Hard As Stone (Beautiful Betrayal Book 1) (8 page)

“I’ll see what I can muster,” I pronounce as she clinks my glass. Rapidly, I tap everyone else’s before tossing back the shot.

“Better or else,” she murmurs as a man wearing a charcoal suit and matching silk tie catches her eye. Graying at the temples, CEO material, and just her type.

Silently, I thank the Gods. The suit talking with Brooke curtails her discussion on the subject of my recent man candy sighting. What can I say? I’m a bit rusty after being affianced to the horniest gay hipster in Boston. It’s not as if Brooke doesn’t understand but sometimes she forgets. Getting
pinned
isn’t as easy as it looks. She bungee jumps from CEO bed to bed to bed like a maven.
Whereas,
I’m going to need a shove.

“C’mon, love,” Kat proclaims. We both rise on heels that should come with a warning against drinking and dancing. Whoa. Toss in walking. “This is my favorite song. Makes me crazy,” she declares.

“Good to know,” I say, plotting how I’ll avoid getting kicked in the shin. We descend the stairs and blow through the crowd toward the dance floor.

The four of us flew down to New York thanks to Brooke and her declaration that we were due a huge victory celebration. We’re hanging out in her dad’s West Village penthouse for the weekend. Our only plan is to dance all night, and I don’t care that within the last hour, I’ve downed far too many shots to recollect.

I’m twenty-six and with the help of Brooke, just put one over on my grandparents. I’m alive and well with a job interview. Feeling the zeal of power, I’m not about to sit and worry about my future tonight. Not when there’s a bounty of handsome men around who smile at me, charming enough to make even me believe that I could do something offbeat and off-the-wall. Say, ditch my friends in a New York City second and lose myself.

When in Rome?

Wearing a pound of makeup and this itty-bitty borrowed dress, I agree that Brooke has a point. The men giving Kat and me a once-over have no idea who I am, and don’t frigging care. To them I’m not a disappointment or a doorway to Nantucket. This club is a tease. A sensory delight. And I swear, I’ll do whatever is required to land that paid internship. I’m going to love escaping from Boston and starting my life.
My life!

“We’re almost sprinting,” I gasp.

“Don’t want to miss the best part.” Katrina doesn’t stop until we’re out in the middle of the dance floor. Soon afterward, she’s sandwiched between two guys and shouts, “Come join us.”

“I’m good.” I close my eyes. This is what it’s like to be free. I lift my arms, swivel my hips, absorbing the notes of the blaring music. When I open my eyes, I see him. From flying high, I’m tumbling fast.

My brain sizzles.

I stare across the dance floor at a man. The one from before. And this second time assures me I wasn’t wrong. He’s gorgeous in a rugged dark way. More like some mythical hunter.
Orion
. I shiver from his power. Projected. It’s his eyes.

Brighter than exploding twin stars. They consume me. Obliterate my next thought and the one after.

I gather he’s not just some run-of-the-mill handsome hunk. He’s got this stare that slices through the bodies gyrating next to me, and right into the center of my being. I want to look away—Christ, I tell myself look the hell away—but I can’t. Instead of being mortified that he’s staring a hole in me, I’m excited.

He’s seated maybe twenty feet away, behind the cordoned off VIP area at a table with four other men. All of them handsome, sophisticated, and dressed in dark suits. He doesn’t seem to be focused on their animated conversation. No, he’s zoning in on one target. He lifts a glass to his mouth and over the rim, he watches me dance. There’s something so familiar about him. No way could I have met him at one of my family’s parties. He’s not only gorgeous, there’s an extreme intensity about him. Proof that I’m caught in a mind-screw-fest as I dance for him—nearly a whole song.

Mesmerized, I let go as though I know what he wants. I don’t feel cheap or sleazy. He makes me want to be daring. Provocative. And in return, I want to tempt him like he’s tempting me. Trailing my fingers down my breasts, I alternate rotating my shoulders slowly to the music, and yeah, I imagine that his mouth is on me, drinking between my legs, driving me wild. Best of all in my fantasy, he doesn’t care who my family is as he forces my legs wider apart, imprisoning me under him until I forget everything except how insane he makes me feel.

My dress—a tiny scrap of shiny white material—rises up my thighs, the hem tickling my skin. Luckily there are people all around and steamy clouds float up from the floor, or the slice of man cake would be getting a shot of how little I’m wearing. And just as I think that thought, the crowds part, and guess who gets an eyeful of me and my dirty dance routine? My admirer leans over, setting his glass down, and I’m aware that his eyes have just gotten a panoramic view of my hips and the strip of lace I call my thong.

