I fuck.
And right now, I can’t fuck Adley. I’m too raw and vulnerable, wondering what’s going to happen between us now that she’s finished school. And if there are two things I hate feeling, it’s raw and vulnerable.
I need to sharpen that line between us, get us back on track with no-strings sex before one of us gets hurt, and there’s only one way I know how to do that.
With a kiss to her sweet lips, I smack her ass and nudge her off of me. She pulls the sheet over her naked breasts and watches me.
“Why do you always do that?” she asks.
“Do what?”
“Pull away from me.”
“I’m not pulling away from you.”
“Yes, you are.”
Finding a pair of sweats on the floor, I slip them on, forgoing my underwear, and turn back toward Adley. She looks like an angel in my bed, and I don’t know how long I can keep doing this. Whatever this is between us, it’s coming to a head. I can feel it.
And she’s right—I pull away all the time. I like to tell myself it’s to protect Adley, but that would be a lie. I do it to protect myself.
I walk back to the bed and lean down, pressing my hands to the mattress. “I never should’ve offered you a ride home that night.”
“I hate that you feel that way. Maybe that day was the start of something wonderful.” She brushes her fingers across my cheek. The frazzled mess inside my head calms at the touch of her hand.
So, yeah, this is where that special place in hell part comes in, because I will never be her something wonderful. My parents made sure of that. But that doesn’t stop me from wrapping my fingers around her wrist, pulling her hand to my mouth, and giving her false hope.
“I said I shouldn’t have asked, not that I regret asking.” I kiss each of her knuckles.
I can’t bring myself to regret a damn thing that happens between me and Adley, no matter how bad I want to.
Releasing her hand, I trail my finger from the base of her neck, down her chest, over her collarbone, and along a pink nipple. Adley arches off the bed when I flick the tight bud, and if I didn’t know better, I’d swear I see the same yearning I feel reflected back at me.
But that can’t be, because men like me don’t get women like her. At least not to keep. I was the kid who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks with shit parents and clothes that had been handed down one too many times. I stole to feed my sister, fought to protect her, and I will always be the guy your parents don’t want you to bring home.
I’m Adley’s walk on the wild side. Her dirty little secret. And I’m okay with that.
Ninety-nine percent of the time.
Today is just that one percent when it doesn’t sit well with me. For some strange reason, I want to be here to celebrate all of Adley’s victories, not just this one. I want to be here when she gets her first job and take her out to dinner after her first shift. I want to be the person she calls when she has a bad day or saves someone’s life.
Shit. I need to get a handle on these damn feelings.
I pull my hand away, stand up, and reach for my shirt. “You should get going. You have lots of things to do, right?”
With a loud grown, she flings her legs over the side of the bed, the sheet pooling around her waist, and my eyes drop to her chest. Her nipples tighten under my gaze, and I grin.
“Stop doing that,” she says.
I move my eyes back to hers. “Doing what?”
“Looking at me like that. It’s like I have no control over my body when you’re around.”
“That’s a bad thing?”
Her lips part and then snap shut, and she looks down at her hands. “No, it’s not a bad thing.” Head tilted to the side, she glances up at me through thick, dark lashes. “And for the record, I’m glad you offered me a ride home that night. I just wish it hadn’t taken you five years to notice me.”
Is she crazy? “You think I didn’t notice you?” I admonish.
She shrugs, but that’s not good enough. I’m in knots over her, have been for months—years if I’m being honest. “Trust me, sweetheart, I noticed.”
“Oh yeah?” She arches an eyebrow and pushes up from the bed. With her eyes locked on mine, Adley bends over, scoops her shorts off the floor, and steps into them. Her silky underwear ride up her ass, leaving very little to the imagination. Slowly she stands, dragging her shorts up as she does, and the conversation fades into something I’m much more comfortable with.
This I can handle.
She wiggles her ass. “Is this what you noticed?”
I slide an arm around Adley’s waist and lower my lips to her ear, tickling the soft skin with the scruff on my jaw. “Wiggle that ass again, and it’ll be mine.”
She turns in my arms. “It turns me on when you get all possessive. Makes me want to do it again just to test you.”
“Do it. I promise you won’t make it to whatever appointment you have today, and you’ll be walking funny tomorrow.”
Her eyes widen, lips part, and for a second I think she’s going to take me up on the offer.
“Monroe will never forgive me if I miss our appointment at the bridal shop.”
I kiss her sweet lips and smack her ass before stepping away. “Get out of here before I make us both late.”
“Fine.” She pouts but grabs her shirt off the floor where I tossed it a couple hours ago.
She came by after her final test, and I was more than happy to help her celebrate.
Pulling her shirt back on, she looks up at me. “What are you doing this afternoon?”
“I need to run by Dad’s, and then I’ll head over to The Barn for a few hours to get some training in. Is your gas tank full?”
She grins and slips her shoes on. “Yes.”
“Good girl. Text me when you get to Heaven.”
“Always,” she says, turning toward the door. “Goodbye, Lincoln.”
“See ya, sunshine.”
She blows me a kiss and slips out the door.
