Wishful Sinful (Rock Royalty Book 5)

by Christie Ridgway

  Yeah, the Rock Royalty made their way onto gossip rags and websites, no matter that they’d prefer to live out of the limelight.

  “You’re trespassing,” Ren said flatly.

  The women exchanged looks.

  “Oh, but we just wanted a peek.” The brunette gave them a practiced, winning smile.

  “You’ve had it then,” Ren replied, not bending. “Time to go.”

  Bleached Blonde pouted. “Couldn’t we stay a few minutes longer?” Her gaze latched onto Bing and Brody. “Wow. There’re two of you.”

  Brody’s grin grew slowly. “But only one of us is unattached.”

  The blonde put her forefinger to her chin. “You?”

  Sheesh. Walsh barely contained his eye roll.

  “Me,” the good twin concurred, though at the moment he looked as if only bad thoughts consumed his mind. He looked toward the other men. “I think these lovely ladies can have a tour, don’t you?”

  “It’s not—” Ren started.

  “I’ll keep it short.”

  With a small shake of his head, Ren put up his hands. “I’m out, but you do what you gotta do, Brody.”

  “Pretty please?” the blonde said, bouncing on her heels.

  Brody was watching the way the hem of her dress lifted, displaying more inches of tanned thighs. “Especially when you put it like that…” He shot a look at Walsh. “The two of us can take them around, right?”

  Because they were the only ones in the group currently without a woman. Swallowing his sigh, Walsh nodded. Male solidarity meant he couldn’t refuse.

  The other men turned back to the pool while Brody led the way toward the path that meandered up a hill to the fruit orchard which afforded the best views of the compound. Walsh trailed behind the group, listening to the other man charm the trio. The twins had been born with the gift of gab.

  At the top of the rise, Sunglasses Woman turned to Walsh with a friendly smile. “The fruit trees are blossoming,” she said. “Do you know what kind these are?”

  “Peach,” Walsh answered, then was instantly thrown back to the meal earlier in the day. In his mind’s eye he saw Honey, her head thrown back, fruit juice dribbling into her mouth.

  His muscles tensed as other images blossomed. Her big blue eyes blinking up at him, her slender hand passing him a file, her secret smile when he slid his fingers up her leg under one of her business skirts.

  Okay, that one was pure fantasy. He’d never slid his fingers up her leg under one of her business skirts, but he could feel the silkiness of her skin, sense her surrender as her legs parted for his touch, anticipate the wet heat that would greet him when he found his way beneath satiny panties.

  Or would they be lace?

  “Are you all right?”

  Walsh came back to the present, blinking at the stranger who was peering at him over her dark lenses.

  “It’s hot out here,” he muttered, moving away. A peach blossom drifted down, the delicate pink the exact color of Honey’s blush and maybe of her—

  “You could be a little more sociable,” Brody murmured, strolling close.

  Walsh frowned at him. “They came here because of the Lemons.”

  “When has that ever stopped us from having fun?”

  Wincing, Walsh didn’t have a good answer. Once their voices had changed, the adolescent sons of the Velvet Lemons hadn’t been barred from any sight…or from anything. The reminder didn’t put him in a better mood, and he trailed the group in silence as they continued on their tour. Back at the gates, Brody proposed the five of them head out for drinks.

  Walsh made his excuses and returned to find the other men were now still on the pool deck, but they’d wheeled out the huge TV from the pool house and were watching a basketball game in the afternoon shadows. Bing looked up and took in his solo state. “Brody?”

  He found a free chair. “Three-on-one in the sauna at your dad’s castle.”

  The twin winced. “Shit.”

  “I’m kidding. The ladies wanted Lemon Drops after their glimpse of the Lemons’ compound. Your brother left with them.”

  Bing sighed. “Trouble’s brewing. His benders are becoming more frequent.”

  Ren looked over with a frown. “Are you going to talk to your sister about this?”

  The other man shook his head. “I’m keeping Cilla out of it.”

