I couldn’t describe what had come over me since meeting this man, other than an overwhelming mixture of shock, yearning, and desire. The idea of punishment at his hands didn’t deter me. I wasn’t afraid of him, and yet I had an unmistakable desire to please him.
My hand slid under the waistband of my panties as my legs parted. A small whimper escaped my lips as I found my own damp core.
“Show me.” His tenor had dropped from moments ago, now ladened with the huskiness of lust.
I pulled my hand out of the confines of my panties.
Rett reached for it, lifting my fingers to his lips and sucking. His cheeks rose and a grin formed. “Delicious, as I suspected.”
Before I could form a response, he was kneeling before me, removing my panties as his warm breath skirted my sensitive skin. My gaze darted to the door, afraid the servers would return, when all at once, his mouth covered my core, his teeth nipping my swollen clit and tongue delving within me.
“Oh,” I cried out, my hands going to his dark hair, weaving my fingers through his mane for support as more sounds and indistinguishable words filled the air. I let out a gust of air as an orgasm threatened to double me forward. Such as a freight train barreling through a dark night, the overwhelming explosion came over me suddenly and without warning.
Though I’d come, Rett didn’t stop. It was clear that he too had been starving, and I was his feast. My mind remembered I didn’t have multiple orgasms, but my body was a different story. Ravenously he nibbled and sucked. His hands held to my behind, pulling me closer.
The second orgasm was stronger than the first.
I called out his name—Rett—this man I barely knew.
My body trembled with the aftershocks as I struggled for breath on weakened knees. Rett stood, allowing my skirt to cascade to my ankles before scooping me into his arms, cradling me against his solid chest, and taking me back to the chair where I had been seated. When our eyes met, I bashfully asked, “My panties?”
“No. I want you bare and available to me at all times.”
I nodded.
It wasn’t a confirmation of my acceptance as much as my acknowledgment that he’d spoken.
With a chaste kiss, one that left my own essence on my lips, Rett pushed the chair back to the table and returned to his seat.
My hands shook as I reached for my glass of wine. The red liquid quivered as I brought the glass to my lips. After consuming a generous portion, I stared beyond the candles to the man now casually dining upon his meal. A forkful of shrimp and an oyster on a cracker—it was as if we hadn’t just…My head shook as I found my voice. “Let me get this straight. Ross made you a deal regarding me?”
“No.”
“No?”
Rett dabbed the napkin at the corner of his lips, the same lips that had just brought me to ecstasy—twice.
“After an in-depth conversation with your friend and diligent research, I contacted Mr. Underwood again and made him a deal he couldn’t refuse.”
My head shook. “You can’t make deals regarding people. It doesn’t work like that.”
Amusement again danced in his dark orbs. “My dear, the deal is done.”
“Why do you think I’d go along with this?”
Lowering his fork to the plate before him, Rett sat taller and took a breath. “You are a marked woman.”
I had to wonder if he was referring to what we’d just done.
Everett Ramses went on. “Your brother wants you dead.”
I sat straighter. “Kyle died in the accident with our parents. He’s been gone for over four years.”
“No, my dear, Kyle O’Brien is very much alive. He’s bided his time, and now believes he can claim New Orleans. However, to achieve his goal, he must overcome two obstacles.”
“Two?”
“Me,” Rett said, leaning back in his throne-like chair and reaching for the arms. “And you.”
“What do I have to do with any of this?”
“Kyle, your adopted brother, is claiming that his stake to the city rests on the notion that he is the child Jezebel North gave up. You see, he’s proclaiming that he is the true heir of Isaiah Boudreau.”
The reality of Rett’s words settled around me in a fog.
“My brother is alive and wants me dead?”
“He knows you’re here, in New Orleans.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you will stay with me. I will protect you, and once you’re legally Emma Ramses, you will be untouchable.”
I stood, no longer able to sit still. Cool air flowed under my skirt, a reminder I was nude beneath.
“This is ludicrous. I should just go back to Pittsburgh.”
“No,” Rett said definitively. “I have had you under protection there since I first learned.”
“There were people watching me?”
“That is done. Your home is in New Orleans.”
My hands went out, coming back to slap my thighs. “And do what, Rett? My life is in Pittsburgh.”
“Your education and dream is to be a writer. There is no better place in the world than here, but most importantly, you will be my wife.” When I didn’t respond, he went on, “I have men waiting to escort us away from this restaurant.”
“Away, to where?” I asked.
“To my home. It’s very safe.”
My gaze darted to the door and back. “And if I say no? If I just leave?”
Rett gestured toward the door. “You won’t, but as my future wife, I prefer not to hold you captive against your will.” He shrugged. “I will, but I’d prefer you cooperate.”
I tugged at my lip with my teeth as I contemplated all that had been said. “What will happen if I leave?”
“If you walk through that door alone, you will be vulnerable, not only to Kyle but also to his men. You may succeed in making it to the courtyard or possibly the sidewalk beyond; however, I can unequivocally say that…one more step would mean certain death.”