He breaks eye contact. He’s saying something to the men seated with him, and then he’s up and out of his chair. Now, I’m the one leaning to the side, then to the other, wondering if he’s leaving. I track his movement, my heart thudding, and I’m edging off the dance floor. He’s a head taller than everyone else making him easy to track as he strides from the VIP section. Even in the dimly lit space between the bar and tables overlooking the dance floor, I follow his progress. When he enters a section that’s better lit, our gazes reconnect. We’re closer and in that flash, I can’t move. Or think. Or breathe. Tractor beams aren’t this strong or mind-warping. I’m no longer dancing, and without warning, my feet direct me toward him.

Okay, wait
, I tell myself. I can’t just head off his progress—he might be headed for the front door.

A hulking guy grabs my arm, stopping me in my tracks. “Baby doll, no reason to be alone. Let’s dance.”

“Please
let
go,” I say, snapped out of fantasyland.

“Or what?” he jeers. “No need to play hard to get.”

“I’m not playing a game. Stop touching me. I asked nicely.”

“So did I.” He yanks me to him, snarling, “I’ve got what you’re after.”

Being suddenly restrained kicks my fight-or-flight up to the stratosphere. I try to wrest my wrist free, but can’t. This cave dwelling throwback has got to be kidding. “In case you never got the memo, Neanderthals and humans don’t interbreed.”

“Apparently, you aren’t into nice.” This guy looks like he’s a jock or a gym rat, and his bulk doesn’t make up for him being minus in brain power.

Think, X!
Screaming like a banshee isn’t a solution. Either I can hover at the edge of the dance floor with this jerk, getting knocked and bashed, or kick him in the shin.

“The lady gave you a direction.” The sound of a smooth baritone voice cuts through the music and sends a tingle up my spine.

I jerk my wrist as the cretin snarls to my nameless backup, “Do yourself a favor, and get lost.”

“Let go of the lady. She’s with me,” my would-be savior says in a calm tone that sounds all too quiet. “You should probably take your own advice. Or we could take this outside. Your choice.”

The power in his voice reminds me of static electricity before thunder booms and lightning strikes.

“Sorry, I-I-I didn’t know,”
Mr. Cretin
blusters, and like magic he unhands me and appears more than regretful. He repeats himself, “Sorry, man.”

I pull back my arm and whip around. Grazing my fingers over the fine wool of a bespoke jacket, I gape at a pair of mountainous shoulders.
Oh my…
For the year it takes for my brain to reconnect, I lift my chin and face
Orion
in the flesh.

“I hate when that happens,” he offers in words shaped by a rich Southern accent and towering like a redwood right in front of me.

“Me more. And thanks,” I say and stare in stunned silence.

“You’re quite a dancer.” His gaze harvests the thoughts from my head. This impenetrable specimen of a man isn’t like the mama’s boys I’ve known. Polar to Spencer.

Up close, I look into his smoky grey-green eyes that don’t just consume, they devour. He holds off smiling, regarding me, and slightly cocks his head. In that instant, I want to run my fingers through his thick dark hair. Trace his chiseled face. All at once, it’s like the night of drinking pretty-colored shots goes straight to my forebrain, and I totter.

“Whoa, I’ve got you.” His hand shoots out, taking hold of my arm. “Are you all right?”

His touch isn’t static. The slight pressure of his fingers sends a racing jolt that hits me like a kilowatt of electricity as the thunder of tremors dance across my skin. “Uh, it’s kind of crowded here. I’m just hot,” I think I say.

So much for grad school. I’m beyond intellectually stunted standing next to him. More so with his warm fingers curled along my wrist; it’s all I can do to stay upright.

“Need something to drink?” he asks.

“The opposite.”

He gives a slight tug to my hand. “Come talk to me. Over there.”
Orion
juts his chin to some invisible place, not that I break eye contact to see where he means.

I’m floored by a man who is taller than any jungle gym I’ve encountered wants to talk. “Okay. Sure.” I hope I’m speaking and the mute button isn’t pressed.

Confirmation: he leads me to an alcove. It’s down from the dance floor, and one I didn’t know existed. Not that I’ve been to this club before. Thunderstruck, I follow along, our fingers interlaced, and a tiny voice inside my head asks, “
Should I be afraid?”