I’ve always been a man of control. I know when to bend and when to stand strong. I make my mind up about something, and I stick to it, no matter what. But Adley tests that control.
She tempts me to wish for more—to hope for the things I’ve told myself I’ll never have. She’s so sweet, her skin so soft and supple, her body so inviting… Letting her walk out of my home is getting harder and harder.
A Sneak Peek at The Truth About Lennon
K.L. Grayson
Chapter 1
Motorcycle Man
Lennon
“I am beautiful.” The narrator’s soft voice croons through the speakers.
I cringe, but repeat the words. “I am beautiful.”
Everyone has always told me how pretty I am. Gorgeous, stunning, breathtaking—all words used by my parents, friends, teachers, even strangers. But they see who I am on the outside.
Daughter of acclaimed actress Renee Barrick and Vice Presidential candidate Christopher St. James.
Socialite.
Former child star.
I despise who I am on the outside.
Perfectly coiffed, manicured, waxed, and well-mannered, all wrapped up in one perfectly presentable package. Silky blond hair with big, beautiful beach waves—thank you kindly to my extensions—designer clothes, and lips that, according to my ex-bestie Lizzie, can bring grown men to their knees.
And believe it or not, those are all things I hate about myself.
Who gives a shit if I’m a size six or my hair has the perfect balayage? What about who I am on the Inside? What about my kind heart and sympathetic soul? What about who I am when no one is looking? Don’t those things matter anymore? Today’s world is so consumed with beauty and the perfectly sculpted body that the really important things people have to offer go unnoticed.
Such as kindness and compassion.
“I am strong.”
Glaring at the screen on the dash, I wrinkle my nose at the narrator. This one is
a bit harder because I’m the opposite of strong.
I’m weak—a puppet of sorts, conforming to what everyone else wants, occasionally forgetting that it’s okay to have an opinion. It’s okay to be...me.
And the real me doesn’t want to be a trophy wife. Or a CPA. The real me wants to sew and design—to be free to do what I want without the fear of repercussions.
That’s exactly why I moved here… Well, partly why I moved here, away from the hustle and bustle that was my life. Away from the proverbial hell and straight into Heaven.
Heaven, Texas, that is.
Population ten thousand five hundred seventy-one, and home of the thickest, saltiest air in the entire universe. Air that is no doubt doing a number on my overpriced extensions. Normally this would be a problem. Today it isn’t. Because today is my new normal. Today is about letting go, moving forward, and embracing me:
Lennon St. James.
Seamstress.
Designer.
Independent woman.
See? I’ve got this in the bag.
My parents think they’re making me lie low, stay out of the limelight, so to speak, after the media shitstorm my life inadvertently caused. Public embarrassment, that’s what my mother called it. Apparently I shamed my family, putting my father’s campaign at risk. In my defense, I was trying to help someone I thought was a friend. But whatever. My parents are doing me a favor. Little do they know they’re also giving me what I’ve been yearning for: the opportunity to finally get away from it all.
The life.
The city.
Them.
Squaring my shoulders, I take a deep breath. “I am strong.”
“Very good,” the narrator says before the gentle music fades. There’s a click through my speakers, and a huskier voice says, “This is the end of session one.”
I’m not typically one to listen to self-help programs. In fact, I’ve never listened to one until today, and it wasn’t really by choice. The people who rented this car before me must’ve left the CD in the player, and considering I’ve probably spent a whopping ten hours in the front seat of a car—ever—I can’t figure out how to take the darn thing out. So, I took it as a sign. A little self help never hurt anyone, right?
“Please insert disc two: Free Yourself of Anxiety and Stress.”
I make a mental note to search for disc two while glancing to my right. I’m momentarily stunned by the most breathtaking coastal view.
My world has until now been filled with skyscrapers and busy streets where a five-minute commute can easily turn into twenty or thirty, and people would rather bike or walk than drive. But here... Here it’s much different. The open road begs for rolled-down windows, cranked music, and soaking up the hot summer sun.
And I plan to soak it up right over there in front of that sprawling blue ocean.
Okay, it’s less blue and more murky, but it’s an ocean, and I’ll take it.
My car hugs the curves as I cruise along the coast, glancing back and forth from the endless sandy beach to the road in front me, desperate to take it all in, which is probably why I don’t notice the subtle curve to the right and the motorcycle that comes barreling around the—
Oh shit!
Jerking my wheel, I swerve off the road and skid to a stop. My heart in my throat and my stomach on the floor, I throw my car in park and shove open the door in time to see the motorcycle slide across the road before landing in a large plume of dust.
Oh my God.
Oh my God.
I almost hit someone.
I can’t believe I just ran someone off the road. What if he’s hurt or worse yet… No!
I dart across the road and fall to my knees beside the the motorist.
“Oh my God. I’m so sorry. So, so, so sorry. Are you okay?”
The man fumbles with his helmet, his hands shaking, and after a few failed attempts to get it off, I reach out and help.
With one swift tug, the helmet pops off, and I’m greeted by the most gorgeous set of dark brown eyes. On any other day they’d probably be warm and inviting, but as it is today, they look a bit menacing.
