King of Pride (Kings of Sin #2) by Ana Huang

Silence suffocated the air as we inched through Manhattan traffic, interrupted only by the soft patter of rain against glass.

Isabella and I sat as far apart as humanly possible, but it wouldn’t matter if the Atlantic Ocean itself separated us. My senses were imprinted with the smell and feel of her—the lush sensuality of roses mixed with the rich warmth of vanilla; the brief, tantalizing glide of her hand against mine; the static charge that clung to my skin every time she was near.

It was maddening.

I answered an email about the DigiStream deal and slid my phone into my pocket. I’d been working on acquiring the video streaming app for over a year. It was so close I could taste it, but for once, my thoughts were consumed with something other than business.

I glanced at Isabella. She stared out the window, her fingers drumming an absentminded rhythm against her thigh, her face soft with introspection. Her backpack sat between us like a concrete wall, dividing my runaway thoughts from her unusual quiet.

“How many speeds does it have?”

The drumming stopped. Isabella turned, confusion stamped across her features. “What?”

“Your test at Sloane’s house.” The memory of her answering the door with that ridiculous pink toy in hand pulled at the corners of my mouth. “How many speeds does it have?”

Although I disapproved of Isabella’s distressingly common lack of propriety, part of me was charmed by it. She was so completely, irrepressibly herself, like a painting that refused to be dulled by time. It was enthralling.

Color glazed her cheekbones and the tip of her nose. Unlike Vivian’s refined elegance or Sloane’s icy blond beauty, Isabella’s features were a bold, expressive canvas for her emotions. Dark brows pulled together over eyes that sparked with defiance, and her full, red lips pressed into a firm line.

“Twelve,” she said, her tone sweet enough to induce a cavity. “I’m happy to lend it to you. It might help loosen you up so you don’t die of a stress-induced heart attack before age forty.”

I’d much rather have you loosen me up instead.

The thought was so sudden, so absurd and unexpected, it robbed me of a timely response.

First and foremost, I did not require loosening up. Yes, my life was quilted with neat squares and perfectly delineated lines, but that was preferable to chaos and whimsy. One wrong tug at the latter, and everything would unravel. I’d worked too hard to let something as unreliable as a passing fancy ruin things.

Second, even if I did need to loosen up (which, again, I did not), I would do so with anyone but Isabella. She was off-limits, no matter how beautiful or intriguing she was. Not only because of Valhalla’s no fraternization rule but because she was going to be the death of me in one way or another.

Still, lust rushed through my veins in all its raw, hot glory at the thought of dipping my head over hers. Of tasting, testing, and exploring whether she was as uninhibited in the bedroom as she was outside it.

Isabella’s brows formed questioning arches at my prolonged silence.

Fuck. I tamped down my traitorous desire with an iron will cultivated from years at Oxbridge and wrestled back control over my faculties.

“Thank you, but on my list of items I’d never borrow, adult toys rank at the top,” I said, my placid tone a deceptive shield for the storm brewing inside me.

She shifted to face me fully. Her skirt slid up, baring another inch of perfect, bronzed skin.

My blood burned hotter, and a muscle flexed in my jaw before I caught myself. Who wore skirts without tights in the middle of an unseasonably cold October? Only Isabella.

“What else is on the list?” She sounded genuinely curious.

“Socks, underwear, razors, and cologne.” I rattled off the answers, keeping my eyes planted firmly on her face.

Those expressive dark brows hiked higher. “Cologne?”

“Every gentleman has a signature cologne. Pilfering someone else’s signature would be considered the height of rudeness.”

Isabella stared at me for a full five seconds before a burst of laughter filled the car. “My God. I can’t believe you’re real.”

The throaty, unabashed sound of her mirth hit me somewhere in the chest and spread like melting butter through my veins.

“If that were the case, fragrance brands would go out of business left and right,” she said. “Imagine if every product only had one customer.”

“Ah, but you’re overlooking an important part of what I said.” The arch of my brow matched hers. “I said every gentleman, not every person.”

She rolled her eyes. “You are such a snob.”

“Hardly. It’s a matter of comportment, not status. I meet plenty of CEOs and aristocrats who are anything but gentlemen.”

“And you think you’re an exception?”

I couldn’t help it. A wicked smile touched my lips. “Only in certain situations.”

I spotted the instant my meaning registered. Isabella’s high color returned, washing her face in a lovely bloom of pink. Her lips parted in an audible breath, and despite my better instincts, dark satisfaction curled through my chest at her reaction.

I wasn’t the only one tortured by our attraction.

She opened her mouth right as the engine cut off, swallowing her words and abruptly severing our link.

We’d arrived at Monarch.