• • •
Thank you for reading THE DEAL by Aleatha Romig. She enjoyed writing this sexy, dark, romantic short story as a showcase for her writing style.
ABOUT ALEATHA ROMIG
New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestselling author of the Consequences series, Infidelity series, and Sparrow Webs: Web of Sin, Tangled Web, Web of Desire, and coming soon, Dangerous Web
Aleatha specializes in dark romance, layered in intrigue, mystery, suspense, and of course, sexiness. She loves to create strong, sassy heroines and domineering alphas, ones you want to hate but end up loving. Her tales are best told in series form, adding depth to each story, giving the readers more time to get to know the characters and allowing them the opportunity to lose themselves in her dangerous worlds.
Check out her bestselling novels at aleatharomig.com
SAINT
* * *
COLLEEN HOOVER
ONE
ONE MORE STEP would mean certain death.
Maybe not in the sense of Reya’s mortality, but it would absolutely mean the death of her morals, her values...her marriage.
Knowing all of this, Reya still makes the decision to step forward, into Cam’s arms.
Into the arms of certain death.
I stare at the sentences I just typed, knowing I’ll likely delete them as soon as I wake up tomorrow. That’s how this entire book has gone so far. Everything I write one day is deleted the next.
I’m never going to finish this. I’ll be stuck in this cabin for an entire month at this rate. Not that being stuck in this cabin is torture in any way. I like the solitude. Always have. It’s why I rent it several times a year—so I can escape to the private lakeside in the country and shed the skin of Sacramento. It keeps me from succumbing to the guilt of trading the country life I grew up with for the city.
I down the rest of my wine and decide to call it a night, but my computer begins chiming. I glance at the incoming call and am relieved to see it’s
Candice, my critique partner. My best friend. We both got into this writing career at the same time about five years ago. And for five years now, we’ve saved each other from walking away from the career no less than a dozen times.
I answer her video chat, and even though I’ve only been holed up in this cabin for three days, it’s a relief to see a familiar face. I’m in California and she’s in New York. It’s almost midnight here, but she looks wide awake on my screen.
“Everything okay?” I ask her. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“All good,” she says, her voice way too chipper for the time. “Just wrote The End. Needed someone to congratulate me.”
“Congratulations!” I say, understanding her excitement now. She’s been working on this book for six months, so I really am happy for her. A little envious, but happy.
“Thanks,” she says. “Do you want to take this conversation live?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “How bad do I look?”
“You couldn’t look bad if you tried,” Candice says. “Okay, I’m merging our screens and going live in ten seconds.”
I run my fingers under my eyes to wipe away any leftover mascara residue. Our readers are used to us going live together in the middle of the night, so they’re used to seeing us at our worst. Candice and I were both terrible at social media when we started out, but once we began having our discussions about our writing process over live videos, it’s really made a big impact on our numbers of followers. Writers like to watch us because the things we say validate the struggles they go through, but readers also like our live discussions because they get tidbits of our books long before they release. I guess in a way, it’s insider access to those who don’t mind a spoiler or two.
“Live in three seconds,” Candice says.
I jump up and flip on the kitchen light so my screen won’t be so dark. Right when I sit back down, we’re live. When we first started doing these, it felt a little awkward. But we go live so often now—sometimes twice a week—that it’s second nature. Most of the time I forget people are watching us. I just feel like I’m talking to Candice one-on-one.
“How’s the writing going?” Candice asks.
I shrug. “I’m getting nowhere. I’ve been at the lake cabin three days so far and have one page.”
“You need to talk through it?”
“I was about to go to bed when you called. Already shut my brain off for the night.”
Candice groans. “I was hoping for a chapter or two. I want to read about the hot cop before I go to bed.”
I smile. “You’re sweet. But you and I both know the book is completely unrealistic so far.”
“You’re way too hard on yourself, Megan.”
“I’m my own worst critic.”
She rolls her eyes. “Did you at least decide on character names yet?”
“I got that far. Cameron is the hot cop. He goes by Cam. The girl will be Reya.”
“Cam and Reya,” she says. “I like those. Is it still a love triangle?”
“So far. I don’t know. I might change it.”
“No, no, no,” she says, leaning forward toward the camera. “You promised me a love triangle. You’ve never written a love triangle.”
“It’s hard to write something you’ve never experienced.”
“Bullshit,” she says. “Your last book was about a woman who fell in love with her dog’s veterinarian and you don’t even have a dog.”
“Exactly,” I say. “And several reviewers said it was unrealistic.”
Candice shakes her head. “First of all, stop reading your negative reviews. Second...every negative review calls the book unrealistic. It’s a go-to term for negative reviews. I personally thought it was very realistic.”
“You don’t have a dog, either,” I point out.
Candice laughs. “Touché.”
I wish I believed the numerous five-star reviews over the negative ones, but sadly, I seem to focus on the negative way more than Candice does.
