His worst nightmare was finally happening.
He didn’t know how he would survive the night without killing her escort.
The fucking moron was practically drooling all over her chest as they danced the waltz across the grand ballroom. But first, he wanted to kill her fashion designer.
THAT fucking gown!
He would never have approved of it had he seen the design beforehand, but the sneaky little witch was able to one up him on this one.
Who was she trying to show off to, anyway? Her escort? Her bunch of admirers who were all present tonight? She’d always preferred simple, modest clothes. This was the first time he’d seen her display so much of her frontal assets in public.
As it was, she was already a vision in red, her jaw-dropping measurements emphasized even more by the revealing cut of her gown. No, she didn’t look like a princess or a fairy or any of those cartoon characters young girls fantasized about on occasions like this. Men didn’t care for that juvenile shit. She was too packing in all the right places to be a boring Disney princess.
She was a walking wet dream. The kind that got plastered on billboards selling underwear and alcohol, or on centerfolds, the type that boys and men jacked off to on a regular basis.
Including him.
Her boobs were pushed up to the edge of her bodice he was afraid one wrong move would have her knockers spilling out for all these young horndogs to see.
He’d seen her in a bikini of course, whenever she’d swim in the pool but only within the confines of his territory. For his eyes only. The thought of any other man discovering the treasures underneath her shirts and jeans drove him up the wall like nothing else.
He was so relieved she was not one of those girls who got off wearing sexy clothes on a daily basis or he would have gone nuts long ago. She liked shirts and jeans. Not that she didn’t look smashing hot in those get-ups but better that than little dresses that readily gave the horny male species ideas they could easily flip them and cop a feel.
He was not a jealous man, considered that emotion a weakness that made fools do the most stupid things and get themselves in the most fucked up situations, but where his buttercup was concerned, he was a savage Neanderthal.
Yeah. Plain and simple.
That baby was his.
He would claim her when the time was right. And until then, nobody else can.
No. Fucking. Body.
Underneath her clothes she was the stuff that made women sex symbols. Even legends. In their horny minds, at least.
Luscious tits that could make even the most commitment-phobe want to shoot babies in her womb so he can watch them grow bigger still and enjoy looking at his kids suck milk from those beauties, or him doing the latter like he’d gone thirsty in a century.
That ass, that fucking ass that should be outlawed. Fat and rounded and firm and cannot be concealed even if she wore a sack cloth. He’d nearly killed a hundred horndogs for staring too long at her ass.
And don’t get him started on those legs. She was not tall as a model, his usual go-to for sex. People thought that was his type as he’d made a collection of them over the years. They didn’t know shit about his real type. THAT heart-stopping little thing in the middle of the dance floor was his all-time type.
She was shorter than average, her pretty head barely clearing his shoulders on her bare feet but she had the most gorgeous gams in his book. Not stick thin and bony but rounded and fleshy and could hug his hips in a dead-lock while he drove himself into her tight, virgin—
Fuck.
Helluva way to be thinking about her in this manner in the middle of a fucking ball where all the old-moneyed folks who knew Baron Levin on a first-name basis were in attendance.
Tonight, she was officially eighteen.
That meant only one thing to a lot of the male guests of this obscenely extravagant affair, especially to the monster he had risen in his pants thinking about her big, fat ass.
She was no longer a jailbait.
And that was scaring the shit out of him.
Truth.
He was scared.
He was a man who made his own rules. Control was his game. But he was wise enough to acknowledge that fear was a factor and only fools do not fear anything. But in his cutthroat world, fear was quantifiable like percentage of profit. The bigger the balls, the bigger the kill.
His balls were legend in the business now, not only for the big, long bat attached to it with a batting average in the sack that would make the major’s hall of cream easy, but for its record in making a killing out of hardcore targets.
Nothing could move him anymore.
Nothing but Serena Levin.
He wanted to justify his feelings.
She was practically his younger sister. Much younger stepsister. Their parents were married seven years ago.
Of course, he needed to protect her from men who might take advantage of her. Especially these snotfaces who knew shit about treating women well.
Really now? taunted his conscience. If she only knew the perverted thoughts you have for her and how well you treat her in your most depraved fantasies, she would kick your fucking balls from here to kingdom come and back.
He sighed deeply. If only ‘come’ was the operative word between them.
