by Celia Aaron
He kissed up my stomach, lingering on my breasts, then sucking my throat. I reached to his pants, unbuttoned them, then pulled his thick cock free. It pulsed in my palm as I stroked it long and slow. The need to have him inside me blotted out everything else.
Groaning into my mouth, he pressed his head to my entrance and eased inside. I clawed his shirt up his back. He stripped it off and tossed it, his strong muscles flexing beneath my hands as he sank all the way.
Our mouths met in a torrent of passion, kissing and biting as he started a hard rhythm, each thrust jarring me and sending sparks through my clit.
“Me. Let me.” I pushed his shoulder.
He rolled so I was on top. I spread my palms on his chest, anchoring myself on him as I rode his cock.
“That’s it. Let me see it.” He palmed my breasts, squeezing as he watched where our bodies joined.
I gripped his wrists, leaning on them as I worked back and forth on his cock, every stroke deep and hard. Leaning up, he captured a nipple in his mouth and pulled a hand away to slap my ass. I moaned, no longer able to keep it quiet. He slapped again, harder this time, and I sped my pace. He switched to my other nipple, sucking and biting as I ground my pussy against him, each movement of my hips growing smaller, more concentrated as my thighs shook.
He leaned back and slapped both sides of my ass. “It’s yours. Take it.”
I threw my head back and rode him. He bore down on my hips, increasing the friction as sweat slicked my body and I slid against him.
“Fuck.” His cock stiffened, thickening even more. “You’re too much.”
I dug my nails into his abs. “Wait for it.”
“Can’t.” He grunted and slapped my ass hard enough to make me cry out. The pain was perfect, sending me plummeting into a strong orgasm.
His named rolled from my lips as my hips seized, and everything inside me centered on the delicious sensation, then burst outwards, sending shards splintering in every direction. He groaned and thrust up hard inside me, his come coating me as my walls squeezed him, taking every last drop he had. I rode the waves of release until I was spent and collapsed onto his chest.
He kissed my forehead and rubbed the spots on my ass he’d lit on fire. “So fucking sexy.”
I rested my cheek on his chest and tried to catch my breath. “You know what that caveman thing does to me.”
He laughed. “I do. That’s why I’m rather fond of it.”
I bit his pec, and his cock pulsed inside me.
“You know what biting does to me.” He flipped me onto my back and kissed me, his mouth owning me as his hips moved at a slow pace.
I answered, my tongue warring with his as our bodies slid against each other, my nipples hardening again. My sensitive clit buzzed with each touch of his skin, each delectable bit of pressure. His cock came back to life, hitting me in all the right spots as he took it slow.
Breaking the kiss, he stared down at me. “Do you have any idea how much I love you?”
“I think I do.” I wrapped my arms around his neck. “So much that you went psycho and kidnapped me and made me love you despite myself.”
He smirked. “I can’t make you do anything. I think the day I realized that is the day you finally started loving me back.”
“Maybe.” I pushed my hips up and wrapped my legs around his back.
He kissed me again, his lips soft and sure as he made love to me.
“Do you remember when you were in psycho training with your dad?”
He bit my lip. “Yes. It made me the fine, upstanding citizen I am today.”
I wrested it free. “Were you in class the day the birds and bees were taught?”
“Of course.” He thrusted a little harder. “I like to think I mastered that particular lesson.”
I nodded. “You did. In more ways than one.” I smiled up at him.
“You lost me.” He cocked his head to the side, his quizzical expression making me giggle.
“Never.” I kissed his nose. “I’m yours, and so is the baby.”
He froze, his eyes wide. “You mean you’re…right now…you’re…” He lifted off me, but I grabbed on tighter and pulled him back.
“You can’t hurt it. It’s early. But it’s true. I’m pregnant.”
When he smiled, pure joy writ large on his handsome face, I hugged him close. He stilled as I dotted kisses on his shoulder.
