The hallway leading to the Grand Drawing Room was lined with portraits of dead Sinclairs who all looked like they had died of constipation.
Aria walked down the center of the Persian runner, her neon green feathers trembling with every step. Beside her, Damien wasn’t just walking; he was prowling.
The cold, bored CEO mask he usually wore around his family had cracked. In its place was a man vibrating with a dark, heavy hunger that had nothing to do with dinner.
He pulled her to a stop just outside the massive oak double doors.
"Wait," he rasped.
Aria looked up, breathless. "Is something wrong?"
"No."
Damien spun her around, crowding her against the dark wood paneling until her back hit the wall. He loomed over her, blocking out the crystal sconce light, his scent—sandalwood, musk, and pure heat—enveloping her completely.
"I can’t focus," he growled, his voice a rough vibration that went straight to her core.
"On what?" Aria whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"On anything but what you’re hiding under that ridiculous dress."
His eyes dropped to her hips. He reached down, his large hand sliding under the hem of the neon green sundress. His palm was hot, rough, and calloused as it glided up the smooth skin of her thigh.
Aria gasped, her head falling back against the paneling. "Damien... we’re in the hallway."
"I don’t care," Damien muttered.
His hand went higher, finding the curve of her hip, and then—the edge of the black lace.
"You wore it," he breathed, the satisfaction in his voice thick and dark.
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of the high-cut panties he had chosen. He didn’t just touch; he claimed. He dragged the lace aside, his thumb finding the slick, wet heat between her legs instantly.
Aria choked on a moan, biting her lip so hard she tasted copper. Her knees buckled, but he held her up, pinning her to the wall with his body while his hand worked its magic.
"Fucking hell, Aria," he hissed against her neck, his rhythm ragged. "You’re soaked. Is this for me? Or are you just excited to torment my grandfather?"
"For... for you," Aria stuttered, her fingers digging into his shoulders, ruining the fabric of his suit.
He rubbed her clit with a slow, maddening friction that made her vision blur. It was possessive. It was dirty. It was a promise of what was coming later.
"I am going to destroy you tonight," he promised, biting the sensitive cord of her neck right over the bruise he’d left days ago. "As soon as we get upstairs, I’m going to rip this lace off with my teeth."
He gave her one last, hard stroke that made her hips jerk off the wall, then withdrew his hand.
He leaned back, his eyes blown wide and black with lust. He brought his fingers to his lips, licking the shine from them while holding her gaze.
Aria felt like she was going to combust.
"Fix your dress," he ordered, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. "And try to walk straight."
He didn’t let go of her waist as they turned toward the doors. He kept his arm clamped around her like a vice, holding her upright because her legs were jelly.
The Grand Drawing Room was a mausoleum of beige velvet and mahogany. It smelled of lemon polish and judgment.
At the far end, sitting in a wingback chair like a withered king, was Grandfather Sinclair.
But Aria’s eyes—still hazy with lust—were drawn to the woman standing by the tea cart.
She was the human equivalent of a vanilla macaron. She wore a modest, cream-colored A-line dress, a string of pearls, and a headband. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, her makeup subtle to the point of invisibility.
This was Catherine. The "Perfect Match."
When Aria and Damien entered, Catherine looked up. Her eyes widened as she took in the neon green feather dress. She looked like she had just seen a stripper burst out of a cake at a funeral.
But she recovered quickly. A saccharine smile plastered onto her face.
"Damien!" Catherine set down the teapot and glided over. She moved with a walk that screamed ’finishing school’. "You made it. We were worried the... traffic... would delay you."
She stopped in front of them, ignoring Aria completely to beam at Damien.
"It’s been so long. You look tired, darling. But handsome as always."
She reached out, intending to touch his arm.
Damien didn’t move away, but he tightened his grip on Aria so visibly that Catherine’s hand faltered in mid-air. He looked at Catherine with glazed, bored eyes, his mind clearly still in the hallway with his hand up his wife’s dress.
"Catherine," he said flatly.
"I poured your tea," Catherine continued, undeterred, gesturing to the cart. "Earl Grey. Two sugars. Just how you used to like it when we studied together in the library."
She finally turned her gaze to Aria. Her smile didn’t waver, but her eyes turned icy.
"And you must be... the actress. Welcome to Sinclair Manor. I’m afraid we don’t have... refreshments... suitable for your palette prepared yet. But I can have the kitchen send up a soda?"
The condescension was thick enough to cut with a knife. You are trash. You drink soda. I know him. I belong here.
Aria didn’t flush. She didn’t get angry. She was still riding the high of Damien’s touch, feeling the ghost of his fingers between her legs. This woman? She was nothing.
Aria smiled. It was a bright, dazzling smile—the kind you give to a helpful employee.
"Oh, thank you!" Aria chirped. She stepped away from Damien, walking right up to Catherine. She looked her up and down, nodding approvingly at the uniform beige dress.
"Damien, you didn’t tell me the staff here was so attentive."
The room went dead silent. Grandfather Sinclair choked on his tea.
Catherine froze. "Excuse me?"
"The maid service," Aria clarified, gesturing to Catherine’s outfit. "It’s very chic. Retro. A little dull for my taste, but very professional. Is that the uniform?"
Aria reached into her purse—the tiny, neon pink clutch that matched her dress—and pulled out a crisp hundred-dollar bill.
She tucked the bill into the neckline of Catherine’s modest cream dress.
"Here you go, honey," Aria said sweetly, patting Catherine’s chest. "For the tea. Keep the change."
Catherine stood paralyzed, the bill sticking out of her dress. Her face turned a violent shade of red.
"I am not... I am Catherine Montgomery!" she sputtered, her voice rising an octave. "I grew up here! I am Damien’s fiancée! Well... intended fiancée!"
"Oh?" Aria covered her mouth with a feigned gasp of horror. She turned to Damien, her eyes dancing with malicious glee.
"Honey, why didn’t you tell me? I thought she was the help! She was pouring the tea so well!"
Damien wasn’t looking at Catherine. He was looking at Aria, and the look on his face was pure, unadulterated pride mixed with the lust that hadn’t faded one bit.
"Honest mistake," Damien drawled, walking over to wrap his arm around Aria again, pulling her back into his heat. "She does blend into the wallpaper."
He looked at Catherine, his eyes cold.
"And Catherine? Keep the money. You look like you need it to buy a personality."
Catherine let out a strangled sob. She looked at the hundred-dollar bill, then at Grandfather Sinclair, then at the neon nightmare standing victoriously on the rug.
She turned and ran out of the room, crying.
Aria watched her go, then leaned back against Damien’s chest, feeling the hard line of his arousal still pressing against her hip.
"Oops," she whispered.
"You’re terrible," Damien murmured into her ear, his hand sliding down to squeeze her rear through the feathers. "I like it."