We’re alone and even though he’s wearing an expensive suit, he has the body of someone who clearly doesn’t sit around all day crunching numbers.

“Why were you dancing alone?” He peers down at me as if thoughtfully assessing as he waits for me to explain. There’s a magnetic undercurrent in him that has me melting like a sugar cube in hot water.

My tongue is numb being this close to an unchecked power source of masculinity. Let’s get real—he’s
too
… I can’t fathom the proper term, but he’s
too
. Inside the narrow hall, I’m panting and the blood is pounding in my ears. I can’t compose my thoughts and rattle off, “Doesn’t everyone?”

“Not you. If I admit to watching you across the club, would that turn you on?” His stare drills into me.

I’ve heard of
insta-attraction
and what’s sizzling between us, I’d like to explore. Hell, I’d like to ride it from top to bottom like no one’s business.

I look directly into Orion’s eyes, and murmur, “You turn me on all the way.” Pointless to fight something this strong.

He pilots me further down the hall, halts and tries a door, then another. They’re all locked. Nearing the fire exit, he stops. “Looks like this will have to do. Unless you’re ready to leave.”

Dumbfounded, I ask, “Who are you?”

Leaning closer, he whispers in my ear, “Your worst nightmare.”

“Trust me,” I reply. “You aren’t.”

“So young and yet so sure.” His expression turns serious. “You don’t seem like a woman waiting for prince charming.”

When I gasp, he chuckles. I’m not put off. If anything, I’m lured in by the gravelly edge to his rich smooth voice. “What else do you imagine?” I ask him.

For a beat our gazes lock.

It’s followed by a decadent rumble in his chest. Orion is far different from those men I associate with from Nantucket. Each of those is owned by a woman with a pedigree. Possessing the correct DNA are their claim to fame. Archaic that some women are still birthed and bred to rear the next generation of power moguls—but it happens. A bevy of gentile ladies and each is expected to dress in pastels, smile graciously while wearing strings of pearls, and wielding a saber.

Orion closes the gap between us. “How about we forego the fantasy. Kiss me, beautiful.”

His tone is as alpha authoritarian as it is commanding, and not one I’m accustomed to hearing.
Or obeying
. Yet I get the novel sensation, I’d like to and that’s frightening. Definitely the idea of really being touched by him, more so than what he’s already doing, is mind-blowing. But instead of being truly afraid, my clueless brain is saturated with lust so deeply tinged, it’s cloying. Without question, whatever he has to offer, I want in on.

“Just a kiss?” I ask.

“Just a kiss,” he promises and my heart batters within my chest.

Bending toward him, I don’t close my eyes. He’s what I need. Maybe this is just a kiss, but it’s a reminder that I don’t want to spend another New England summer counting days, hours, minutes. I’m done with pretense.

I want hard, dark, gritty.

A blur and a storm.

Dangerous.

I can’t become what my family wants: predictable. Safe. A cog in a wheel. One kiss and I’ll remember. I’ve got to remember this night. Our lips meet and his warm mouth envelops me in a way that fully relays he knows how to kiss—knows how to do a hundred and one other things. Nameless, yet things I crave. A flicker of primal need ignites in my belly and I press closer.

As if checking my move, he slides his hand to the back of my head, imprisoning me. In reality, he’s freeing me by taking the reins. Orion guides me so that our mouths meld at the perfect angle as he traces my jaw with his fingertips. Arching in need, I grab onto his muscular arms, bracing myself in free fall off a jagged cliff into an ocean of lust where his hot, velvet, and very domineering mouth beckons. He sucks my bottom lip between his teeth, biting down, and piloting me back until I’m flush against the cool wall.

Sweet Jesus, this man can kiss. My pulse thunders; fire courses through my veins like an awakened river of liquid lust. His sculpted body is hard, so hard and forceful I’m moaning against his mouth.

I take a breath and the woody scent of his cologne enters me, taking root deeper than the darkest of dark secrets. Like one of those ancient pine forests but a titch smoky. I inhale, swallowing a groan as I savor the aftereffects of another whiff of him. It’s a potent sensual snap that travels a circuit through my body. I feel myself melting as I meld to his hips pinioning me to the wall.

Bracketing my face within his hands, he kisses me more forcefully as if this is a test. At the end, he doesn’t release me but orders, “Open for me. All the way. Don’t hold back.”