“Do I look okay?” he growls, glancing at his leg pinned under the giant hog.
“You’re right,” I say frantically, holding out a placating hand. “Stay right here. I’m going to call nine one one.”
“Where the fuck am I gonna go?”
His words are harsh, which is completely expected considering I just ran the poor man off the road, and they’re probably also fueled by an immense amount of pain, which is why I choose to ignore him.
“Right. Okay.”
Scrambling to my feet, I dart across the road and call for an ambulance, all the while praying I don’t get hauled off to jail, because if anything would make Daddy Dearest piss his pants, it would be that.
The dispatcher takes our location and encourages me to stay calm. She tells me a few other things, but I can’t concentrate because my damn eyes keep lingering on the sexy man across the street. The way his hair tumbles in front of his face. The firm set of his jaw and—
“Ma’am?”
“Huh?”
“Are you hurt?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“An ambulance is on its way.”
“Thank you.” I shove my phone in my pocket and run back across the asphalt.
“An ambulance is on its way.”
The stranger grunts, thanking me for for my assistance as he pushes up on his elbows, somehow maneuvering himself into an awkward sitting position.
He struggles to get his leather jacket off, so I reach out to give him a hand, but a low growl deters me. A couple of minutes pass. Sweat is pouring off of his forehead, and eventually the stubborn man sighs and looks over at me.
“A little help here?”
As delicately as possible, I help him out of his coat. “I’m going to pretend you asked me nicely.”
“And I’m going to pretend you didn’t just try to kill me.”
He has a point, although I’m too distracted by the intricate swirl of tattoos running up his arms, the way his red cotton shirt stretches tight across his chest, and the chunk of dark hair that can’t seem to stay off of his forehead.
No wonder they call this place Heaven. He’s like an angel wrapped in denim and leather.
And if that isn’t the most perfect kind of heaven, I don’t know what is.
“A little less staring, a little more help,” he says, grunting again as he tries to pull his leg out from under the bike.
I should be embarrassed that I got caught checking him out. Oddly enough, I’m not—not one bit. The old me would’ve been, but not Lennon St. James. No sir, she’s a little minx that will do whatever the hell she wants.
For the most part...as long as it doesn’t get her in trouble...or put her in danger.
“Shouldn’t we wait for the ambulance?”
“No, we shouldn’t,” he says tightly, glaring up at me. “Now would you give me a hand?”
I’m not sure what he thinks I’m going to do. I’m lucky if I weigh a buck twenty soaking wet, and this motorcycle probably weighs ten times that.
“What are you doing in Heaven?” Palms pressed flat against the bike, he pushes, but the heap of steel doesn’t move.
“I’m an angel, where else would I be?” I give my brightest smile, but Motorcycle Man only glares. “Okay. Not the time for jokes. Sorry.”
“You didn’t—” He huffs, pushing again. “—answer my question.”
“How do you know I’m not from Heaven?”
“Because I know everyone in this town. Plus,” he adds, blowing out a sharp breath, “the locals know there’s a curve on this road. Anytime there’s an accident, it’s a tourist.”
“Yes, well, I’m not a tourist.”
He lifts a brow, challenging me, and I clear my throat.
“Okay, fine. I’m a tourist, but not for long. I’m moving here.”
Temporarily, but he doesn�
�t need to know that
“Why?”
“I really don’t want to talk about it.” Pressing my hands to the tank, I push, hoping our combined strength will be enough to move the bike.
It’s not.
“Well, I do.” Taking a deep breath, he blows it out slowly and gives up on trying to move the bike.
His forehead is pinched in pain, his eyes glassy, and I wonder if maybe he hit his head.
“Listen, I’m trying really hard not to pass out here, so if you could just keep talking and keep me occupied, I’d appreciate it.”
“Um...okay.”
Come on, Lennon. You can do this. When I think about keeping a man occupied, I think about giving him a toe-curling kiss, or slipping my hand into his pants, but I highly doubt Motorcycle Man here wants me crawling on his lap at a time like this. Plus, he probably has a wife at home. A really gorgeous wife.
“Tell me about your tattoos,” I blurt.
His eyes narrow, lips slam shut, and he shakes his head. “Nope. Next question.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” he says, attempting to adjust himself. “Fuck,” he grits out, his jaw clenched tight. He looks away as though he’s trying to hide his pain.
Typical man.
Scooting forward, I position myself behind his back and wrap my legs around his hips to support some of his weight.
“Here. Lean back on me. Take some of that weight off. You probably shouldn’t be sitting up anyway. I think you might’ve hit your head.”
Surprisingly, he leans back, the weight of his body causing the palms of my hands to dig into the loose gravel at the side of the road. I do my best to ignore the bite of pain because right here, with my legs wrapped around a stranger on the side of a coastal highway in a foreign town, I feel more comfortable than I have in a long time.
“I didn’t hit my head.”
His words are soft, and I decide it’s better not to argue with him, so I change the subject.
“Now that you’re situated and, you know, more comfortable, you can tell me about your tattoos.”
“No.”
“They’re really pretty.”
“Tattoos aren’t pretty.”
Crazy, Hot Love Page 28