Pulling back, he stared down at me, tears glimmering in his eyes. “But what if—” His voice cracked with emotion. “What if they’re born like me?”
How could my heart threaten to break when it was so full of love? I pulled his face to mine and pressed our foreheads together. “Then they’ll be perfect, as far as I’m concerned.”
His tears met my own, and he kissed me.
Our souls melded and once again danced in the dark…and the light.
A bonus chapter, starring Sebastian, is included at the very end of this book (just like how you have to hang on through the credits at a Marvel flick.) xx
Acknowledgments
Thank heavens, I’ve reached the easiest part of the book to write!
To the most important person ever, Mr. Aaron. Thank you for hand-feeding me an oatmeal cream pie as I write these acknowledgements. (He wanted to get a good shout-out, obviously). He’s always my first reader, and my best typo-finder. He’s also the man who introduced me to the true R-rated version of “An Officer and a Gentleman.” I had no idea the drill sergeant said “pussy” so much. Thanks, babe.
To Mel, my beta, thank you for helping me with plot holes, dead parents, and sparkly shoes (not all of which played a part in this novel …)
To Sybil. This cover is fan-fuckingtastic, my love. And the teasers, wonderful. Also, thanks for reading it early and giving me your take. (And sorry about that time I sent you a horrible accidental selfie when I was trying to send you a voice message about a blonde hair nightmare.)
Viv, you’re my rock. Always will be. Keep being you. Rachel, you’re a sassy little thing who still owes me a pic of pierced nips. Gimme.
Thanks to Give Me Books for promoting The Bad Guy. I couldn’t get the word out without them.
Shelly Cross has a special place in my heart simply from sending me delicious baked goods. I think there’s a lesson there, folks.
And, most of all, thank you, readers. Sebastian isn’t for the faint of heart. He’s deeply flawed, but even villains deserve love. Even bad guys should get a happily ever after, right? Thanks for believing in Sebastian’s happy ending.
So, what’s next from me? I’m not sure. But I hope you read it.
Xoxo,
Celia Aaron
Counsellor
1 Sinclair
In the heart of every man is a darkness. Primal. Instinctive.
At its most basic, it’s a desirous nature—one that covets, demands, takes. Most men brick it up behind a wall of self-control. They invest time and effort in maintaining the separation. These men, good men, control the darkness until it withers away and becomes nothing more than a shadow haunting their innermost thoughts. Something easily forgotten, dismissed, erased.
I've never been a good man.
My darkness is neither restrained nor buried. It lives right at the surface. The only thing that hides it is my mask.
My mask is the law, the light, the pursuit of justice. It is forthright and airy. It is the appearance of righteousness in a fallen world.
The mask I wear is purely the act of a predator. Theater. Pageantry. Deceptive and lethal. It allows me to get close and closer still until it is time to strike.
I stalk so near that my prey can feel the tickle of my breath, the coldness of my heart, the depth of my depravity. Only a whisper separates me from what I desire.
Then the mask falls away, and all my victim sees is darkness.
2 Stella
The district attorney sat completely still at the dark, polished table across the courtroom. My father sat in front of me at an ide
ntical table, but he was full of nervous energy. He shifted, ran a hand through his silver hair, and leaned over to whisper to his attorney.
I clasped my hands in my lap until the ring on my index finger dug into my flesh. This was the last chance my father had for freedom, the last day he would be able to throw himself on the mercy of the court. My gaze wandered back to the district attorney, the one who had my father arrested. Investigators scrutinized every last cent the old man ever invested or borrowed. And, just like that, my world became a smoldering heap of ashes. All because of one man.
Sinclair Vinemont was unmoving, like a spider poised on a web, waiting for the slightest sensation of movement from a hapless moth. My father was the moth, and Vinemont was about to destroy him. The investigation and prosecution had been the careful work of a master. Vinemont had woven the cocoon tighter and tighter until my father was caught from all sides. He had nowhere to run, nowhere to try and hide from Vinemont’s poison. Dad was being systematically dismantled by the silent monster in a perfect suit.
