She pressed a hand to her chest, feigning offense.

"It�s all right," he whispered. "I�m a bit of an art snob too."

"You don�t say?" She fingered the cuff of his suit jacket, stroking the fine Italian wool where not too long ago the evidence of his father�s demise glowed white in the setting sun. "Here I thought you were the type to have a trophy room full of dead-animal heads."

"To be fair, the live ones are a bit harder to mount."

Her unabashed laughter attracted more than a few impatient glares, but Dorian couldn�t get enough of it. She was even more beautiful when she laughed; her entire body glowed with it.

The curve of her bare shoulder glimmered�a temptation Dorian could no longer resist. With his arm still resting on the back of her chair, he reached out and risked a delicate caress. Her skin rippled with goosebumps, and she sucked in a sharp breath, her heart rate kicking up.

Dorian traced a soft path from her shoulder to her neck, fingers dancing over the pulse point near her throat. Beneath her satin-smooth skin, warm blood stirred at his touch, calling to that dark, ancient beast inside him, drawing his cock to painfully abrupt attention.

All this, from a mere shoulder and neck. He could only imagine what the rest of her body felt like, what it looked like under that dress, what it tasted like.

He drew his hand back, unleashing a sigh from her lips, a gentle shiver trembling across her shoulders like a wave kissing the shoreline.

Dorian�s mouth quirked into a smile. With nothing more than a touch, he�d commanded such a response. It was as if her body had already foreseen its destiny, already resigned itself to a future pinned beneath his hungry, insatiable mouth.

The dizzying scent of her desire washed over him anew.

And in that moment, he knew with utter certainty�despite his vows, despite his responsibilities, despite everything�tonight could only end in one of two ways.

He was going to fuck her.

Or he was going to feed on her.

"�Desolate Rains by Hans Whitfield."

The announcement cut into his carnal thoughts, bringing the auction room back into sharp focus. His painting was up for bid�a moment he�d been working on for years. He couldn�t turn his back on it now�not even for her.

The woman glanced up at him, her eyes dark with unfulfilled need. But she quickly blinked it away, forcing a smile and wishing him luck on the bidding.

Clinging to the last vestiges of his control, he returned her smile and whispered a quick retort. "I don�t need luck, gorgeous. I�ve got money."

Sliding the bid card from his suit jacket, he quickly scanned the room, assessing the competition. A handful of people leaned forward in their chairs, but to Dorian it looked more like curiosity than commitment.

He hoped that wasn�t the case. He needed the adrenaline rush of a good fight to take his mind off the throbbing ache below his belt.

"We�ll start the bidding at ten thousand dollars," the auctioneer said. It was an insulting opener for such a priceless piece, and several bid cards floated lazily into the air. He waited until the bidding reached $50,000 before making his first move.

"Fifty-five," he said calmly. He was prepared to go as high as a million, but from the looks of things, it wouldn�t get close to that.

"Sixty," Duchanes said, turning to offer a smug smile.

Irritation burned in his chest, but Dorian nodded politely, holding off on raising the asshole�s bid. Another woman went to $70,000, volleying with a few others until it reached $100,000.

Dorian raised it by ten. JrNovels.com