Chapter Twenty-Six
In that moment, here’s what Charley understood.
One? The real Charley, behind all the art-world glamour, was wild and reckless.
Two? The real Charley was borderline stupid.
Three? She was already more than halfway to fulfilling Dorian’s dirty promises. Wet and trembling? Check and check.
Four? Alone in the guest house, away from the crush of the party, she couldn’t wait to scream for him.
But… five… Despite the fact that she was still coming down from the high of that blow job—the smooth perfection of his cock, the sheer power that had coursed through her veins as she brought him to ecstasy—a new alarm sounded in her head.
It was faint and fuzzy, struggling to find its way through the electric buzz, but it was real.
Heat pooled in her stomach with a twist of fear that had nothing to do with Dorian’s punishing hands.
What did he say about the house?
Charley shut her eyes, but she couldn’t focus, thoughts slipping away as he teased her with deft strokes, tongue hot on her nipple.
“God, you’re… so good,” she breathed, her nerves singing for more.
Still, the warning in her head continued to gnaw.
To gnaw and gnaw and fucking gnaw, until it finally made a crack big enough for the truth to slip in.
The house… is mine…
“Relax, love,” Dorian murmured, flattening his palm against her clit as he dipped a finger inside, another one fluttering behind it, teasing her backdoor until she was panting for so much more.
No one will enter unless I command it…
Wait. Had he meant…
No. She must’ve misheard.
Swatting away her thoughts like gnats, Charley let out a breath, sinking into the decadence of his touch.
Dorian slid a hand up her spine, then cupped the back of her neck, his fingers moving faster inside her, the pressure of his palm so perfect, her core was already tightening in anticipation of the release building inside.
“You are always so wet for me. So…” He slid in deeper and curled his finger, making her gasp. “…ready.”
But God, those annoying thoughts would not leave her alone.
“Dorian… the house… it’s…”
Her words fell away as he captured her mouth in another deep kiss, his low moan of pleasure bringing her closer to the edge even as her adrenaline spiked.
What are you doing, Charley? Danger! Danger! Retreat!
Instead of retreating, her body arched into his touch, urging him deeper, breath ragged as he thrust inside, faster and faster.
The fear coursing through her veins mingled with the sheer pleasure Dorian was unlocking. She was out of her mind, completely at his mercy.
The house, she thought, wrapping her hands around his shoulders. It can’t be his. Not Dorian’s…
“That’s it,” he said, his voice like liquid silk as he moved in for the kill, slow, then fast. “Focus on my touch.”
“Dorian, I… God.” Her thighs tightened, the now-familiar heat cresting between them.
“Come for me, Charlotte.”
“Fuck, yes!” The wave crashed, but Dorian didn’t stop there. He plunged deeper, harder, pushing the first pulse of her release into a second one, bigger and more intense, unleashing a scream that refused to be contained, refused to be tamed.
Just like he’d promised.
And then, as she spasmed through the very end of it, Dorian’s earlier words crashed through all the ecstasy, all the layers of denial with a sharp clarity she could no longer ignore.
The house… is mine…
Dorian Redthorne, the man who’d brought her to the edge with every blissful stroke, who’d awakened her long-buried fantasies, who’d made her feel wanted in ways she never thought possible… was the host of tonight’s thousand-dollars-a-head fundraiser.
Otherwise known as her mark.
“This is your home?” she finally managed, opening her eyes. “You live here?”
God, she hated the desperation in her voice, but her blood was turning cold, her body going rigid with panic.
“Mmm.” He nuzzled her neck, inhaling her scent. “Welcome to Ravenswood, love. Now tell me…” He kissed his way north, moving to her ear with a long, hot sigh. “What’s got you so frightened all of a sudden?”
The whisper passed softly through his lips, caressing Charley’s skin with a gentleness that belied his intensity. With every second that passed, Charley was falling deeper into the web she’d spun around herself.
Soon, she’d have no escape.
She’d known it was coming. Ever since Rudy had seen them together at the Salvatore auction and learned about the Whitfield, Dorian was in his sights.
She just didn’t think it would happen so quickly.
Her brain was flatlining, unable to process it all. But despite the disastrous turn of events, that treacherous little body of hers was still drowning in pleasurable spasms.
“I’m… I’m okay.” Charley let out a long, slow breath, dizzy with lust, even as the crushing reality chipped away at her denial.
“Good. Because that was just an appetizer.”
Charley’s heart skipped, her mouth watering for more.
Dorian Redthorne was pulling apart that sticky web, kiss by kiss, breath by breath, one strand at a time.
With his honey-brown eyes boring into hers, his hand still resting between her aching thighs, Charley was powerless. And that, more than his identity or high-dollar art collection, made him the most dangerous man in her world.
The realization left her more than bare, more than exposed. She felt like she’d turned herself inside out, and it filled her with a sudden restlessness that bordered on mania.
Forcing herself to take a step back, she broke away from his touch and attempted to pull her dress back up.
But Dorian was right there again, sliding his hands around the back of her neck, smothering her with a kiss full of white-hot fire Charley felt deep in her belly, a demanding intensity she couldn’t resist.
When he finally pulled away, his gaze was unrelenting. “Stay the night with me, Charlotte.”
Now, even more than the night of the auction, she wanted to accept. To forget—for one final night—who she really was.
Why she was really here.
Charley burned with guilt. Even at his most commanding, Dorian had shown her nothing but pleasure and kindness.
Looking at her now, awaiting her answer, his eyes held a glimpse of vulnerability—there and gone in a blink.
There has to be another way. We can’t rob this man…
Charley sighed, resting her palm against his perfectly-stubbled cheek. “Dorian, I don’t—”
A loud rap on the front door saved her from answering.
“Redthorne?” a man called. “You in there, you bloody traitor?”
Dorian cursed under his breath.
“I’m busy,” he snapped, but he was already heading for the door.
“Armitage is looking for you,” the man said. His accent was English, like Dorian’s, but less formal. “He thinks you’ve ditched him.”
“I have. Now, if you don’t mind—”
“Actually, I do.”
Charley pulled the dress up and grabbed her purse, heading off in search of a bathroom.