Uncle's Little Virgin Pet

CHAPTER 1

A Horrible Mistake.

Aria Hartwell.

"You look like you're planning an escape."

The voice came from behind me, deep and rough with an edge that made my spine straighten involuntarily. I turned and found myself facing a man in a silver mask, his face hidden except for a strong jaw and lips that looked like they knew exactly how to destroy a woman's composure.

"Maybe I am," I said, surprised by the steadiness in my voice despite the way my pulse had kicked up. "Are you going to stop me?"

His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "That depends. Are you running from something or toward something?"

"Does it matter?"

"It might." He stepped closer, and I caught his scent. Expensive cologne with undertones of something darker, more primal. "Running toward something suggests hope. Running from something suggests fear. I'm curious which one drives a woman like you."

I was standing at the edge of the Hartwell Foundation Gala ballroom, watching Manhattan's elite men and women swirl past in their designer gowns and masks. The champagne had stopped tasting good three glasses ago. Now it just tasted like numbness, which was exactly what I needed. My father wasn't here to give the opening speech this year. He would never be here again.

"A woman like me?" I raised my champagne glass to my lips. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know you've been standing in this corner drinking champagne like it's water. I know you're wearing a smile that doesn't reach your eyes. And I know that your heart is racing right now, and it's not from the champagne."

He was right. My heart hammered against my ribs, and when he reached out to brush his fingers against my wrist, I didn't pull away.

"Maybe I just don't like being at parties alone," I said, my voice dropping lower.

"Then dance with me."

It wasn't a question. He took my champagne glass and set it on a nearby table, then pulled me onto the dance floor. His hand settled at the small of my back, possessive and warm through the thin silk of my dress. We moved together like we'd been doing this for years, not seconds.

"You're good at this," I murmured, trying to ignore the way my body responded to his proximity.

"I'm good at a lot of things." His voice was lower now, rough in a way that made heat pool low in my belly. "Dancing is just one of them."

My cheeks flushed. "That was—"

"Exactly what I meant it to be." His hand slid lower on my back, not quite inappropriate but definitely deliberate. "You're blushing."

"You're presumptuous."

"You're not pulling away."

He was right. I wasn't. Instead, I was pressing closer, my fingers curling into his shoulder, my body betraying every sensible thought in my head. When he spun me out and then back into his arms, I ended up plastered against his chest, our faces inches apart.

"This is a bad idea," I whispered, but I didn't move.

"The best ones usually are." His thumb traced circles on my lower back. "Tell me to stop."

I should have. But I'd been so good for so long, playing the role everyone expected, hiding behind my party-girl mask while my father was dying and I couldn't do anything to stop it. For once, I wanted to do something reckless.

"No," I breathed. "Don't stop."

His eyes darkened behind the mask. "You have no idea what you're asking for."

"Then show me."

The song ended. He didn't let me go. Instead, he kept his hand on my back and leaned close enough that his lips brushed my ear. "Come with me."

When he started walking toward the exit, his fingers laced through mine, I followed without hesitation. We slipped through a side door, down a hallway, past the ballroom and reception areas. He had a keycard for the penthouse suite. The thought should have made me cautious and triggered some warning bell.

But I was three glasses of champagne past caring and drowning in grief I couldn't escape.

The elevator ride was silent, charged with anticipation. When we reached the penthouse floor, he led me inside and closed the door. The suite was dark except for the city lights streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows.

"Wait," I said when he reached for the light switch.

His hand paused. "Second thoughts?"

"No. I just..." I stepped closer to him in the darkness. "Leave them off. Please."

There was a pause, then I heard him move. His hands found my waist, warm and steady. "If that's what you want."

It was. In the darkness, I could be anyone. He could be anyone. We could pretend this wasn't complicated, wasn't reckless, wasn't something I'd probably regret in the morning.

His lips found mine, and I stopped thinking altogether.

He kissed me like he was drowning and I was air. His hands slid up my back, finding the zipper of my dress and lowering it with agonizing slowness. The silk pooled at my feet, and I shivered despite the warmth of his touch.

"Cold?" His voice was rough against my ear.

"No." I fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, my fingers clumsy with need. "The opposite."

He helped me, shrugging out of his jacket and shirt, and when my hands met bare skin, I gasped. He was all hard muscle and controlled strength, his body rigid with restraint as I explored.

"Bedroom," he growled, but neither of us made it that far.

We crashed onto the couch, a tangle of limbs and desperate kisses. His hands were everywhere, learning the curves of my body with devastating precision. When he touched me, really touched me, I arched against him with a gasp that might have been his name.

"Tell me you want this," he demanded, his voice strained.

"Yes," I breathed. "God, yes."

What followed was raw and intense and almost overwhelming in its intimacy. He took his time despite the urgency between us, his mouth and hands worshipping every inch of exposed skin. When he finally pushed inside me, I cried out, my nails digging into his shoulders.

We moved together with a synchronicity that felt impossible for strangers. He seemed to know exactly what I needed, where to touch, how hard to push. When I came apart in his arms, he followed moments later, his body going rigid as he groaned my name.

Afterward, we lay tangled together on the couch, both breathing hard. He pulled a throw blanket over us, and I nestled against his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow.

"Stay," he murmured, already half-asleep.

I should have left then. Should have gathered my dress and slipped away while I still could. But exhaustion and champagne and the warmth of his arms pulled me under, and I fell asleep wrapped around a stranger.

When I woke, pale morning light was streaming through the windows. I was alone on the couch, the blanket tucked around me carefully. My body ached in unfamiliar places as I sat up slowly, looking around the penthouse.

That's when I heard it. The soft, steady breathing coming from the bedroom.

Something drew me to the bedroom door, some terrible curiosity I couldn't resist. He was sprawled across the bed, one arm thrown over his face, the sheet riding low on his hips. And in the morning light, I could finally see him clearly.

My blood turned cold immediately. The dark hair with silver at the temples... That distinctive scar bisecting his left eyebrow. The sharp line of his jaw that I'd notic

ed a hundred times across family dinner tables.

Cassian Kent.

My stepuncle.

I'd just slept with my stepuncle.