Secrets and Sins: Chayot: A Secrets and Sins novel (Entangled Ignite)

by Naima Simone

  She cleared her throat, sinking to the couch. Setting his coffee on the coffee table, she cupped hers between her palms. “I had no idea you played piano.”

  Chopsticks filled the room, and she laughed, delighted. Then she sighed. Six months. It’d been six months since she’d heard music from the beautiful instrument. God, she’d missed it.

  “My mother forced me to take lessons when I was younger, and I ended up loving it. To her surprise and mine, I could pick up a song after just hearing it a few times. I quit when I was about fifteen.” He paused, and shifted to a pretty melody that surprised and entranced her. “My mother has a Steinway—much smaller than this one—and I still play. Nothing like you, though. You are amazing. I remember the first time I heard your music. I was meeting a new client, and when he led me into his study, your CD was blasting from the speakers.” He huffed a breath, and her chest clutched at the note of wonder that entered his voice. “Beautiful. I remember stopping in my tracks in the doorway. The music grabbed me. Refused to let go. Directly after the consultation, I bought every album you’d released. That was five years ago.”

  His fingers flew over the keys, and the song switched to one familiar. Familiar and haunting. And hers. She gasped, carefully setting her cup on the table next to his untouched mug. Sins of the Father. The song, several years old, was one of her favorites and a staple in her shows. She closed her eyes, allowed the lilting melody to wrap around her, carry her on the rising wave before crashing with the crescendo, only to float on the gentle strains at the end.

  So long. She circled her throat with her fingers. So long since she’d soared. Since she’d been free in only the way music could liberate her soul from her body. She’d avoided listening to her music. Since she couldn’t compose or even play it on the piano, listening to it had been like knives in her chest. But not now. Not with Chay. And as the last note faded, she didn’t know if she could bear being grounded again.

  Had the song been flawless? No. But it’d been perfect. Just…perfect.

  She shot to her feet and stalked to the window. With the shade drawn, she couldn’t see outside, but it didn’t matter. The tears stinging her eyes would have made observing her neatly mowed lawn under the moonlight damn difficult.

  Strong, firm hands palmed her shoulders. Turned her around. One of those hands cupped the back of her head, held her to a wide chest. The steady beat of his heart echoed under her ear, reassuring and powerful. Sinking her teeth into her bottom lip, she forced herself not to relax into this embrace, instead keeping her arms down by her sides.

  “You’re so damn confusing,” she said, voice muffled against his chest. “You push me away, order me out of your house, avoid my touch. But now you’re hugging me. Why?”

  He stroked up her back, then down. Up, down. Soothing her even though she remained stiff against him.

  “Because you need me to.”

  That simple. That unselfish. The reason unfurled a wave of heat inside her, and it rolled through her like a twisting, slow-moving river. She encircled his waist and gripped the fabric of his T-shirt. The introduction to overwhelming, unprecedented desire, his rejection, hearing him play the piano, flying even if for just a moment on the wings of music again—they all culminated in a chaotic shell that detonated in a blast of searing desire.

  She surged to her tiptoes, buried her fingers in his thick strands, and dragged his head down until their lips were but a whisper apart.

  “Well, kiss me,” she breathed. “Because I need that, too.”

  He hesitated—she sensed it. Disappointment and anger knotted her stomach, heated her neck and face. She was such a freaking idiot and obviously preferred a helping of humiliation with her coffee. Damn it. “Never mi—”

  His mouth crashed down over hers, swallowing her words and gasp. He consumed her, the plunge of his tongue hard, demanding, and erotic as hell. She whimpered, then met him thrust for thrust, stroke for stroke. God, each suckle of his tongue, each nip of his teeth resonated in her breasts, throbbed between her thighs. The fingers that had cradled her head now tangled in her hair and tugged. Hard. She groaned, pleasure from the faintly rough handling like gasoline on a brush fire.

  She stared up at him, the same lust lighting her up like a damn Fourth of July night mirrored in his eyes. There was nothing gentle in the hazel gaze. Fierce, hooded, sexual with the taint of darkness. Not a darkness that scared her, though. No. It called out to her, lured her to beat it back with the fire of passion and need.