  “Good,” Ren said, then his gaze shifted, and his expression lightened. A smile tipped the corners of his mouth, and he looked like a slightly less surly version of his bad-ass self. “She’s back,” he murmured, half to himself, and rose from his chair.

  As he started walking, Walsh turned his head. The shoppers had returned. They were distant enough that he couldn’t make out their words, but the sound of their voices was lively, and he could see the skip in their steps. Ren jogged down the path in the direction of Cilla, and suddenly she dropped the bags in her hands and raced toward him, throwing herself into his arms. Like he hadn’t a care in the world, her fiancé twirled her around and she laughed, then buried her face in his throat.

  Walsh started to scoff at their little display of devotion, but then he realized he was alone on the pool deck. The others, including Obie and Eli, were making their way toward the women. Soon they were engrossed in their own effusive greetings.

  Standing apart was Honey, her arms draped in shopping bags. A half-smile curved her lips as she looked at the couples around her. Then her head lifted and she was gazing straight at Walsh.

  Peaches. Heat. Silky skin. Wet folds.

  Thoughts of all those invaded his brain, and lust came roaring back, making his head spin and his blood burn. He rose to his feet because sitting was no longer an option, not with his dick acting like that divining rod he’d scorned when talking to his brother.

  He’d paced halfway to meet her with some semi-formed idea of taking her to the closest flat surface where he could do her all night long. Then a hummingbird flitted by, buzzing so close it nearly took off his nose. He drew up with a sharp suck of air.

  His body’s response registered in sharp detail. The hammer of his pulse, the throbbing of his cock, that dangerous drive to do anything in order to possess a certain female.

  Shit, he should know better, given that such urges had once upon a time detonated in his face. In this very place.

  Curling his fingers into fists, Walsh forced himself to think. This was trouble. Being led around by his sex drive was bad enough, but that it had found true north in his admin, Honey Brooks, was an impossible situation.

  He needed to find a block for his cock.

  It appeared it was time to begin implementing his plan to ride the calm and steady wave.

  Chapter 4

  With a glance at the taxi pulled up to the curb, Honey struggled to get out her front door. Her wheeled suitcase hung up on the raised threshold and her laptop bag, slung across her breasts, made it difficult to free the piece of luggage. It was ridiculously large for a long weekend, but the Rock Royalty girls had stampeded over her objections and insisted on an entire wardrobe of vacation outfits. The only time she’d gotten her way was when she’d refused to cut her hair and when she’d insisted on a conservative, black one-piece swimsuit instead of the colorful bikinis they’d kept trying to sneak into her pile of new clothes.

  “I’ll get that,” a deep voice said.

  She looked up at Walsh but had to blow her bangs out of her eyes to see his face. Maybe she should have surrendered to a stylist after all. “I can do—”

  He wrenched the handle from her grasp and strode with it down the walkway, leaving Honey to lock her front door then scurry behind.

  “I know it’s big,” she said, embarrassed.

  Not only big, but inside were liquids in amounts larger than the allowed carry-on size, meaning she’d have to check the thing instead of sliding it in the overhead compartment. That was the fault of the Rock Royalty girls too. They’d loaded her up with make-up and toiletries: a special foundation—CC, BB,
ZZ?—that was also sunscreen, several kinds of hair products to counteract the damage of sun and salt water, an expensive facial soap, and a perfume that they swore was perfect for her personality.

  You picked a fragrance based on your disposition? Who knew?

  It did smell good, though, and she’d dabbed some on even though she was wearing her standby navy pants suit instead of something new. She’d decided to wait to try any of the just-purchased outfits until she wasn’t trapped in close confines with her boss. He’d mentioned their tickets were for adjoining seats in first class.

  Even the backseat of the taxicab felt stifling, she noted, putting her laptop bag at her feet. In her peripheral vision she checked out Walsh. Unlike her, he wasn’t dressed in his usual. Instead of a tailored suit and silk tie, he wore relaxed khakis, a pale turquoise linen shirt, and casual loafer-styled boat shoes.

  Her toes curled in her customary pair of black pumps with their square-shaped, medium-height heels, the footwear as stodgy as she felt. Sighing, she edged closer to the window.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She could tell he was looking at her, but she avoided his gaze. “Absolutely.”

