Wicked Sin

by Ainsley Booth

  Daddy issues will get you every fucking time.

  I need to be a grown-up about this, go downstairs, and address this in a reasonable, mature fashion. The first time our chemistry got the better of us, he had to push me to talk about it. Not this time. I grab my cup and head straight downstairs, bedhead and all.

  I find him standing at the back door, looking out the window and talking on the phone. I slow to a stop in the hallway, realizing I’m eavesdropping.

  I don’t turn around, though.

  If he doesn’t want me to hear a conversation, he shouldn’t have it in a tiny, quiet house.

  “I was just calling to say I can’t make it tomorrow night. No, not a work thing, just busy.” He chuckles. “That’s very persuasive. Next week, maybe. Yeah, hopefully, the busy thing will be gone by then.”

  Oh, will I?

  My stomach twists as I listen to his words. But I don’t turn around, and I don’t run away.

  Mature. Grown-up.

  Maybe the reason he put the brakes on was because he feels loyalty to someone else. It would make him marginally better than the other men I’ve fucked, although he probably shouldn’t have kissed me or let me fuck his hand if he wanted to maintain any kind of moral high ground.

  And whatever his deal is, he should be honest and upfront with me.

  Since he’s not doing that, I don’t need to bare my soul to him.

  When he hangs up the call, I clear my throat and move into the living room.

  He doesn’t react to my reaction. “You’re up,” he says blandly.

  “I’m up.”

  “About last night—”

  I wave it off. “Don’t worry about it. You’re right. It’s too complicated. And before you know it, the crack team will have solved the small problem of someone stalking me, and we’ll be able to get on with our lives. Go our separate ways and never see each other again.”

  He glares at me.

  Someone doesn’t like flippancy too early in the morning.

  Oh. Fucking. Well.

  I give him a bright smile. “I need to go shopping.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  “How can it be dangerous if it’s spontaneous? Literally, nobody knows I’m here.” Except maybe, probably, Wilson, I remind myself. I’ll leave the pager here, though. He doesn’t need to be able to track me to a mall.

  “Too many unknown variables.”

  “Like what?”

  “A store clerk recognizing you. Contacting the paparazzi. Your stalker has a Google alert for your name and the next thing we know, boom.”

  Boom.

  I ignore the tremor of fear that runs through me. No. There has to be a way to keep living my life. “We can go to the mall in the suburbs. Where it would take paparazzi too long to find us even if someone did recognize me, which they won’t because you’re a master of disguises.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You said you’re going to go undercover.”

  “That’s not what that means.”

  “Come on, Luke. We don’t need to go anywhere I usually go. I want retail therapy. Given the circumstances, I’m not picky about what that looks like.”

  “Maybe I’ll take you to Walmart.”

  Sure. I smile. “That sounds great.”

  It is not great. I take slow, non-judging steps down the moisturizer aisle. Well, it’s not really a moisturizer aisle. It’s a single aisle for everything facial, and bubble bath, and foot cream. Also, something called Bag Balm, which I’ve read about in magazines but definitely thought was a joke.

  It’s not a joke.

  “Find anything you like, princess?”

  I pick up the Bag Balm. “Yep.”

  It’s hard to read his face from beneath the brim of his baseball hat. Or out from under mine—the limit of his masterful disguises, which is what he called the hat when he jammed it on my head. But then he put us both in his track clothes, and that actually was masterful. We look younger than we are, and our faces are well obscured. If he does go undercover, he’ll be good at it.

  Even though the thought of him living as someone else, surrounded by criminals, makes my chest hurt.

  But I won’t know him then. The chances of us running into each other—

  Next week, maybe. Yeah, hopefully the busy thing will be gone by then.

  No, Luke doesn’t want to run into me once he’s done with this task of protecting me.

  “I think it would be better if I buy a new bathing suit,” I say, turning on my heel.

  From behind me, I hear a choking sound. “I’ll, uh, catch up with you in a minute.”

