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.
