by Remy Blake
TEMPT
Remy Blake
Contents
1. Charlotte
2. Lucas
3. Charlotte
4. Lucas
5. Charlotte
6. Lucas
7. Charlotte
8. Lucas
9. Charlotte
10. Lucas
11. Charlotte
12. Lucas
13. Charlotte
14. Lucas
15. Charlotte
16. Lucas
17. Charlotte
18. Lucas
19. Charlotte
20. Lucas
21. Charlotte
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright © 2017 Remy Blake
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This novel is a work of fiction. While reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to people either living or deceased, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used.
Cover design by PopKitty Design
Edited by Celia Aaron
This book contains mature content.
1
Charlotte
Rummaging through the excessive amount of underwear I have spread out on my bed, I look for my lucky thong. I’ve tipped the contents of the dresser drawer out twice, desperate to find the fluorescent yellow scrap of fabric. I need a small pick me up, and these always do the trick. Leaning over the length of the bed, I pull out a bunch of bras that have managed to find themselves underneath the absurd amount of throw pillows that decorate my king sized mattress. “Yes,” I whisper shout excitedly into the empty room. I found it.
In my hands, a sliver of brightness stands out amongst the sea of black. The line of jewels that hang from the waistband have latched themselves onto the front hook of one of my bras. Tossing everything but what I need back onto the mountain of a mess that sits in my room, I make my way to the ridiculously large walk-in closet, and use both hands to successfully detach the pieces of lingerie from one another.
Standing in front of the wall sized mirror, I step into my thong and pull it up. Alternating between a side on view and a full frontal, I watch my hands and fingers slide underneath and tug at the material on each side of my hips. Finally the thin string sits perfectly between my ass cheeks.
Searching through all my dresses, I struggle to find something appropriate to wear. What do people wear to funerals? Is there a rule that states you have to look sad and uninterested in your outfit choices? Huffing in annoyance I continue to scan through my options. There are so many pieces of clothing with tags on them, unworn and forgotten. It's like I was on a mission to fill up every space in this mansion of a wardrobe. I don't even need a walk-in closet this size or all the stuff in it. I'm used to living in simplicity; it was all I knew before this. Four walls and some furniture, living on my weekly paycheck and hoping it lasted. Hell, I would mix and match items to death hoping to make the same thing look different. The way I live now eclipses any memory of my former life. I know I could do without the extravagant air of luxury that I drown myself in, but I’ve yet to find a woman who would turn down access to the latest Louboutin shoe collection and a handbag to match.
Two years ago I met Geoffrey; our whirlwind romance was publicized everywhere. Twenty-six years old, and recently single, I wanted more out of life. So when Geoffrey Rockwell, of the world renowned Rockwell Investments, one of People Magazine's top bachelors ten consecutive years running, set his eyes on this lowly assistant, there was no way in hell I was going to pass up the attention that followed. At forty, he was like a premium blend of Scotch; only getting better with age. His hair was short on the sides, longer and heavier up top. Often caught raking his hands through to stop it from falling into his eyes, Geoffrey managed to turn disheveled into distinguished. His light brown hair was complimented by the sexiest amount of stubble seen on any man. Always in designer suits, he screamed money, sex and control - he was the ultimate prize.
From rags to riches, I was the envy of every female. Everyone knew who Geoffrey was. Starting from the bottom, Rockwell Investments was his biggest achievement. Successful and handsome, he was everything you wanted your future husband to be. In thirty days, and with a team of stylists to follow me around, I was prepped, pampered and ready to become the very first Mrs. Rockwell. I got called an attention seeker, a greedy bitch, and a gold digger just to name a few. But Geoffrey told me to ignore it all. He said he knew what we had was real. I was worried at the speed of it all, told him I would be happy to wait - there was no rush. But he assured me it would be fine. He told me I was the one he was waiting for - his perfect match, and thanks to a two million dollar media exclusive and a glossy ten page spread in Us Magazine, eventually the rest of the country thought so too.
Two nights ago, I got the phone call my husband was involved in a car accident. A drunk driver ran his car off the road, and Geoffrey and his driver died on impact. It had been months since we’d spoken. Our last conversation was an argument about something that I can’t even remember.
