Dirty Little Secret (Forbidden Desires #1)

Gavin

“Fucking Cooper,” I muttered under my breath.

Dragging the towel off my hips, I swiped away the steam covering my bathroom mirror. The reflection staring back at me was laced with frustration.

I blew out a pissed-off breath and fought to erase my scowl. Sonja was always saying it was going to age me early. She joked that I’d need Botox if I kept that up. I assured her I didn’t give a shit about that, yet her nagging had apparently gotten through. I relaxed my features and took another deep breath.

I wanted to pretend the reason I was pissed was because I’d let Cooper talk me into this. But I knew it was a little more complicated than that. Fuck. Okay, a lot more complicated.

After stepping into a pair of black Armani boxer briefs, I shrugged into a crisp white dress shirt and left it unbuttoned as I strode into the formal dining room and straight toward the liquor cabinet. This room was rarely ever used, I think I’d only eaten at the table once, but the large oak cabinet opposite the dining table held all my favorite bottles of liquor.

Selecting a cut-crystal glass, I let out another sigh and rolled my shoulders.

I’d tried to shake the feeling, to convince myself that it was all in my head, but something about tonight felt too much like the way things had started three years ago. With Ashley. I hadn’t been truly involved with an escort since we’d been together. Not that I allowed myself to think of her often.

Something about Emma stirred up those same feelings inside me, and this situation was eerily similar. Of course, I would never have let Cooper touch Ashley. She was mine. Which was exactly why Emma couldn’t be. I couldn’t go down that road again.

So then, why did you blow up his phone the other night trying to find out about their date?

Fucking idiot. It wasn’t like I could ask him if they’d fucked. It was none of my business, but part of me hoped that when I heard his voice or he responded that I’d be able to tell. There would be some mocking note there, or a swagger.

The point was moot, though, because the prick never called me back that night, and didn’t say a word about her all week. Which was fine.

Again, none of my concern.Têxt © NôvelDrama.Org.

And remembering Ashley now only drove that point home.

As I poured myself a measure of bourbon, my brain cataloged the similarities between her and Emma. Sky-blue eyes that were so bright, they were striking. Long, shiny dark hair. A feisty but decidedly submissive nature—it was that last part that got my blood roaring south.

The way things ended with Ashley were messy, and I couldn’t go through that again. Yes, there were many things I loved about her, her fondness for rough sex not the least among them. Her fondness for prescription drugs, though? That had been a deal breaker.

She’d been a ballerina who’d aged out of the system, as gorgeous and graceful as anyone might expect with cheekbones that could cut glass. She and her fellow dancers had never been shy about partying and smoking, but when all her friends went back on tour and she was left alone? That was when the trouble began.

It was my fault from the start. I knew better. The girls were for fun and fun alone. But deep down, in my own way, I knew I had loved her, even if I’d never told her. In the end, I couldn’t save her, and even now, years later, that wound still burned white hot whenever my thoughts turned to her.

Taking a long swallow of bourbon, I appreciated the bitter sting on my tongue, needed it to ground myself.

Emma wasn’t Ashley.

And even if I did want to cross that line with Emma? To possess her and make her mine?

I’d promised my brother I wouldn’t.

Picking up my phone, I dialed my driver. “I’ll be ready in ten. See you out front.”

“Yes, Mr. Kingsley,” he said before disconnecting the call.

Drink in hand, I headed to the master closet to continue getting ready. Selecting a black tuxedo and a ruby-colored tie, I finished dressing for the event, then tossed back the remainder of my drink in a single gulp. After adding platinum cuff links and my watch, I flipped off the lights and headed out to meet Ben, my driver.

The ride to her brownstone was a short and silent one. I scrolled through my emails, checking for anything new, but there was nothing.

I typed out a text to Cooper.

Can’t believe you talked me into this.

His reply came almost instantly.

Have fun, Cooper wrote. You remember what that is, right?

Vaguely, I replied.

She’s easy. You’ll have a good time.

What the fuck does that mean? I typed before deleting it with a snarl. It was none of my business and exactly what he wanted. To yank my chain.

How easy? I finally typed.

I waited, feeling like a caged bear as three little dots danced across my screen. Finally, his response popped up.

I wouldn’t know. Maybe you’ll find out and can tell me . . .

His reply contained a winking face that made me want to punch the motherfucker square in the jaw. I hadn’t done that in years, not in at least a decade. Back then, our most bitter arguments were settled with our fists. Now we settled our differences like men, punishing each other with stony silence or degrading jabs exchanged over cocktails.

I rolled my eyes. If he was trying to goad me into breaking our deal, it wasn’t going to work. I knew the rules, and so did he.

But the realization that he hadn’t touched her . . . Shit. Why did that excite me so much? The idea of being the first of us to touch her, to hear her cry out in pleasure—in pain? I pulled a deep breath into my lungs. The limo rolled to a stop, and I shoved my phone inside my jacket pocket.

It was go time.

Ben opened the car door, and I climbed out just in time to watch a graceful Miss Emma Bell navigate the row of steps down from her ancient little brownstone. She was a woman who could appreciate fine details. I liked that about her already, although we’d barely exchanged six sentences despite our nearly year-long non-affair.

I leaned against the black limo, sizing Emma up. She was in a wine-colored dress that fell to the ground and was tied in a bow behind her neck. It was simple. Elegant. Perfect.

The curves of her hourglass figure made my palms itch. The desire to reach out and touch her, to see if her creamy skin was as soft as it looked, was a sharp pulse of need. One that I quickly tamped down. That would have to wait. We were headed out to support one of my favorite charities, not to slap our private parts together until we both came in a hot, sticky mess.

Damn. Being an adult was a motherfucker sometimes.