  It takes him more than that, and by the time he’s found me in women’s clothing, I’ve found the most conservative one-piece in the entire store. High neck, low on the legs, and covered in layers of ruched fabric designed to cover all lumps and bumps.

  I don’t have any interest in showing Luke any more of those.

  At the checkout, I pay with cash; painfully aware my cards don’t work. I will have to start keeping track of how much I spend. I’ll have to keep a budget. I’ll have to pick between Botox and Brazilian…everything. Waxes, blow-outs.

  Maybe I won’t be able to afford any of the above.

  I don’t make a lot of money, and there’s a solid chance I’m not getting my trust fund back. Maybe I’ll have to sell my jewelry.

  You could write a book.

  I won’t, though. Not unless I get desperate. I do get a small paycheck from my counseling position—knock on wood that’s still available to me when all is said and done. So when I return to work, I’ll have a bit of an income.

  But in the short term, I have limited funds.

  Very limited.

  Welcome to the reality of literally everyone else, Taylor.

  Thanks, conscience. Thanks a bunch.

  I clutch my Walmart shopping bag in my hand.

  No more Botox. Hello Bag Balm. It’s a brave new world.

  23

  Luke

  When we get back from shopping, Taylor retreats to her room, only coming out for dinner, which we eat in polite silence.

  It’s hell.

  Each time I think I might bring up last night—how fucking hot it was, how I want to do it again, how sorry I am that we didn’t talk first, or after, or even during—she silently shuts me down. She has that hell no don’t try it glance down pat.

  Dismissive, cool, and rock solid.

  Cool. That’s the best word for it. She cooled on me, hard, after I hurt her feelings. And that’s a boundary I need to respect. If she doesn’t want to do anything again, if she wants to be done with me as soon as humanly possible, then so be it.

  I’m not going to try to persuade her to touch my dick. I don’t want to be that guy. She’s probably had enough of that guy for a lifetime.

  “Have you finished?” She looks at my plate. It’s the first question she’s asked me in hours. “I’m done. I’ll do the dishes.”

  I’ve barely eaten any of my chicken and rice. Her plate looks the same.

  “I’ll help,” I say. “And I’m done, too.”

  Without another word, she gets up and goes into the kitchen.

  Silently, I pack up the leftovers, labeling hers with her name. Taylor, in a big black Sharpie scrawl across the top of the tin foil. Then I grab a dishtowel and start to dry.

  There aren’t a lot of dishes, so it doesn’t take long.

  I wish it would take longer. Long enough to figure out the right thing to say to thaw this silence between us.

  It doesn’t.

  “I’m going to go to bed early,” she says after pulling the plug on the sink.

  “Thanks for helping tidy up.” I get a small smile and a glance that doesn’t quite meet my gaze.

  “It’s good for socialites to get their hands soapy, right?”

  Fuck. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “No. That’s just me being
jaded.” She sighs. “Good night.”

  After she goes upstairs, I call McBride. They’re still waiting on flight records for Lively. “The judge wasn’t impressed with being pulled away from his dinner last night and made us re-do the request for a warrant, but we got it. Now it’s just a waiting game with the FAA records.”

  “That’s if he filed properly.”

  “We can request cell phone records next if there’s any evidence he didn’t. Thank you, social media and paparazzi, for keeping a creepy eye on literally everyone in the world.”

  “Get Twitter to do some of the timeline work for you.”

  She snorts. “We’d get more conspiracy theories than we could ever handle.”

  “Truth.”

  “If and when we know something, I’ll loop you in. Go have your fun.”

  That’s her second hint at knowing there’s something between Taylor and me. “No fun being had here.”

  “Then you’re not trying hard enough.” She laughs and hangs up.

  That’s probably true.

  I head upstairs at midnight, after checking the doors and my layers of security. I’m just about to get into bed when I hear a panicked whimper.

  “No, please don’t touch me, no-no-no. I’ll be quiet…”

  Grabbing my Glock from my drawer, I move silently and quickly into the hall. Taylor’s crying now, and I pause at her door long enough to gauge a gut check on what’s on the other side.

