Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
“A steamroller couldn’t turn you straight,” Brendan shot back.
“…completely oblivious.”
Before Brendan could ask what he was so oblivious about, though, Drake straightened, propping his hands against the small of his back, his entire demeanor changing—sober, straightforward. His gaze flicked toward Newcomb. His voice dropped.
“So I’ve been keeping an eye on things online,” Drake murmured. “No chatter, no whispers about Cillian and Newcomb. No rumors about him, either. Newcomb’s sitting on whatever he’s got on Cillian, and apparently your little stunt worked. No one’s talking about anything but your whirlwind gay fairy tale romance.” He grimaced. “…really wish I hadn’t checked the kid’s Insta this morning, though.”
“Your choice. I told you naked time is not agent time.”
“Sorry for noticing the entire population of the free world now knows the depth of your asscrack.”
“Are you angry because you now know the exact radius of my asscheeks, or are you angry because I pulled a PR stunt without looping you in first?”
“A little bit of door number one, a little bit of door number two,” Drake said. “Mostly I’m worried. Newcomb’s not known for taking his time silencing people. He’s from a wealthy family. His younger brother’s a billionaire who just took over a global industry giant, and Newcomb’s probably got some inherited money of his own on top of the thick checks the studios sign over to him. You might be able to hold up to him in court, but Cillian? I don’t think he’s exactly rolling in A-list money.”
“I don’t think it’ll come to that.” Brendan watched as the crew pronounced the new additions to the staircase platform sound, and Cillian and Sophie took their places again, launching right into the scene. “Men like Newcomb are cowards. They only do what they do because they think money and station protect them. But they always want their victims isolated, vulnerable, afraid to tell anyone.” He shook his head. “Cillian’s not isolated. He has two witnesses. We’re wild cards when Newcomb can’t intimidate us. So he’s biding his time. Looking for his chance.”
“Then be a little more careful,” Drake cautioned softly. “And don’t give him a vulnerable opening.”
“We won’t. A few publicity stunts, but everything else stays locked down tight.” He would make sure of that. Brendan smacked his script against Drake’s chest, straightening, already starting to stride forward. “Now hold this for me. My line’s up.”
l
CILLIAN STRETCHED HIS HAND TOWARD the radiant, ethereal beauty standing before him. Where before she had been so pristine in her icy purity, now she was something elusive and fleeting in the delicate exposed fragility of her emotions, this trembling thing he feared to touch lest she shatter—and yet for all that, he only craved her that much more.
And when she, his beloved snow princess, reached back to him, their fingers coming closer, closer, ah, forbidden touch—
Cillian froze as abruptly a large, heated body inserted itself in his path, and it wasn’t the Lady Violette beneath his yearning fingertips.
It was her father.
Lord Landon Cheng, inserting his imposing frame between them, so large that Violette was invisible behind him.
For just a moment, it wasn’t Cheng, stiff and formal in his expensively tailored cropped tailcoat, waistcoat, breeches, the entire costume layered over Cillian’s vision as his imagination took him deep into the scene. So deep that for a moment he forgot he wasn’t Richard, until it registered that his hand rested against the flat, hard expanse of Brendan’s stomach, the ridges of his abdomen sleek through the thin layer of his dark gray dress shirt.
Cillian’s mouth went hot, tingling inside with the memory of Brendan’s tongue searching inside him. He faltered as he looked up at Brendan—his face a cold, haughty mask that turned its handsome planes into impenetrable stone, a certain forbidding aloofness radiating command, and it was almost hard to tell the difference between Landon Cheng and Brendan when Brendan had taken Cillian in hand and forced him onto his back and made him want.
That memory held him spellbound for several seconds, his stomach twisting into sweet knots as he met deep, drowning brown eyes.
Before he pulled himself together, and remembered his role.
A smile came to his lips; a spark rose inside him. For Richard Kerrington, this was a challenge, and he couldn’t back down. And rather than jerk his hand back, cowed, Cillian flattened his palm against Brendan’s stomach, smirking as he rose up a step.
“Why, Lord Cheng,” he lilted. “I’d no idea you were so desperate for my touch.”
“And I,” Brendan said, his rolling rough voice transforming from that lazy swagger-drawl into something cultured and commanding, “had no idea you’ve such a poor sense of direction, Kerrington.” He remained completely unresponsive to Cillian’s hand on his stomach, icily composed. “You seem to have lost the door, Your Grace.”
“But I’ve apparently found myself a wall.” Higher Cillian stepped, closing the distance between them—a deliberate aggressive stand, violating the personal boundaries of this man who might not outrank him, but still surpassed him in age and seniority. Every inch that disappeared turned the silence between them into a thing of brewing tension compressed tighter and tighter by the closing space. “My Lord…do you know what they said of me, during my years in service?”