I wanted to crumble. I couldn’t. Dad needed me. No matter the long list of allegations and the even longer list of evidence against him, he was my father. He had always been there for me. Always protected me, stood by me, and encouraged me. Even after what my mother had done. Even after what I had done.
I would not leave his side. He was staring down a hefty prison sentence. Even if the worst happened, I would visit him, call him, write him, and keep him company until the day he got out. I owed him that and much more.
I stared at Vinemont so hard I hoped he would burst into flames from the sheer heat of my hatred. I’d wished for his demise for so long it had become like second nature to me. I hated him, hated every slick word from his mouth, every breath he took. Vinemont’s downfall was stuck on replay in my mind. As I glared at his back, he remained tranquil, completely at ease despite my father coming apart with worry at the table next to him.
I forced myself to drop my gaze, lest anyone see me glaring at him with embittered rage. I couldn’t bear for my father to suffer any further torment, especially not if it was based on any of my actions. My hands were pale in my lap, a white contrast to my dark pinstriped skirt. I took a deep breath and settled myself. It would do no good for me to fall apart now. Not in the face of my father’s sentencing. I let out my breath slowly and looked up.
Something was different. I darted my gaze to the side. Sinclair Vinemont sat just as still, but now his eyes were trained on me. His gaze pierced me, as if he were seeing more than my exterior. I refused to turn away and, instead, gave him a matching stare full of righteous anger. We were locked in a battle, though not a word was said and no one threw a punch. I wouldn’t look away. I wouldn’t let him win even more than he already had. I perused his appearance more fully than I had ever dared. He would have been handsome—dark hair, blue eyes, and a strong jaw. He was tall, broad, fit. The perfect man except for the ice I knew coated his heart.
The internet had told me everything I needed to know about him. Single, old money, career in public service, and at twenty-nine years old, he was the youngest district attorney in parish history. The only thing I didn’t know about him was why he would dare look at me, why he thought he had any right to pin me with his gaze after he’d ruined my life. I wanted to spit in his face, claw his eyes, and make him hurt the same way he’d hurt my father and me.
The door at the front of the courtroom opened and the judge entered, a stark, elderly man in black robes. Vinemont finally turned away, vanquished for the time being. Everyone in the courtroom stood. The judge shuffled to his seat behind a high wall of wood and state insignias, far above the spectators and lawyers.
“Be seated.” Despite his apparent age, his voice boomed, echoing off the dusty shutters and up into the gallery above. “Counsellor Vinemont…” He trailed off, sorting through the papers on his desk.
My father sank into his chair and turned to grant me a thin smile. I tried to smile back to give him some sort of comfort, but it was too late. He’d already faced forward, watching the judge. I willed the judge to let my father go, to suspend his sentence, to do anything except take him away from me. I had no one else. No mother. No one except Dylan, and I refused to rely on him for anything.
Vinemont stood and fastened the top button of his suit coat before stepping from behind the table. He was tall, and like so many dangerous things, effortlessly beautiful.
The bespectacled, bearded judge was still rifling through sheets upon sheets of documents when Vinemont spoke.
“Judge Montagnet, I have several victims lined up to speak against Mr. Rousseau.” His deep Southern drawl was an affront to my ears. Even so, words spilled off his tongue with ease. He could charm the devil himself. As far as I was concerned, Sinclair Vinemont was the devil.
I wished we’d never left New York, never travelled to this backwoods bayou full of snakes. Vinemont condemned my father with airy ease every chance he got. No one spoke against him. No one countered his venomous lies other than the ham-handed defense attorney my father hired. So many of the people we’d met in this town were good, forthright souls—or so I’d thought. They weren’t here. They didn’t sit on my father’s side to give him support against Vinemont’s false charges. They hadn’t come to testify that my father’s sentence should be reduced or that he should be granted mercy. It was only me and rows upon rows of empty, cold pews. We were alone.
