Page 45 of Precious Hazard (Perfectly Imperfect #11)

“Enough.” I plant my palms on his chest to push him away, but end up just leaving them there. Too weak to force even a smidge of distance between us. Still shaking after coming down from on high. “Move.”

He takes an unhurried step back while his gaze drifts to the side of my neck, right to where my skin still tingles from his kiss.

Slowly, I raise my hand, touching the tender spot just below my ear. “You… you left a hickey on me?”

“I guess I did.”

I open my mouth. Then snap it shut and storm past him as fast as my heels allow. Satan DeVille has left a fucking hickey on me. Marking me where anyone could see as if I’m… I’m… his possession or something. And… and I like it.

Shit.

Beneath the soaring eighteen-foot ceilings, the massive crystal chandeliers cast shimmering light on the milling attendees.

This ballroom is something else. An opulent space that brings to mind the grandeur of historic European hotels.

It’s decked out with a glossy dance floor, majestic skylight, stately columns, and countless French doors that in warmer months would allow guests to explore the venue’s other areas.

It’s almost ironic that in this neoclassical banquet hall, everybody is staring.

At us. Not surprising, considering the monstrosity gracing the top of my wife’s head is at least six inches tall.

I’m not even sure how to describe her “hairstyle.” A three-story-wedding-cake-inspired bun?

A leaning hair tower of feathered disaster?

Who knows. But no one could ever say that Tara lacks creativity, that’s for certain.

But not every look of astonishment is because of her centuries-old royal updo.

Despite her outrageous hair, my wife looks divine in her elegant navy-blue formal dress.

It hugs her body, wrapping around her slight but mouthwatering curves before gently flaring near mid-thigh, highlighting her figure.

The off-shoulder neckline adds a touch of sophistication without revealing too much of that milky skin I can’t stay away from.

She’s beautiful. Ravishing. And mine . But she remains tempting to all these assholes.

They can’t hide what they’re thinking, and I’m seized anew by volcanic rage whenever I spot another man glancing at my wife, devouring her with his eyes.

I’ve been unprepared for the eruption of hot jealousy and have no idea what to do with it.

What I do know, though, is the more I get my hands on this beguiling woman, the more I crave her.

The scent and taste of her arousal are forever infused within me.

Even now, among the crowd of the best and brightest, the glitter and glam of high society, the only thing I can focus on is her.

Her smile is bright, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. And her fingers feel clammy in my hand. Something about that nudges the far fringes of my mind. She must be nervous, stepping out at such a public event for the first time as my wife.

I pull her close, mostly because I can’t help myself, but it also appears to give her some comfort. She sags against me slightly without seeming to be aware of it at all.

“Is that…” Tara murmurs next to me. “That guy, in the brown suit… It’s—”

“Nope.” I wrap my arm around her waist and steer her in the opposite direction. There’s no way I’m allowing Adriano Ruffo to be anywhere near her again.

What the fuck is he still doing in New York? And is Ajello aware of it? Whatever, I don’t have the time or inclination to deal with Mafia politics tonight.

“You didn’t even let me finish.”

“You don’t know him.” I gesture toward a man peering at a floor vase overflowing with an enormous flower arrangement. “There. That’s Senator Larson. His family owns several vineyards in California. Would you like to meet him?”

“Why would I want to meet an old boar who looks like he’s already wasted?”

Because he is an old boar, interested only in golf and wine. Not a recently single billionaire whom she thinks of as a gentleman .

The grip around my lungs tightens, and I start to cough.

Fuck. Before we left home, I swallowed a couple of pills to help with this goddamned cold, but nothing seems to be working.

My sore throat and the throbbing in my head have me in a constantly irritable state.

And with the way I’m feeling, I don’t have the patience to keep ignoring the lustful looks my wife has been garnering since the minute we arrived at the gala.

“Good point.” I step aside to snatch a tumbler off the tray being passed around by the closest server and throw back the contents without another thought. Whiskey burns the back of my throat, soothing the uncomfortable scratchiness.

“Why am I here, anyway?” Tara asks. “This isn’t a Family event, so I don’t see why I need to be present.”

“I didn’t want to rob you of an opportunity to showcase your defiance of the explicit directives we agreed to.”

