Page 12 of Blackmailing Belle (The Lost Girls #4)

Chapter 12

Keep a Straight Face

BELLE

D ominic’s study is unmistakably his. The walls are lined with dark wood paneling that absorbs the dancing firelight, while a massive desk dominates one corner like a throne. A bar cart stocked with crystal decanters gleams under the low glow of a brass lamp.

Every detail speaks of control and calculated power, from the precision of the seating arrangement—two imposing wingback chairs angled toward the fireplace—to the faint scent of cedar and smoke that clings to the air like an unspoken warning. This isn’t a space meant to be shared; it’s Dominic’s lair. Yet here I am, trespassing nightly.

The next week continues in a routine. Three hours a day at my bookstore, some quality time with my dad, and each evening Dominic and I spend time in his study, respectively absorbed in our activities. He usually handles emails and business deals for a couple hours before following my example and cracking open a book. Usually, it’s the history of some conquering war hero.

Dominic sits across from me, his massive form at ease yet unyielding in the chair. The firelight plays tricks with his features, deepening the sharp lines of his face and casting his eyes in an almost predatory gleam.

His clawed hand rests lazily on the armrest. In this room, he is more relaxed. Like the shadows here are old friends of his.

His mishmash features of man and beast shouldn’t be sexy. Watching him work or read a book definitely shouldn’t be sexy. But damn it, it is.

This should feel normal. The kind of predictable rhythm I’ve always craved. But it doesn’t.

Because I think my half-shifted husband—who is most certainly a beast—is hot as sin.

I tug at my fuzzy robe, conscious of the rose-colored silk nightie underneath as I try to focus on my book—a well-loved shifter romance. It's one of my comfort reads, filled with all the usual tropes: overprotective alpha males, heated glances that turn into heated encounters, and plenty of detailed, pulse-pounding scenes.

The words blur together as warmth coils deep inside me. The alpha in my novel is commanding his mate, clawed hand around her throat and. . .

My body reacts to the familiar prose as if I’ve been conditioned for it, the slow build of tension settling low in my belly. I shift, hyper-aware of how close Dominic is.

My husband.

The kind of man who would throw me over his shoulder and growl something possessive. The kind of man who would?—

I blink down at the page, startled to realize I’ve stopped reading altogether and started imagining Dominic. Heat spreads through my cheeks .

What is wrong with me?

Focus, Belle.

But the words in my book don’t help. The scene has escalated: the alpha growling promises of pleasure, the heroine melting beneath him, gasping for more. I cross my legs, pressing them together in a futile attempt to dispel the ache building there. My eyes dart toward Dominic again, as if drawn by a magnet.

He’s not helping. He shifts slightly, his thighs spreading wider, his jaw tight with concentration. Even the way he clicks his claws against the tablet has me imagining those same claws scraping down my back, leaving red marks as he?—

Stop. Thinking. About. That.

"What are you reading?" he asks, his voice low and rough. Dominic’s gaze locks onto mine.

My mouth goes dry. "What?"

"You seem to be enraptured by what you're reading. What’s happening in the plot?" There is genuine curiosity in his question even as he wears his usual scowl.

I grip the book tighter. "Nothing’s happening in the plot." Technically I’m not wrong. This is an action scene. Pure furious, frantic fucking. No plot in sight.

Dominic frowns.

Nope. Not happening. I shake my head and bury my face in the book, pretending to be engrossed.

But Dominic doesn’t drop it. He leans forward slightly, his attention sharpening like a predator catching the scent of something intriguing.

The realization hits me like a freight train.

Oh no.

"You smell. . .different," he says, his head tilting as if to confirm it. "Sweet."

My stomach drops. "Excuse me?"

His nostrils flare, and he sets his tablet aside. "Your scent. It’s stronger than usual."

I want to die. I want to crawl under the rug and never come out.

"I-It’s probably the lotion I used," I stammer, desperate for any excuse.

His brow quirks. "Is it? Because it smells more like arousal."

There it is. The mortification. The earth might as well swallow me whole.

I need water. Or air. Or both.

"I think this is the part where I get up and leave," I mutter, my voice high and strained.

He growls in warning.

"I’ll be right back," I wave him off even as I abandon the book and flee for the kitchen.

When I return, glass in hand, I freeze. My husband stands with my book open where I left my bookmark, scanning the words. Fear and something else—something hotter—twists in my core.

"What are you doing?" My words come out a squeak.

"I wanted to see what was happening in your book," he explains, his lips twitching.

I snatch the book from him. "Well, now you see I'm right. There is no plot." I hate the defensive edge in my voice.

I thought I rid myself of any shame long ago. For witchtit’s sake, all I do is help other readers embrace reading the very same thing without shame, yet my face is as hot as a stovetop. I’ve reverted to my younger self, easily wounded by others’ criticism over what I read. Though I swore I’d left that insecurity behind, the deep stab of my first beau making fun of me resurfaces with a vengeance.

Why do you read this trash? You don’t think I give it to you good enough? You’re so weird.

I wish Dominic would go back to his seat and give me space since I can’t yet leave for another thirty minutes.

"I disagree," he says slowly. "There was quite a lot of action, and despite it being sexually driven, there is clearly an exchange of power happening, which is very much plot."

I stare at him, thrown by his literary analysis of shifter smut. Then he's directly in front of me, breathing in deeply.

"Though I'd say your shifter romance is missing something crucial when it comes to mating patterns," he goes on.

"Oh?" I ask in a strained tone, A line seems to connect us, reeling him in.

When his hand curls around my nape, I melt into his grip and my self-consciousness evaporates.

Dominic’s nose brushes my cheek. He hesitates, but I tilt my head, offering more. Something dark and primal flashes in his eyes.

"Shifters have a thing about biting when they fuck." The crude words send electricity down my spine as he nips at my throat.

My book hits the floor. I don't care. He presses me back against the writing desk, his hard form pushing into my welcoming body. Every rational thought dissolves under his touch.