On Vinemont’s side of the courtroom, two rows full of people, maybe twenty in all, sat and glared at Dad and me. Most of them were elderly men and women who had invested with my father. They blamed him for losing their money when all he did was invest as they requested. He had no control over the market, or the crashes, or the resulting instability. My father wasn’t the monster Vinemont had made him out to be.
One of the women, gray and wrinkly, met my gaze and made the sign of the evil eye. I only knew what it was because she’d done it before, the last time I’d seen her in court during my father’s trial. I’d looked it up and realized she was cursing me. With each movement of her hand, she was willing destruction down on my head. I looked away, back to the true reason for my father’s disgrace and my desperation. Sinclair Vinemont.
The judge nodded. “Bring up your first witness, Counsellor.”
I steeled myself as one by one, the alleged victims walked, limped, or wheeled past me to testify against my father. Their tears should have moved me, their tales of trust broken and fortunes lost should have forced some shred of empathy from my heart. All I felt was anger. Anger at them for getting my father into this mess. More than that, anger at Vinemont as he stood and patted the “victims” on the shoulder or the arm and gave out hugs like he was running for office. Every so often I could have sworn he leered back at me, some sort of smug satisfaction on his hard face.
The day droned on with story after story. With each witness, Dad slumped down farther in his chair, as if trying to melt away into the floor. I wanted to put my hand on his shoulder, tell him things could be fixed. Instead, I sat like a statue and listened.
The accusations stung me like a swarm of hornets. After the sixth or seventh witness, I went numb from their venom. Despite the breadth of the charges, I did not doubt my father. Not for a moment. Vinemont had done all this to ensure his reelection or for some other, similarly vile purpose.
When the last witness finally turned her walker around and shuffled back to her seat, the silence became a separate presence. Heavy, ominous, and draining, like a specter haunting the empty spaces of the room. My father remained hunched forward, his head bowed.
“Well, judge, I think you’ve heard enough.” Vinemont held his hands out beside him, the show at an end.
“I have. I’m going to need the evening to think on the sentence.” He glanced around the courtroom, his impassive gaze stopping on me for a moment longer than anyone else. “I’ll have my verdict in the morning.”
Vinemont turned to the judge and gave him a slight nod. J
udge Montagnet returned the nod and then banged his gavel. “Court is adjourned.”
“Just let me make you feel better.” Dylan leaned over me, pushing me sideways onto the ancient leather sofa in my father’s library.
“I can’t do this right now.” I tried to push him off but he pressed harder, overcoming my balance so I fell on my back beneath him.
He put his mouth to my neck, sucking my skin between his teeth. He was large and well-muscled thanks to endless lacrosse and rowing. He crushed me and constricted my chest.
“Please, Dylan.” I gasped. I should have been afraid. I wasn’t. I was still dazed from the courthouse. Dylan was just adding to the long line of disappointments I’d suffered over the past six months.
He pushed his knee between my legs.
“I can make it all go away for you,” he murmured against me. “Just let me make you feel good for a minute. You need a break.”
He forced his hand up my skirt.
“Stella? Where are you?” My father’s voice calling my name had my stepbrother off me in a heartbeat.
Dylan gripped my hand and yanked me into a sitting position as he straightened his button-down and smoothed his blonde hair. He winked at me. The bastard.
When Dad didn’t show up in the doorway, I knew it was the “come here” sort of call.
“I have to go.”
“Later,” Dylan whispered.
Not if I can help it. Dylan had taken one youthful mistake committed years ago and turned it into some sort of lifelong flame. No matter how many times I told him, he just didn’t believe that twenty-five year-old me wasn’t the same as the foolish, needy nineteen-year-old I once was.
When my father and I had moved to Louisiana, we were despondent. Mom had left this world without saying goodbye or giving an explanation. Dad and I were adrift, trying to come up with some way to carry on even though our heart was gone, buried in the cold ground of a New York cemetery.