  He closed his eyes, and a sliver of regret sliced through the haze of desire. His hands were on her, yet he still shut her out. He offered her his touch, his body, and pleasure. But not the man. Not the fears. Not the demons.

  His mouth covered hers again, banishing every thought away except how good he tasted. How good he felt pressed against her, his hard chest abrading her nipples through her tank top. How good the stiff, delicious length of his cock felt branding her belly. Liquid heat dampened her sex, her panties. She tightened her thighs, trying to contain the ache, ease it. Instead the throbbing increased, driving her crazy.

  Crazier.

  “Damn, I want my mouth on you,” he growled, dropping his hands to her ass and hiking her up. She wrapped her legs around his waist and held on for dear life as he strode across the room. His mouth on her? If that sexy thing he was doing to her neck with his tongue didn’t describe having his mouth on her, than what…?

  Her ass came in contact with a hard surface. She blinked. What the hell? She glanced down, her lips parting in shock. The piano? She jerked her gaze to his hooded scrutiny. His eyes never leaving hers, he shoved the stool out of the way and pushed her back on the closed lid. Encircling her ankles, he propped her feet on the keyboard cover, spreading her legs wide.

  “Chay,” she whispered, unable to steady the tremor in her voice. She clutched his forearms, uncertain and so out of her element. He didn’t respond. Didn’t try to soothe or assure her. No, that sensual stare with its lambent gleam promised her she was in deep. And he planned on taking her deeper.

  Calloused palms slid up her calves and knees, coming to rest on her thighs. His long fingers spread over her flesh, the fingertips skimming the crease where her torso met her legs. Her nails dug into his arms, pushing him away…hanging on. A primal beat had taken up residence in her clit, the clench and release of her sex a rhythmic accompaniment. Air rushed in and out of her lungs as she tensed in nervous anticipation of his next move.

  “I could pick you up, carry you down the hallway to your bedroom, and lay you out on that bed. Or better yet, push you against the wall, strip off your pants, put my mouth on you. Taste you, suck you. Make you come down my throat before working my cock into your pussy.”

  His warning from the other evening sounded more like a vow as it ricocheted in her head. A prediction. One he appeared every bit determined to make good on. Oh hell yes, please make good on it.

  Slowly, he bunched the billowy material of her skirt around her hips then hooked his fingers in the band of her panties. She should’ve been embarrassed about the evidence of her desire dampening her bare folds and underwear. She should’ve expressed at least some modicum of dignity and modesty while she sat exposed, vulnerable, and wet. She definitely shouldn’t have raised her hips so he could easily slide the scrap of lace over her ass and down her legs.

  But she was as shameless as a whore in church when it came to him. As nervous, too. She slicked her tongue over her suddenly dry lips. He honed in on the gesture, tracking it like a predator stalking prey.

  “Open your mouth,” he ordered. She obeyed without thinking, trusting him with her body and pleasure. He rumbled a sound somewhere caught between a grunt and moan and pushed two fingers between her parted lips. His eyes narrowed, the hazel gleam brightening as his own mouth flattened into a grim line. “Suck them,” he rasped, sliding his fingers deeper. Before he finished the demand, she was drawing on the digits, swirling her tongue around them. Savoring them. Groaning,
he withdrew, then slowly thrust forward. Withdraw. Thrust. Withdraw. Thrust. Mimicking another more intimate dance. One her core spasmed and spilled more cream for.

  “Lie back, baby.”

  She nodded and reclined. But propped her elbows on the piano’s slick surface. She wanted to see this. Had to see this.

  He trailed fingers moistened by her mouth down her chin, throat, between her breasts, and over her stomach until arriving at the top of her sex. Head bowed, he studied the flesh between her thighs, color darkening the skin pulled tight over his cheekbones. He dragged a fingertip through her cleft, swirled between her folds, gathering moisture on the tip before bringing it to his mouth and sucking the tip clean. Her clit pounded, the hot, raw sight almost sending her tumbling headlong over the edge into orgasm.

  “Not enough,” he murmured. “Not nearly enough.” With a gravel-roughened hum as his only warning, he dipped his head between her thighs. Buried his fingers inside her. And feasted on her.

