Page 1 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

one

Mira

Dear Reader,

I'm so glad you're here! Thank you for picking up this book. It means the world to me! Quick heads up: This book has been revised and should be updated now or will be very soon after launch! So if you are seeing this message, please update to the latest version by re-downloading from your Kindle library. I am so upset that this happened and promise that I am getting this corrected as fast as I can.

Thank you for your patience and happy reading!

-Emery

"Watch where you're—"

The words die as something wet cascades down my chest, amber liquid soaking through twelve thousand dollars of Versace silk.

My hand moves to the knife at my thigh before my brain catches up. Someone just crashed into me from the left, solid enough to send me half a step forward. The whiskey runs warm between my breasts, through La Perla lace, while ice cubes scatter across marble.

I spin, ready to eviscerate whoever just compromised my position.

Then I see his face.

Bozhe moy.

Dark blond hair slightly mussed, like he's been running his hands through it. Blue-green eyes that widen in genuine horror. A small diagonal scar cuts through his chin. Sharp cheekbones. Full lips parted in distress. Tall—six feet of lean muscle wrapped in a Tom Ford suit that can't quite contain the energy radiating from him.

My body betrays me completely.

Heat floods my core, instant and shocking. My nipples harden against wet silk, suddenly visible and aching. Wetness pools between my thighs, my clit pulsing with need I've never felt before. Not once. Not with any mark, any asset, any man I've manipulated or killed.

What the fuck is happening to me?

"Shit, that's completely on me." His voice cracks slightly as he grabs napkins from the bar, movements quick but clumsy with panic. "I wasn't looking where I was going. I was arguing with my friend about—doesn't matter."

His hands hover near my breasts with the napkins, and I watch his brain short-circuit in real time. The whiskey has made the black silk cling as if it's translucent. He can see everything—the lace, the hard peaks of my nipples, the way my chest rises with each shallow breath.

"I could... help clean that?" The words come out strangled. His pupils dilate fully, black swallowing blue-green.

"Fuck, you're perfect."

The words slip out clearly unintended. His face flushes, and he runs a hand through his hair, making it messier.

"I mean—shit—that wasn't supposed to—" He stops, takes a breath, tries again. "Want to pretend I said something smooth about buying you a new dress instead of... that?"

Perfect.The word echoes in my chest. Men call me beautiful, stunning, exquisite. Always calculated compliments designed to get something. No one has ever called me perfect with such desperate honesty.

"It's Versace," I manage, my voice huskier than intended.

"Then I'm buying you the whole Versace store." The words tumble out fast. "Actually, do they sell stores? I can find out. I know people. Well, I know people who know people. I could probably—"

He stops himself, and something shifts in his expression.

"You know what? Fuck it. You are perfect, and this dress looks better with whiskey on it because you're wearing it, and I'm going to stop talking before I make this worse."

The corner of my mouth twitches before I can stop it.Chert.I don't smile at marks. I don't find fumbling men charming. I don't—

"Was that almost a smile?" His entire face lights up. "Please tell me that was almost a smile, because I'm about thirty seconds past complete humiliation here and that might save me."

I catch sight of his credit card as he signals the bartender. Amex Black with "J. RYDER" embossed in silver. My mind files it away automatically while my body continues its rebellion. Every nerve ending feels exposed, hypersensitive. I want to push him against the bar and taste that nervous energy on his tongue.