“Oh. You could have spared me three hours trapped in a chair while your sister created the symbol of my rebellion.” She points to her hair. “Three hours. It hurt. A lot. And now my scalp itches from all the hair spray.”

“The lengths to which you’re willing to go in your efforts are praiseworthy.”

“Well, I’m glad you can acknowledge my hard work, darling.” She beams that ridiculous fake grin at me and nods to the left. “Friends of yours?”

The direction of her gaze takes me to an approaching elderly couple wearing matching outfits. The man’s blue suit is the exact same shade as his companion’s dress. The gold buttons on the sleeves of his jacket complement the decorative brooch on the woman’s shoulder.

“There are no ‘friends’ in this social circle, Tara. Those are the Wrights. Several steps removed, but still related to the British royal family. Being considered ‘ very distant relations’ doesn’t dissuade them from their high opinion of themselves, though.

They still think they’re better than everyone else.

The Wrights happen to own one of the largest cosmetics companies in the world. ”

“Really? Maybe I could ask the aristocratic lady for some samples. That is, if I’m allowed to speak.” Her fake grin widens.

“You are,” I grumble. Not that she needs any of that nano-whatever-crap the Wrights have been trying to jam down everyone’s throats. I doubt there’s anything that could make Tara more beautiful than she already is.

“Mr. DeVille!” Lord Wright exclaims, shaking my hand. “I’m positively delighted to see you here tonight. Especially in such charming company.”

He turns to Tara, his palm already halfway extended toward her. Not happening. I casually swat his hand away. A sixty-year-old man, married or not, is not touching my woman.

“This is Tara. My wife.” I snake my arm around her waist and give Wright a pointed look. One that says, Keep your paws to yourself, or you won’t like the consequences .

“Oh yes, I see.” The man laughs nervously. “Of course. I had no idea. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. DeVille.”

Tara smiles even more widely. “It’s an honor to meet you, Lord Wright.” Somehow, she manages to say that through her teeth, not allowing her grin to slip even for a moment.

Christ . I lightly squeeze her waist in warning.

Tilting her head to the side, she bats her long lashes at me, giving me her most innocent look.

Okay. I give up. She can suffer facial cramps, for all I care.

“And this is my lovely wife, Loretta,” Wright continues, then faces me. “Loretta has been urging me to ring you about that wonderful investment opportunity we discussed last year. Tell me, have you had a chance to consider it?”

“Exfoliation creams and pore-minimizing products are hardly a good fit for Gateway Development Corp. We’ll have to pass.”

“That’s a shame,” Loretta comments, her calculating gaze fixed on Tara. “But perhaps your beautiful wife would be interested in becoming our brand ambassador? You have a wonderful complexion, my dear. I can already see the billboard in Times Square and—”

“No,” I bark. Just the thought of my wife’s image plastered every-goddamn-where for men to drool and jerk off to has the murderous wrath within me flaring.

“But why not?” Loretta insists. “She would be a worldwide sensation within twenty-four hours of her debut. Without the atrocious hair, of course.”

My head snaps toward the nasty woman. “Care to repeat that?” I growl, pinning the shrew with a look I typically reserve for degenerates I catch talking shit about the Family. It’s usually followed by the sound of their breaking bones.

“Um… I-I,” she stutters, casting a fleeting glance at her husband. “I meant the avant-garde style your wife obviously prefers.”

“I must have misheard you then.” I turn my glare on her husband.

“Undoubtedly. Avant-garde. Haute couture. She’s simply striking.” Wright nods, grabbing Loretta’s elbow. “But… ah, we should be heading out. Good evening to you both.” They are gone from view in mere seconds, lost among the crowd.

And not a moment too soon.

I’m glad I’ve mostly managed to lead Tara away from the remainder of the horde.

With my occasional bout of fighting not to lose a lung, I can’t imagine anyone wanting to get too close anyhow.

Still, there are a few who look like they might want to give it a try.

And I can’t have that. Despite her bravado, my wife definitely isn’t at ease with all these eyes on her.

While pressed to me, she keeps fidgeting with the side of her dress without seeming to realize that as she does, her hand rubs against me.

Dangerously close to my already half-hard cock.

She’s not even trying, but her propensity for stirring up hazards is top-notch.

“I thought you said my hair is ridiculous. You said as much when you called it a ‘monstrosity,’” Tara whispers next to me as she watches the crowd gathered around the champagne tower warily.