  If she’s not alone, swinging the door open could put her in harm’s way.

  If she’s alone and having a nightmare, me busting in with a gun could be the last thing she needs. Her private terror is none of my business.

  But if she needs to be rescued—

  Before I can make that judgment call, her door swings open and she bursts out, falling into my arms.

  “Hey there,” I say quietly, lowering my gun.

  She buries her face in my chest.

  My bare chest.

  I take a long, sobering breath.

  “Shhh.” I wrap my arms around her and hold her tight. “What do you need?”

  She shakes her head and doesn’t answer.

  “Was it a nightmare?” Stupid question. Of course, it was a nightmare. “How about some water?”

  A slow nod, then she pushes me gently out of the way and goes into the bathroom.

  I scrub my hand through my hair then return my piece to the drawer in my bedside table where it belongs.

  I’m wearing a shirt and sitting on the bed when she returns, her face scrubbed and her expression more rueful than scared.

  “So, I get nightmares,” she says, shrugging her shoulders up and down.

  “You said that.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you need now?”

  “Nothing. It’s fine. It probably won’t happen again now. I’ll go read for a bit.”

  I point to the TV mounted on my wall. “We could watch something. Here, or downstairs. I’m on vacation,” I tease. “I can stay up late.”

  She shifts from one foot to the other. “No. I’m okay.”

  But she doesn’t go away, either.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  A shake of the head.

  I roll the dice. “Taylor, do you want a hug?”

  She bursts into tears, and I go to her.

  “This is so fucking stupid,” she mutters into my shirt when I wrap my arms around her again.

  I hope it feels good for her. It feels damn good for me.

  “I can usually deal with them better than this.”

  “You’ve been through the wringer.”

  She exhales roughly and nods. “Sorry.”

  “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

  “No, for…yesterday. I came on too strong.”

  Fuck. “No, princess. You really didn’t. I wanted what you wanted. I just need to make sure I’m not taking advantage of you. We can’t go full blast like that. Not if—”

  I cut myself off. Now is not the time.

  “If what?”

  I pull back, putting a little bit of space between us. Just enough so she can see my face and I can see hers. “Is now really the time for this conversation?”

  “Probably yesterday was, but I’m not very good at being honest, so…” She shrugs inside my arms. “Whatever. Now is as good as any time. Unless you don’t want to.”

  I want to. “Last night was hot. Like, really fucking hot. Hotter than I expected, which sounds all kinds of wrong. You are amazing. A beautiful, sexy surprise. And I think it could have gotten really out of control there. I would have regretted hurting you.”

  “You can’t hurt me.”

  “You wanted me to hurt you.” Did she not realize that? Fuck, maybe she didn’t. “And that can be hot. But given everything you’ve been through… Fuck, Taylor. I don’t know. I just don’t want to accidentally trigger something horrible and not be prepared to deal with the fallout. I want you to be able to trust me completely. To be honest with me about what you want, what you can’t handle, and that doesn’t happen by instinct or by ESP. You know?”

  Her eyes are wide. “No. I don’t. What are you talking about?”

  Jesus. “Okay. How about we start here. I like kinky sex. Sometimes, really fucking kinky shit.”

  Her expression is almost comical now. Eyes as big as saucers, perfect little mouth dropped into a classic O. Perfect to shove my fingers into and make her gag—if that’s her thing.

  Which it probably isn’t because of the sudden innocence I’ve just discovered.

  Damn it all to hell.

  I pull back further, and her hands wrap around my arms, stopping me. “Tell me more,” she whispers. “I’m not stupid. I know what kink is. Tell me more about what you’re talking about.”

  “Have you never thought of yourself as kinky?”

  She bites her lip, her brows pulling tight and raising in a perplexed expression. “No. I mean, let’s be honest, I think of myself as slutty and confused and problematic, and then I beat myself up for that because I know better up here,” she taps her forehead. Then her hand slides over her chest and stays there. “But not here.”

