IN HIS WORLD: HIS #8
(A BILLIONAIRE DOMINATION SERIAL)
Copyright © 2013 Erika Masten
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Erika Masten [email protected]
Published by Sticky Sweet Books. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored on, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual persons or events are purely coincidental.
Warning: Explicit content. Intended for mature readers only. All characters depicted herein are 18 years or older, and all sexual activities are of a consensual nature.
This is a work of erotic fantasy. In real life, please protect yourself and your lover by always practicing safe sex.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
In His World: His #8
Novel Preview From
The Ringmaster: Cirque de Plaisir
IN HIS WORLD: HIS #8
Walking hand-in-hand with Adrian Knight through his resort on Ilha de Flor had been unsettling at best—with quiet, nervous employees hurrying across lushly carpeted anterooms and through marble corridors and even the guests casting curious glances, reserved and tentative as they mulled over muttered conversations—but the villa… My god, the villa… I had no idea how Manuela had gotten the whole entryway and living room smelling of warm honey cakes, coffee, and hot chocolate, but I could have thrown my arms around her and kissed her and cried, had only she been there. As it was, she had laid out an immense Brazilian lunch on the round table by the shutters out to the patio and pool and left only a crisp white note folded and standing amid the trays and dishes.
The only word I recognized in the note, in Manuela’s hurried but fanciful handwriting, was Adrian’s name. He translated in a worn breath. “Welcome home.” The faint lilt of that faded London accent was coming out, meaning he was tired. Beyond tired.
Those silvered brown eyes scanned the room like he wanted to memorize every detail: sprawling cowhide rugs, the sensual curves of the cream leather furniture, the pressed orchids and leaves in antique frames in a neat row along the wall, and that gleaming brown grand piano. He glanced several times between the Steinway and the feast set out for us, seeming undecided.
I leaned slightly toward the table, in a nearly subconscious urge to draw him away from the piano. My heart couldn’t take it just now, hearing him play. Maybe I was—no, definitely—I was afraid he’d play that adagio again, the one that I had come to associate with losing the men in my life. So long as I didn’t hear that, I could pretend I didn’t see the shadow in Adrian’s expression, the one that said he was…little by little…preparing himself for defeat. To forfeit the island and the home and family he’d made here. To lose the fortune he’d built without the Alexander name behind him—despite it. To go to prison.
Feeling Adrian’s long, warm fingers unlacing from mine cut off that dismal thought. Instead of sitting down at either the table or the piano, Knight stepped up close behind me, his fingertips tracing the line of my arms through my plain white blouse. Shivers prickled along my skin, tightening it, raising goose bumps over my whole body in spite of the fact that it had to have been eighty degrees outside and not much cooler in here.
With a sudden deep sigh, as I felt Adrian beginning to nuzzle my neck, I let my head loll to one side. The trimmed stubble along his hard, wide jaw scraped