  Absolutely she was all right. Nothing would bump her off of all right. Though she’d been holding her little crush on her boss at bay for months—years—and though every day in his employ seemed to wear down her ability to remain—at least appear—unaffected by him, getting through these next few days while maintaining their usual professional rapport was imperative.

  Yes, she had a crush on Walsh.

  Though she’d been avoiding that bald truth for so very long, the prospect of this trip had forced her to face that fact. But if she were to stay at her job, she had to lock the feeling down. Then dismiss it.

  MadSci was where she wanted to be. She was excellent at her post. Her co-workers—Nerf battles included—were a good group. Her position paid very well.

  That her boss valued her was especially important. All her life there’d been angry, whispered exchanges—if not outright shouting matches—that if it wasn’t for Honey, other people’s lives would be so much better. So to her mind, being appreciated was irreplaceable.

  She just had to get over the silly infatuation, and this was the weekend to bury it deep. And forever.

  The check-in at the airport went smoothly. Her suitcase, despite its size, was whisked away without comment. Naturally, Walsh had timed it such that they spent a minimum amount of minutes in the first class lounge, and then they were being shown to their seats.

  Honey had never flown first class. When she was quickly served a glass of orange juice before any of the other passengers had arrived in the aircraft, she fumbled to discover the drink tray that Walsh had flipped up without effort. Her face flushed when the flight attendant—who beamed her seatmate a brilliant smile all the while—leaned across the man to show Honey how it was done.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, trying to sound gracious.

  “You’re welcome,” the other woman said, her gaze on Walsh.

  He was focused on his phone and didn’t seem to notice.

  Honey tried to unwind as the rest of the passengers filed onto the plane. She put her e-reader into the seat pocket and also her back-up paperback novel. Then she yanked out the airline magazine because it was always a good idea to memorize the layout of the serviced airports.

  As minutes ticked by, though, and the plane began taxiing to the runway, Honey felt her tension only increase. There was plenty of room in her spacious seat, but it was impossible to relax with her boss so very close. While Walsh seemed absorbed by the newspaper he’d been handed by the overly solicitous flight attendant, she was hyper aware of his shoulders, his thighs, the foot that nudged hers when he stretched out his leg.

  “Sorry,” he murmured, glancing over. His brows lowered over his eyes. “Honey?”

  “Yes?” They’d come to a stop. Third in line for take-off, according the pilot, his voice coming through the speakers.

  “Your knuckles are white. You’re biting your lower lip. You look like you’ll shatter at the slightest touch.”

  “I’m…um…” Having that pointed out was in no way soothing. She risked a swift peek at him, and the concern in his gaze made her stomach jitter. He was looking at her as if he cared.

  “Oh, Honey,” he said, his tone mild but scolding. “You should have said something.”

  Such as, I have the hots for you? Or, I’m sitting here thinking about what you’d look like naked? How about, I’m wondering what one of your hair-roughed thighs would feel like sliding between my legs to press against my hot and achy center?

  Did he really expect she could express that? She squirmed in her seat and swallowed. “How could I?”

  “Easy. You say, ‘Walsh, I’m a nervous flyer,’ and then I take your hand—” he did this now, “—and I promise to reassure you for the rest of the flight.”

  “Um.” She stared at their entwined fingers, now propped on the armrest between them as tingling heat raced up her arm and spread across her chest. Her nipples hardened and she blessed the practical poly/cotton blend of the jacket she wore over a sleeveless shell.

  “Don’t worry,” he murmured, leaning his head close.

  Oh, but she was worried. Her pulse was beginning to race, there was an odd flutter in her middle, and she might have to drag one of those airbags down because she was experiencing a definite shortness of breath.

  “Honey, I’ll keep you safe.”

  This wasn’t safe! This was in no way safe! Especially because the only thing she was nervous about was being near to him like this. With her hand cradled in his protective hold, who knew what she might say or do?

