Lincoln
Belladonna Mansion
Masquerade Ball ~ Ballroom
Virginia Beach Oceanfront
He wasn’t drunk, but he had a nice-enough buzz going that he wanted to use to get into a bit of trouble.
He passed a few people still lingering and consuming Thorn’s generous supply of premium liquor. Some men were engaged in drunken conversations about everything from politics to a popular porn site recently banned in the state.
Lincoln shook some guys’ hands, not wanting to stop and chat with anyone. He gave an old client and his new husband a quick one-armed hug and escaped through the patio doors.
It was too cool for anyone to be lounging poolside, but a small group of men huddled on the deck smoking. Lincoln went around the side of the house where the moonlight didn’t reach and leaned against the deck railing.
He stared at the black ocean for a long moment before his gaze wandered farther down the coast. A dark figure stood about a hundred yards away, just beyond where the waves pushed water onto the shore.
Lincoln’s lips turned up in the corners, his heart skipping a beat.
He was off the deck and crossing the grounds before he could think twice. He thought he heard someone call out to him, but he didn’t turn around.
He was stealthy with his approach, not wanting to spook a homicide detective, but given the relaxed set of Sharpe’s shoulders, Lincoln had a feeling he knew he was approaching.
Lincoln didn’t stop until his chest was just touching Sharpe’s back.
He stared at the water over his shoulder, turning his head a fraction toward Sharpe’s neck to inhale that amazing scent.
His smoky heat, mixed with the salty tang of the ocean air, made Lincoln want to drag his tongue over his throat.
Lincoln’s intoxication stripped away his usual restraint, compromising the part of him that knew better. He leaned in until his mouth was against the hard curve of Sharpe’s ear.
“I thought you were curious about the mansion,” he murmured, words heavy and daring.
Sharpe didn’t turn around, but he didn’t put space between them either.
“Not my kinda crowd,” Sharpe rumbled.
Lincoln wanted to hear that fuckin’ voice in his condo, in the dark, because if the color black could make noise, it would sound like that.
“But you came,” Lincoln said, slanting closer, “…for me.”
Sharpe turned, immediately roaming his dark eyes over Lincoln’s face concealed behind his bronze-colored mask outlined in soft brown feathers before lowering them to his lips.
Sharpe was danger cleaned up just enough to be a bit less intimidating.
He smelled like masculine soap and a midnight musk aftershave he’d splashed on his freshly shaved jaw…that was just begging for teeth marks.
His salt-and-pepper hair had been wrangled with product, but not enough to tame its wildness.
Lincoln’s pulse thrummed.
True to Sharpe’s defiant nature, he’d blown off the formal dress code as if rules were made for everyone else.
He wore a coal-dark button-down he’d left untucked, paired with black jeans that clung to his strong thighs.
His combat boots weren’t just footwear. They were rough, scarred leather with tread deep enough to stomp anything or anyone that got in his way.
Lincoln had attended enough parties, galas, masquerades, and seen enough men dolled up in suits and polish, but none of them looked as sexy as Sharpe did right now.
“You look hot as fuck.”
“You’re drunk.” Sharpe swallowed thickly, still staring at his mouth.
“Not that drunk, Detective,” Lincoln shot back. “You’ve had me doing laps around my house for hours.”
He wanted Sharpe to know his absence had been noticed.
“I was hoping you’d come tonight,” Lincoln tempted.
“Why?”
“I wanted to see you in my element for a change.”
Sharpe slid his hand up one side of his neck, his knuckles rough against his jaw, and tilted his head back until his throat was stretched tight.
The move was slow, controlled, but there was nothing gentle about the way Sharpe’s thumb pressed the hinge of Lincoln’s jaw, as if he were testing the submission in him.
Lincoln’s inhale caught. He was already growing hard against the constraint of his slacks. Only from a handful of words, a rough voice against skin, and the weight of a calloused hand.
“Careful,” Sharpe warned with his lips hovering over his, the one word dripping with threat and temptation. “You keep looking at me like that, and I’ll forget you’re supposed to be a gentleman.”
Lincoln was already breathless. He should’ve been scared. Instead, the reckless part of him made him lean in harder. It’d been years since he’d had a heart that was a true challenge, and never since he’d found one he wanted to keep.
He couldn’t help being attracted to Sharpe’s anger and pent-up need for affection.
Lincoln gripped Sharpe on the back of his neck to see his reaction.
He tensed, one side of his mouth turning up into a snarl.
“Tell me my touch turns you on?” Lincoln breathed against Sharpe’s lips.
“What the fuck are you playing at?” Sharpe bit out through a tight jaw.
“Never been much for games, Detective.”
Sharp sneered, then shifted his glare toward the mansion.
“So what is it you do in that big ole house, hmm?”
“Come inside and find out,” Lincoln whispered. “Let’s satisfy that curiosity.”
Deep grooves carved across Sharpe’s brow. “Or you can just tell me.”
Lincoln reduced the space Sharpe had created, and he wasn’t surprised when the man didn’t retreat. He was too bullheaded.
“I can show you better than I can tell you.”
“You know what? I don’t like cryptic motherfuckers who can’t answer a simple-ass question.”
Lincoln shrugged. “I can’t help it. You’re asking the wrong question.”
Sharpe clenched his teeth.
Lincoln was unfazed by the ire. “Did you come here to fight with me?”
“You know why I came.”
“Well, you’re sure as hell not gonna find any answers out here listening to the waves and scowling at my handsome face under the moonlight.”
Sharpe narrowed his eyes. “Conceitedness is the most unattractive quality I can think of.”
“If you say so.”
“FYI, you’re not as irresistible as you think you are.” Sharpe’s gaze fell to his mouth again.
“If you say so.” Lincoln winked.
“I’ve already debunked the gentleman bullshit.” Sharpe reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes before he slid one out and put it between his lips. “Thorn Blackwell is pretty convincing, but you, on the other hand, need to work on your act.”
Lincoln was a respectful man most of the time, but the detective seemed to bring out the worst parts of him. The parts he used to have such fun with.
Lincoln eased the cigarette from Sharpe’s lips and put it inside his own.
“Then come in, asshole. Let’s see what other theories you can debunk .” He inhaled and blew the smoke in Sharpe’s face. “After you.” Lincoln gestured with one arm.
Sharpe reclaimed his cigarette before proceeding down the beach toward the house.
Lincoln slid his mask over his face with a flourish. “Nice of you to comply with tonight’s theme.”
“I don’t own a mask,” Sharpe muttered over his shoulder.
“Sure you do. What about the permanent one you wear every day?” Lincoln chuckled sarcastically.
Sharpe stopped dead, shoulders stiffening, but Lincoln strolled right past the brooding detective, knowing he’d follow.