The Shadows (Black Dagger Brotherhood #13) - J. R. Ward Page 0,99

to base, it was such a feminine glory, so overwhelming with its weight and its shine, that he fisted his hands and released them because he wanted to touch it, stroke it, smell it. But that wasn’t the half of it. Her face was the only thing that could possibly have put the stuff to shame, her skin radiant, her eyes sparkling, her full lips red as blood.

And then there was the fucking dress.

Black. Simply cut. With a low-cut bodice and a skirt that ended north of mid-thigh.

Very north. Of mid-thigh.

Selena extended a foot, a delicately shod, high-heeled foot that was plugged into a teeny-tiny ankle and a perfectly curving calf that had him grinding his teeth.

He had to swallow hard as she started to descend slowly, each step she took bringing her closer to him being able to touch her, kiss her … take her.

Man, that dress was a total knockout, nothing but a sheath that followed the contours of her hips, her waist, and her breasts, with a gathering off to one side at her middle and a second at one of her shoulders. She wore no jewelry at all, but why would she? There was no diamond, no emerald, no ruby, no sapphire that could come near her devastating perfection.

As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she hesitated, glancing left and right, probably at Lassiter and Rhage—were they still in the foyer with him? Who knew. Who the fuck cared?

Selena smoothed the … was that silk? Wool? Taffeta?

Tinfoil? Paper bag?

She reached up and pushed at her hair. Then grimaced. “You don’t like it, do you. I can change. I was going to wear…”

Something knocked him in the side.

“…traditional dress. But the girls thought…” She looked up over her shoulder to the females who stood at the top of the stairs. “I can change—”

Lassiter cursed. “Fuck no. Don’t you dare. You look—”

Trez’s upper lip curled off his descended fangs. Then he snapped his jaws in the direction of the fallen angel, like a German Shepherd. Or maybe a bull shark doing a test bite before he went chainsaw on his prey.

Lassiter put up his palms. “Whatever, man, I was going to say she looks like a charity case. A football referee. A Martha Stewart impersonator. You want me to keep going? I could break into dumb-ass Disney characters. There are so many of them.”

That poke in his rib cage came again. Then Rhage leaned in. “Trez,” the Brother hissed. “You gotta fucking say something here.”

Trez cleared his throat. “I … I … I…”

He was dimly aware of the females on the second floor breaking into high fives and cheers of, “Nailed it.” But his queen remained worried.

Okay, he needed to pull himself together—before Rhage’s elbow nailed him in the liver again, and Selena bolted back to his bedroom. “You are … I am…”

He pulled at the collar of his silk shirt, even though the thing was wide-open.

“You like it?” she said.

All he could do was nod. He was literally nothing but hormones in a black suit. She was that beautiful to him.

“Really?”

More nodding. “Uh-huh. Really.”

Selena started to smile. Then she glanced back at the females, who jumped up and down and gave her thumbs-up.

His queen turned back to him. Stepped in close. Took his hands and stretched up to whisper in his ear, “The only thing they didn’t give me was underwear.”

Naked.

She was n-n-n-n-nakey under that.

THIRTY-ONE

No sleep.

Paradise had gotten absolutely, positively no sleep whatsoever in the beautiful house. At first, it had been because she was so excited to have the run of the place that she’d gone through every parlor, bedroom, and bathroom, marveling at the art, the furnishings, the decor—twice. Then it had been a case of picking a bedroom underground (she’d chosen the one on the left) and unpack, unpack, unpack.

Her beloved doggen, Vuchie, had started to lay a pallet for herself out in the short, stone-walled corridor between the two subterranean suites, but Paradise had insisted her maid go across the way and stay in the other actual bedroom. This had led to a series of protests, whereupon her servant, trapped between a direct order and her discomfort at staying in such luxury, had nearly had a nervous breakdown.

In the end, though, and as usual, Paradise had gotten her way.

At which point, she’d retreated to “her” bedroom, changed into nightclothes and discovered the further good news that the Wi-Fi didn’t require a password. Stretching out on the velvet duvet, she’d checked Twitter, Facebook,