Page 75 of King of Deception

But I know he was kidding.

Gris and his brothers agreed to honor the original terms and paid Kincaid a handsome sum to connect their casinos to the Kincaid Las Vegas tunnel.

I don’t know how happy the Smiths are with the arrangement, but when I’m around, they play nice.

Gris swears its fine.

But I think I’ll find out the truth tonight. Because tonight, I meet the duchess. Gris’s mother.

Another wave of nerves crashes over me. I don’t have the best track record with future mother-in-laws.

And I did not intend to be late tonight.

It’s a family dinner.

And by that, I mean all of the Smiths and all of the Kincaids, along with their wives.

Even Jake and Nia are coming, which should be interesting. More likely awful.

My belly flutters with nerves again, as I lean over the bathroom counter to apply more gloss in the mirror.

That’s when Gris enters the bathroom, fiddling with his cufflink.

He stops when he sees me, his gaze catching mine in the mirror. “That’s some dress.”

I run a hand over my silk-clad hip. I was going for Jackie O. It’s silk, pale, strapless, but it’s still relatively conservative in its cut and lines. “Don’t tease me,” I wrinkle my nose. “I’m nervous.”

I cap my gloss, the ring on my finger catching the bathroom light. It’s like the one Preston gave me in that it’s a diamond, set in platinum.

But this one is a family heirloom. From the turn of the century, it’s hand-cut for candlelight, the elaborate setting flaring on either side to meet the stone, encrusted with diamonds and filigree, it radiates beauty and warmth.

Or maybe those are just my feelings.

“I’m not teasing,” he says as he moves closer, the power of his body making me tense in the best way possible. “You look like a woman who should be ravaged.”

“Gris,” I warn, even as a little thrill snakes down my spine. “We’re already late.”

“They’ll wait.”

“My dress,” I cry, trying again.

His answer is to bend me over the counter, skimming the silk back up my legs. “I can’t be held responsible for the dress.”

“It’s going to wrinkle,” I gasp.

“You’ll be more relaxed,” he answers with a cheeky grin before he bends down behind me.

With the fabric pooled about my waist, he yanks my thong down my thighs and then dives in tongue-first.

The intense pleasure that zings through me makes me cry out as I clutch at the faucet.

I can’t think, I can’t breathe, and I definitely can’t protest as pleasure radiates through my body.

He inserts a finger inside me, working me like only he can as I lift my hips to chase the pleasure.

I’m already close to orgasming, my body so tight, my toes have curled in my heels.

But he must feel that I’m pushing close to the edge because he stops, standing behind me.

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