Shortly after we were married, I walked in on Geoffrey fucking his married male best friend; it was then I realized my life was never going to be the same. It’s been a long two years, playing the doting wife in public. Behind closed doors I lived on my own, restricted by rules, and bound by secrets. Hopefully, today is the last day I have to wear this mask
Deciding on a black fitted Gucci dress, I step into my black six inch heels and give myself a once over in the mirror. I mull over the appropriateness of the outfit; my hair and makeup are perfection. In a massive contradiction, I’m supposed to look like the mourning widow yet undoubtedly wear my money. I hear the buzz of the front gate intercom letting me know the funeral car has arrived to pick me up. With a deep breath, I walk out the front door and get ready to face what is bound to be a challenging day.
2
Lucas
I grip the perfectly tied Windsor knot and tug it down an inch hoping to relieve the choking sensation, but it doesn’t seem to help. Nothing can. My father is dead. My father who I never really got a chance to know and now...I’ll never have the opportunity. The reality of this sinks in more and more as the car I’m riding in brings me closer and closer to the stepmother I’ve never met. She’s rumored to be a gold digging whore who used her tits and ass to land him. I’ve seen pictures of them together and she definitely has the assets needed to sway the world’s most famous bachelor. My dad always did have impeccable taste in women, cars, clothes, and just about anything else you can think of.
I settle into the butter soft leather seat and close my eyes, relaxing into the smooth ride of the limousine. I’ll be meeting my stepmother dearest very soon.
I always imagined that someday my father would want to make me a part of his everyday life. I pictured us playing golf together, going to a Yankees game, running the Rockwell empire or any of the numerous cliche things that fathers and their grown sons do. Now I’ll never know how he really felt about me - his only son - his only child.
Having Geoffrey Rockwel
l as a father has its benefits for sure. Money was never an issue. My mother and I were always well provided for. He bought us a house in a well to do suburb of Connecticut, close enough to his Greenwich mansion and his New York City penthouse that he could keep an eye on us, but still have the distance he seemed to prefer.
I was sent to the best all male boarding school money could buy, from the time I was ten years old until now at eighteen. I’m to graduate in less than two months’ time, and right now I’m on spring break. How convenient of dad to pick a school vacation to kick the bucket. A cross between a laugh and a sob leaves me as the thought occurs. I pinch the bridge of my nose and squeeze hard to stop the urge to cry. I’m not a baby. I’m a man, goddammit, and I need to conduct myself like one. I’ll be under close scrutiny being Geoffrey Rockwell’s only living relative and heir to his empire - unless he left it all to my stepmother.
The limousine slows and my eyes open, glancing around at the scenery. We’ve stopped in front of large, black gates blocking us from entering the driveway to a large stone mansion. I’ve never been here, but I recognize it as my father’s estate in Greenwich, Connecticut. I’ve seen pictures in magazine spreads. It’s pretty fucked that I’ve only seen it in print. We sit, the car idling until the gates sweep open, allowing our passage through. The long, wide driveway is lined with well-manicured trees. Once we park in front of the main entrance, it’s only a minute or two before the green door opens inward. I hold my breath and wait to see who will appear. Will it be my elusive stepmother? Or will it be one of her paid lackeys who waits on her hand and foot?
I notice the black heeled shoe first and then my eyes journey up from there. And what a fucking journey it is. Her ankle is delicate, her calf, long and leanly muscled. Her dress ends just below her knees, obstructing the view of her amazing legs. The black material hugs the curves of her hips, clearly outlining their shape, before dipping in on each side for her narrow waist. The modest neckline covers her large tits, but any red blooded male can tell just by looking at them, they’re fucking phenomenal. My dick twitches in my pants as I imagine what they’d look like bare. Fuck, I can’t think about my stepmother this way. I shake my head as if I can easily do away with the inappropriate images in my mind. My shaggy brown hair lands in my eyes. I rake my hand through it, gripping it painfully tight for a moment and squeeze my eyes shut. Don’t think about her tits.