“Maybe you should have an affair so you can really nail the emotions of your characters in this book,” Candice says teasingly. “Find a married man who reminds you of Hot Cop Cam and sleep with him.”
I laugh, but I also cringe a little that she just said that in front of no telling how many readers. “Where am I going to find a hot cop while I’m secluded in the middle of nowhere?”
Candice grins. “Maybe you should go somewhere a little less secluded. Start writing at Starbucks. Cops love coffee.”
“Maybe you should go to sleep,” I suggest. “It’s late in New York.”
“There are two hundred people firing off questions at us,” she says. “I’ll sleep after we answer a few.” She scrolls through the questions popping up on our screens. Her eyes light up when she sees one that grabs her attention. “Here’s a good one,” she says. “This person says, ‘Do you believe a writer needs to personally experience a situation before they’re able to capture how a character would truly respond?’”
Candice looks at the camera expectantly, indicating she wants me to respond to this one. I lean back in my seat and fold my arms over my chest while I think about the question.
“I would hope not,” I say with a sigh. “But as the saying goes, ‘Write what you know.’ I do question whether I could describe emotions and reactions better if I had lived through the things I was writing about. I think every writer questions that part of themselves.”
“I don’t question it,” Candice says. She reads off another question. “If given the chance, would either of you willingly experience the things your characters are going through in the books you’re currently writing?”
Candice immediately nods. “Hell yes. I just finished a book about a Hockey player falling in love with his agent. Sign me up. What about you, Megan?”
I nod, too. A sordid affair with a hot guy doesn’t sound so bad. “Of course. I’d do anything to be a better writer.”
Candice moves on to the next question. We answer four or five more, but she cuts them short. I think she can tell I’m not into this right now. We normally have easy-flowing banter back and forth, but tonight she keeps repeating stuff for me because my attention span isn’t cooperating.
I don’t know if I’m exhausted or just not in the mood for this right now, but I can’t focus on the live video. I keep thinking about our conversation and wondering what it would be like to actually experience the things I’m writing about.
In my last book, my main character’s dog of twelve years died. I tried my best to put myself in the shoes of the character—to describe the emotions a person would feel in that situation—but I’m not a huge dog-lover. It was hard to empathize with a character being devastated over the loss of a pet. And since it was a romance novel, I skimmed over the grief over the pet and dove head-first into the character’s relationship with the vet she met.
I was reamed in the reviews by dog-lovers. Several of them said it was obvious I wasn’t a pet owner.
If I make this current book a love triangle, is the same thing going to happen? Are readers going to say it’s obvious I’ve never had an affair?
These thoughts are still at the forefront of my mind when Candice wraps up the video. I tell the readers goodnight, then her. I close my laptop and turn out the lights. I double-check the locks on the doors and head to my bedroom.
I hope tomorrow will be a more productive day, but I have a feeling my inner critic is going to make sure it isn’t.
TWO
Two nights later
I SIT UP straight in bed and slip the facemask off my eyes.
My heart is hammering loud and wild.
I’m not sure what woke me, but it was loud enough to jolt me straight out of a deep sleep.
I’m trying to regain my bearings when I notice the lights. They’re flashing through the windows of my bedroom, red and blue, splashing across the walls.
There’s a window directly behind my headboard, so I look out of it, t
rying to get a sense of what’s happening outside the cabin, but the lights are coming from the front yard. My bedroom is on the side of the house, so the lights are all I can see.
A loud knock at the door makes me flinch and propels me off the bed.
I slip on my robe and grab my phone. The pounding is coming from the front door.
I look at the time on my phone. It’s only midnight. I’ve only been asleep for two hours. I don’t normally go to bed that early, especially when I’m here in the cabin, but it’s been two days since I did the live video with Candice and I haven’t been able to write at all since then. I’ve been sleeping more than I’ve been writing.
I flip on the front porch light and peer through the peephole. There’s a police officer standing a couple of feet from my door. His neck is craned and he’s looking over his shoulder, back toward his patrol car.
His car is parked out in the road, right in front of the cabin. The lights are so bright behind him, I can’t make out anything beyond his silhouette.
What in the world is going on?
I release the deadbolt, but I leave the chain lock latched and open the door a few inches.
Being a writer comes with a constant sense of distrust, no matter what uniform a person might be wearing. Too many plot twists go through my head for me not to assume the worst in every situation. For all I know, this guy could be posing as a cop just so I’ll open the door to him.
When the cop hears the front door open, he brings his gaze to mine. I can’t make out his features very well with all the lights flashing behind him and the sleep still in my eyes, but I can tell he’s not the kind of cop who eats donuts and coffee for breakfast every morning. He’s tall and muscular and I suddenly feel underdressed in my nightgown.
I have no idea why he’s here, but part of me is thankful, because if I had to put a face to Hot Cop Cam, this would be it.
The cop holds up a badge and I glance at it long enough to notice the wedding ring on his ring finger.
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