic beat. I scoop under her thighs and lift her up, loving the heat of her pussy against my stomach when her legs wrap around me.

I pull back slightly, so I can see her eyes. “How tipsy are you?”

I want her to have a clear enough head for what I have planned.

Draping her arms loosely over my shoulders, Syn wrinkles her nose and squints her eyes. So damn cute.

“Would it matter?”

“No.” Brutal, honest truth.

Time stands still when she bursts into melodic laughter. The beauty of her happiness is mesmerizing becauseIdid that. I put that smile on her face.

“You going to let me fuck you tonight?”

With her lips at my ear, she pants, “Yes.”

“No, she most certainlyis not. Get your hands off her, Hendrix.”

I turn around—Syn still in my arms, her mouth doing dangerous things to my neck—to see Tristan holding back a livid Dierdre.

Well, shit.

CHAPTER 21

Hendrix sets me on my feet, and I don’t resist when Alana snatches my arm and pulls me away from the guys.

“We’re going to the ladies’ room. Do not follow us,” she says to Tristan.

Alana navigates through the crowd with me in tow, the short distance to the back hall feeling like a walk of shame. Or worse, like I’m a recalcitrant child who needs to be scolded for being naughty.

As soon as she shoves the restroom door open, she loses her shit.

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

The level of her ire hits me like a slap across the face. I was going to tell her about me and the guys when Tristan and I talked to her. I’m not hiding our relationship or what they mean to me, not from Alana or anyone else.

Speaking to her not as my adoptive mother but as Tristan’s older sister, I reply, “You remember how close Tristan, Hendrix, Constantine, and me were as kids.”

“That doesn’t mean you make out with them in a public bar!” she shouts.

The severe fluorescent strip lights imbue the one-stall restroom with a hideous shade of yellow, causing everything in the small, enclosed space to look jaundiced.

Alana pinches an aggravated line across her forehead. “Are you sleeping with them?”

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