  I gently tap my fingertips against the back of her hand. “What’s there?”

  Her breath puffs out in a shallow, excited exhale. “Lots of things.” She twists our hands around and pushes them both against my chest. “What’s there?”

  I grin. Fucking hell. “Lots of things. Do you want to make a cup of tea and talk about them?”

  She pauses. “That depends. Do you…do those things with other people right now?”

  “No.” We don’t even need to talk about this in code. “There’s nobody else. Hasn’t been for a while.”

  Another pause while she searches my face. “Do you have anything stronger than tea?”

  “I sure do. But if we go that route, we’re not going to have sex tonight.”

  She drags in a deep breath. “That’s okay. I mean, you’ve got a week of vacation ahead of you, right? Depending on what we talk about, it might be good to sleep on it.”

  I cup her face, my thumb brushing against the corner of her mouth. Her eyes dilate then her lashes flutter gently against her cheeks. “I like that plan.” I lean in, hovering my mouth over hers. “I like you. And time is on our side this week. Let’s start with a conversation.”

  She turns and leads the way downstairs, where I pull open the kitchen cupboard where I keep my booze. A bottle of Jack, two bottles of white rum my oldest sister brought back from a vacation in Jamaica, and a questionable tequila of unknown origins. “Tennessee whiskey or the Caribbean’s finest rum?”

  “Do you have ice?” I point to the freezer. She checks and pumps her fist in the air. “Yes! Whiskey, please.”

  Grabbing two glasses, I pour us each a generous two fingers over ice, then hand her one.

  “Okay, so… to dirty discoveries?” She holds it out.

  I cli
nk the rim of my glass against hers. “To kink.”

  Straight. Clear.

  She takes a big sip and swallows. “To kink,” she whispers.

  I take a drink, too.

  Her eyes are bright as she looks over my face. Down my body, then back up again. “Are you some kind of Dom?”

  “I wouldn’t use that word, but I like to be in charge.” I hold out my hand, palm up. “To the couch? Let’s get comfortable.”

  She slides her fingers over mine. Hers are cool from the ice in her glass, which she transferred to the other hand. I feel like I’m going to burn up, and the way she lets me lead her around doesn’t help.

  I had a girlfriend when I was in the Marines who was super submissive. She called me Master, and it got me hard, although in hindsight I didn’t know fuck all about any of it. Over the years, I’ve been curious, read a lot online, and done a fair bit of dating inside the scene. L.A. is ripe for literally any kind of sex, so it’s not hard to find.

  “First of all, sex is sex. I don’t want you to think I’m harboring any kind of weird secrets here. But one reason I put the brakes on yesterday was because I’ve learned a lot about healthy boundaries from kink.”

  She curls up tight, leaning back into the cushions as she looks at me over the rim of her glass. “The only healthy boundary I’ve learned is to move far, far away from the people who want me to have unhealthy sex.”

  “That’s good. That’s great.”

  She nods. “It is. But now I’m wondering just what you see in me that makes you think of kink. I don’t want to be degraded.”

  “Fuck no. That’s not my thing, either. But I don’t judge those who like that—in a consensual, it works for everyone kind of way. Anyone who gets off on degrading people against their will needs to be taken out back and taught a lesson.”

  “You’d be busy in Washington.”

  “I’d be busy here, too, if I believed in vigilante justice.”

  The ice in her glass makes a pretty sound as she takes a couple more sips. Slowly, thoughtfully. “What would that look like? Consensual degradation?”

  “Humiliation kink is…whatever you would want it to be.” My mind races, trying to layer this in a way that doesn’t assume what she might like—or not—and pass any judgment, but also not one that drops a too-much-information bomb on her either. This was not the middle of the night conversation I planned to have. “Kink is a power exchange, right? All sex is, really, but a lot of vanilla sex is an equal power exchange. An agreement to share the power in a relationship. So if you wanted to be humiliated, or degraded, that would be power you’d freely give to a partner. And they would cherish that power and use it for your pleasure. If being called names was your pleasure, for example.”