  Pleasure detonated within her, ripping a cry free from her throat. Oh Jesus. Muscles so long unused they should’ve been atrophied stretched and quivered around his fingers. His tongue circled her clit, stabbing and stroking until she nearly sobbed. Hell, she was babbling. Stop. Don’t you dare stop. He’d reduced her to a blathering mess.

  He thrust higher, licked harder, and she dropped her head back on her shoulders, loosing another cry. Damn it felt so…wait. Wait. She wanted to watch. With monumental effort she lifted her head, peered down her body in rapt awe. God, there was something so erotic, so bad about watching herself be finger-fucked and eaten. Panting, she shoved his hair out of his face, gripping the strands in a fist so she had an unhindered view of his tongue circling and lapping at her flesh. Damn, he was hot. So sensual. So beautiful.

  His lashes lifted, and she found herself locked in a hazel battle as he continued pounding into her sex and devouring her. Pleasure—sharp, blinding pleasure—built and built, coiling tighter and tighter until she was stretched on a rack of ecstasy. She arched and writhed beneath his mouth and touch, both hands in his hair now, clutching his head to her. It was so much…too much. Continual whimpers spilled from her lips as she reached, stretched…

  And broke.

  Rapture crashed over her, through her, shattering her. He didn’t let up, didn’t ease her into orgasm, but continued sucking, thrusting until she catapulted into it. She shivered uncontrollably, even as the pieces of her started to reassemble. Nothing, nothing had prepared her for such pleasure. God, what an anemic word to describe the explosion he’d caused to rock her soul, her world.

  Murmuring gentle reassurances to her, Chay eased her skirt down over her legs and lifted her off the piano. He cuddled her against his chest before lowering her to the couch.

  “Sleep,” he said.

  Her lashes fluttered, her muscles lax like melted butter. Weariness closed in on her, and she surrendered to the seductive call of sleep.

  But even as she drifted, a part of her acknowledged he wouldn’t be there when she woke.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Sara, I should be back in a couple of hours,” Chay called out to the firm’s office assistant as he headed for the door. “If something important comes through while I’m out, transfer them to my cell.”

  “Gotcha. Have fun,” she singsonged, wearing a huge grin.

  Yeah. Fun. Maybe during the twenty-minute drive to Belmont Hill, he could figure out a plan to deflect the advances of Colleen Taylor, owner and CEO of the T&T Corporation. But hell, he’d ignored her flirtations and flatly turned her down. At this point, only kryptonite might work.

  Bottom line: he didn’t screw clients. Usually. Besides, her husband would probably take issue.

  He stepped out onto the second floor landing of the brownstone housing his firm’s office, and the quiet of the stately building enfolded him. The constant ring of phones, hum of voices, endless tasks that required his attention disappeared behind the closed office door. Just…silence.

  Damn it. He stalked toward the staircase. He’d counted on the noise and work to distract him from the memories and thoughts whirling through his head like a tornado. Maybe a house should fall on him and put him out of his misery.

  Because he was miserable—miserable with guilt.

  Last night he’d left Aslyn sleeping alone and deeply on her couch. While setting the alarm and stepping out on her back porch, a part of him had fought to stay and finish what he’d started with her on the piano. He scrubbed a hand over his mouth and chin. Even now he swore he could smell her sweet, musky scent on his fingers, on his tongue—it clung to him though he’d showered that morning. Her special fragrance had tunneled past flesh and permeated his lungs, his tissue. He could be blindfolded and shoved into a perfume shop and be able to pick out her skin’s scent.

  He shouldn’t have touched her.

  When she’d stood at her living room window, and he’d gone to her, he’d known then he was messing up. But he’d been drawn by the loneliness and sorrow etched across her features. The need to offer comfort, to ease the pain so evident in her hunched shoulders and tense body had overridden his resolve to keep his hands off her. He might’ve tongue-fucked her, but he was the one totally screwed. She’d followed him into dreams, tortured him with fantasies of burying himself in the sweetest pussy he’d ever tasted. A shudder worked through his frame. She’d been so damn wet, so small. His fingers had been a tight fit. She’d probably strangle the hell out of his cock. His dick throbbed in his pants as if volunteering to die a happy death.

  “Shit,” he muttered, stepping into the small foyer.