  Closing her eyes seemed like a good idea, and he didn’t speak again as their turn for take-off arrived. But he held tight as the plane sped up and clasped his free hand over their interlaced fingers as the aircraft lifted off. The climb seemed endless.

  “Breathe,” Walsh said into her ear.

  Goose bumps broke over her scalp, but she obediently sucked in oxygen. Her anxiety leveled off as the plane did, and after a few more minutes she managed to wiggle free from his grasp.

  “Thanks,” she said, without looking at him. “I’m good now.”

  She felt his assessing gaze as she extricated her e-reader from the seat pocket. Her cheeks heated, and she shot him a quick glance. “Really.”

  “You’d let me know if that wasn’t the case?” He cleared his throat. “You can’t keep secrets from the boss.”

  “Of course I’d let you know,” she said lightly. “I won’t keep secrets from the boss.”

  That seemed to satisfy him. He returned to his newspaper while she forced her attention to her book. Instead of a tale of love and romance—her favorite—she’d selected a gruesome murder mystery, just in case Walsh happened to get a look at the text. A book about mayhem somehow struck her as more professional than a book about marriage.

  But when the serial killer took on a beloved pet, she couldn’t stifle her bleat of distress.

  Walsh looked over, a question on his face.

  “The Slayer of Staplewood is chasing the family shih tzu with a corkscrew.” She turned off the reading device. “I can’t stomach it.”

  His lips twitched. “The perfect time to put it away then. Lunch is being served.”

  As food went on airplanes, this was pretty spectacular. A salad of papaya, mango, and avocado. Cold grilled chicken and a rice pilaf with lime accents. A side of tortilla chips with a mild salsa.

  “Wine?” Walsh asked her when the flight attendant stopped at their row.

  “I…well, sure,” she answered. Maybe it would relax her. “I’m still a bit keyed up.”

  “After lunch you should take a nap.”

  No, she shouldn’t. Long ago she’d been told she was a sprawler in sleep. As self-contained as she might be in an awake state, once in the Land of Nod she tended to flop in a loose sprawl of arms and legs. Her sib
lings Lucy and Jeb thought it was hilarious and had shown her photos of herself a dozen times, her head lolling, her limbs akimbo.

  “I’ll try not to,” she told Walsh.

  His brow lifted.

  “I’m not a tidy sleeper,” she confessed.

  He laughed as he passed her white wine, a very healthy pour in a real glass. She could get used to this first-class thing, she thought, taking a swallow.

  “I might pay to see you messy.”

  She shot a look at him. That sounded a bit…improper?

  Glancing over, he grinned. “You looked shocked, Honey. Did that come out wrong?” His voice lowered. “Or did you just take it that way?”

  Eeek. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said in a prim voice, then tossed back the contents of her glass. When the flight attendant came by with the bottle again, she didn’t refuse a second pour.

  When the third was nearly gone, she began to regret drinking with lunch. Feeling a bit owl-eyed, she blinked as Walsh lifted one of the warm cookies they’d been given for dessert. Breaking off a piece, he lifted it to her mouth.

  “I know this is your favorite,” he said.

  “I—” Her words were muffled by the brown sugar and oozy chocolate chips. Yum. She swallowed. “That’s yours,” she protested as she watched him break off another bite.

  “You wrapped your cookies in a napkin and put them in your bag.”

  “To save for later.”

  “Never put off pleasure,” Walsh advised, feeding her another piece.

  Her lips felt hot and swollen, and when she tried to capture the crumbling treat her tongue accidentally brushed the pads of his fingers. His nostrils flared, and his intense gaze locked with hers. More heat flash over her skin.

  When she swallowed, his forefinger touched the corner of her mouth—fire snapped!—and came away with a crumb…that he licked away.

  Oh, God.

  She swallowed the moisture pooling in her mouth and told herself to redirect her attention. But that proved impossible. With the high seatbacks in front of them and with his big frame half-turned toward her, it was as if they were in their own private bubble. A bubble thousands of feet above the ground and far, far away from MadSci and all the reasons why Honey Brooks and Walsh Hopkins shouldn’t be sharing a cookie much less a sexual attraction that just couldn’t be one-sided.