Free I, Porn Star (I #1) by Zara Cox Page B

it
into her head that she owns me, or at least enough of me to touch me when no
one’s watching. “I thought that was you, Quinn,” she murmurs in my ear.
“Nothing else fires Max up quite like you do.”
    “You sure about
that?” I drawl.
    The husky laugh
is exaggerated. “Well, I won’t lie. I have my moments of inciting Max-related
fires too.”
    “You’ll be good
enough to spare me the details, of course.”
    Another laugh as
she steps around me to block my view of the portraits of generations of
Blackwoods lining the walls. She does so without letting go of my nape, filling
my vision completely. My gaze rakes her from neck to toe.
    She’s wearing a
kimono-style leisure gown in black with bold gold swirls. The V-shaped neckline
and the cinched in waist emphasizes her many considerable assets.
    A tall and
statuesque ex-stock broker, Delilah Blackwood dragged herself from dirt poor to
powerful adversary in a little over a decade. She’s stunningly beautiful, with
straight, jet-black hair that falls to her waist. Combined with the razor-sharp
fringe nearly touching her lashes, and perpetually scarlet painted lips, she is
difficult to look away from when she walks into a room.
    I give her her
due, let my scrutiny linger complimentarily before I greet her gaze with a
guarded, less hostile one while she continues to play with the ends of my hair.
    “Of course. I know
how you hate the details.” She offers a dazzling smile I don’t reciprocate.
    Eventually, all
attempts at playing the unflappable mistress of the house leaves her face.
Behind her we both hear my father pacing his study. He lets loose another curse
and his footsteps grow louder.
    Delilah leans in
close and under the pretext of kissing me hello, whispers in my ear, “I’ve
missed you, darling. Albany was hell without you.”
    “But isn’t hell
where you thrive best, Stepmother Dearest? I bet you had the staff running
around in circles to make hell more interesting for you?”
    For a naked
moment her grey eyes blaze with a sinister light, uncloaking the real Delilah
Frost. When you strip away the gloss and polish, she’s an alley cat in the
basest form, ready to claw and gouge with gold-digging talons to keep what is
hers. Her unvarnished thirst for power saw her land the biggest fish in New
York at twenty-five. But she has a thirst for other things, namely rough,
dangerous sex. The rougher, the better. The kind she made clear from the
beginning she was not getting from Blackwood senior.
    “I haven’t got
all night, Quinn. For the love of God, can you show me some respect—? Oh,
Lilah, I thought you were already in bed?”
    Delilah swivels
on stiletto slippers, her face rearranged in an adoring and accommodating wifely smile. “I was just about to head
there, when I heard the heated discussion. Then I remembered you said Quinn
would be stopping by. I thought it would be rude not to say hello.”
    Maxwell’s tension
eases a fraction as his arm slides around his wife’s waist. At thirty-five,
she’s the right age not to attract veiled sniggers of cradle-snatching attached
to such powerful and high-profile relationships. She’s also very quickly made a
name for herself where it counts to the extent that those who don’t know her
can almost be forgiven for thinking she’s my father’s equal.
    She’s not.
    And it’s that
last rung of elusive acceptance that makes her watch me with blatant hunger
that would’ve been almost amusing had it not been for a simple, hard truth.
    She’s Mrs.
Maxwell Blackwood. But the title doesn’t belong to her. She took it by
unforgivable force.
    “At least someone
around here appreciates the basic tenets of good manners,” Maxwell snipes,
narrowed eyes leaving his wife’s to clash with mine.
    A noise swirls in
my head, rising in volume with each heartbeat. “You’ll have to take me as I am,
Dad. I’m far too big for you to put me over your knee.”
    The growl from
his chest fades away beneath the