  “Somebody’s not a happy camper this morning,” Mal drawled, closing the door to his law office behind him.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Chay growled. “You’re the 4-H’er, not me.”

  “Boy Scout, you bastard. And it was only one year. Let it go.” The old Mal would’ve delivered the insult with an acerbic edge. This Mal arched a dark blond eyebrow and smiled. A really mellow, satisfied smile. Chay scowled. Son of a bitch must’ve gotten laid last night. Or this morning. Speaking of…

  “You should be proud of your campfire badge,” Chay admonished with a pat to his friend’s shoulder. “Where’s Danielle?”

  Mal’s smile warmed, his violet eyes gleamed. Just the mention of his fiancée, Danielle Guerrero, possessed the power to melt the natural reserve he wore as easily as his expensive tailored suit.

  “She’s in court,” he said. “That’s where I’m headed now. Her case should be wrapping up by the time I get there.” Like Mal, Danielle was a civil attorney, though most of her career had been in Alabama before she’d literally bumped into Mal on his doorstep. “While we’re on the subject of women…”

  “Were we?” Chay pulled open the front door to the brownstone and moved out onto the stoop. He strode down the sidewalk, Mal falling into step beside him.

  “I heard you have a new client. A celebrity pianist.”

  “Not the first celebrity we’ve provided services for,” he noted.

  “But the first you’re next-door neighbors with,” Mal added. “According to Greer, who told Danielle.”

  Chay snorted, hitting the unlock button on the key fob to his SUV. “What? Do you two sit around and braid each other’s hair, too?”

  “Yeah.” Mal grinned. “Nekkid.”

  “Great,” Chay snapped. “Now I have to pour bleach in my brain to get rid of the mental images.” Mal laughed, somehow managing to sound evil and smug. Bitch. “Danielle I don’t mind. But you—what the hell?”

  Chay hunkered down next to his truck, frowning at the puddle behind the front passenger’s side tire that hadn’t been there when he’d parked that morning. “Shit,” he muttered.

  Mal squatted next to him, studying the ground. He dipped a fingertip in the liquid and rubbed the clear, oily substance before sniffing his fingers. “Smells like brake fluid.”

  “Yeah.” Chay blew out a breath, standing. “I didn’t even kn
ow I had a leak.”

  “Hmm. You didn’t notice anything this morning on your drive in to work?”

  “No,” he said, removing his cell from his pocket. “Damn, the timing sucks. I’ll need to have the truck towed and reschedule an appointment I was headed to.”

  “You need me to take you to your meeting?” Mal offered.

  Chay shook his head, though he appreciated his friend’s willingness to postpone his lunch with his fiancée to help. They might tease one another mercilessly, but they always had each other’s back. “Nah. You go meet Danielle. I’ll call the client and have this taken care of.”

  Mal shrugged. “I have a few minutes. I’ll wait.”

  Meeting rescheduled and tow truck called, Chay was speaking with his mechanic when the call-waiting chime interrupted his conversation. He glanced down at the screen. Mass General Hospital. Why would—?

  Fear licked at the heels of his confusion. “Jason,” Chay said, urgency sharpening his tone. “Let me hit you back in a few minutes, okay?” Not waiting for a reply, he switched over. “Hello?”

  “May I speak with Chayot Grey, please?” a male voice asked.

  “Speaking.” Chay tightened his grip around the phone, and he clenched his jaw to keep from demanding the man on the other end spit out the reason he’d called. His heart pounded in his chest. Was it his mother? Gabe or Rafe? In the last few months, too many of them had visited emergency rooms. He fucking hated hospitals.

  “Mr. Grey, I’m calling from Mass General. An hour ago we admitted an Aslyn Jericho.”

  “Aslyn?” he rasped. Beside him, Mal stiffened and abruptly ended the call he’d been on. His gaze lasered in on Chay. “Why?”

  “Sir, I can’t give out details, but Ms. Jericho was involved in a pretty serious car accident. Your name was in her purse as an emergency contact.”

  “I’m on my way.” He disconnected the call, nausea churning in his gut. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Not Aslyn. An image of her from last night surged into his head. Lovely. Vibrant. Unharmed. God, please let her be okay.