She moves closer and closer to the back door of the car, where I’m seated. I panic, my fingers grip the edge of the leather on each side of my legs. I focus on her lips as they part when she speaks to our driver and then flashes him a smile. Christ. Those red lips were made to suck cock. I bet she sucks a mean one. Either that or her pussy is tight as fuck. There has to be something special for my father to have given up his long-standing bachelorhood to marry her.
I’m so hard right now, imaging her on her knees in front of me with her full, red painted lips wrapped around my shaft. Fuck. My breathing picks up speed and I have to squeeze my cock for a moment and push it down. It’s immoral to think of my own stepmother this way. What am I going to do?
3
Charlotte
Pausing, I stand at the back door of the limousine, waiting for John, my driver to open up for me. Normally I would have no problem with doing things for myself, but right now I’m too focused on how I’m going to stretch my legs wide enough to step into the back seat without splitting my dress into two. The door opens, and I throw caution to the wind. Fuck it. Awkwardly smiling at John, I hike my dress up to an inappropriate length to give my legs freedom to move. Nobody else is riding in the car with me, I can get in as unladylike as I need to and fix my dress in the privacy of the back seat. Stepping into the car my legs stretch with ease. My heel hits the car floor first, allowing me to lower myself onto the seat before bringing my other leg inside. Sinking into the plush back seat, I take my sunglasses off and lean my head back on the headrest. Closing my eyes, I let out an audible sigh. The feel of the heated leather on the back of my thighs reminds me that I need to rearrange my dress.
The sound of someone clearing their throat startles me. My eyes open instantly, and I turn my head to the direction of the sound. The first thing I notice are his eyes, they’re gorgeous. A familiar combination of green and brown, they match his olive-brown skin perfectly. With a chiseled jaw line and the slight hint of a five-o'clock shadow, I forget where I am and where I’m going, and enjoy the way his stare makes me feel. Indulging in the moment, my eyes move from his face down to his white dress shirt that stretches perfectly across his broad shoulders. There’s no denying that underneath the clothes is a body that I could stare at all day. His eyes noticeably stop at my legs. Shit. I clumsily try to pull my dress lower so it covers my thighs, but the smirk on his face tells me it’s too late. Me and my fluorescent thong gave him quite the show. He shifts ever so slightly on the seat, and the movement snaps me out of my very obvious ogling. My eyes dart to where his hands are discreetly trying to stretch his pants away from his very visible hard on. He really did enjoy it. I’m caught up by the fact he’s turned on just by looking at me. I can’t stop staring. I hear him clear his throat. Again. Fuck.
I quickly turn around and look out the window, hoping to avoid any more awkwardness.
Minutes pass and it’s obvious he isn’t going to be the one to break the silence. My mind runs a hundred miles per hour trying to remember any conversation from the last few days that might tell me who he is. I come up blank.
I turn back to face him, and he’s staring out the window. Now that I’m not overcome by a haze of lust, I notice not only does he look sad, he looks young. Younger than me and that means young enough to make me question the eye fucking that went on minutes ago. Who the fuck is he?
If I want answers, I’m going to have to make the first move.
“Hi. I’m Charlotte,” I blurt out.
He turns and stares at me blankly.
“I wasn’t expecting for there to be anyone else in here with me,” I continue. “Has there been a mix up of some sort?”
“No.”
“No, what?”
“No, there hasn’t been a mix up. We’re on our way to Geoffrey Rockwell’s funeral,” he states matter of factly.
“Yes. But why are you in here with me?” I’m frustrated and confused. I don’t want to turn the bitch switch on, but I don’t need drama before the day has even started. This car is supposed to be my sanctuary. A place where I can compose myself before I face the public. Somewhere I can prepare myself against all the cameras, the judgement, and the expectations. I don’t want to share this space.
“This is the family car, isn’t it?” he asks.
I widen my eyes and look at him with an expression that indicates I have no idea where he’s going with this.
“Holy shit,” he says on a chuckle, “You don’t know who I am do you?”
Exasperated, I decide to just lay it on the table. “Look, can you just tell me who you are before we get to the service. There will be so much going on there, I don’t need to be worried about anything else, besides the sudden death of my husband.”
Anxiously waiting, he finally breaks the hold his eyes have on mine, and only then do I realize why his eyes look so familiar to me.
“Your husband,” he says between gritted teeth, “was my father.”
My husband has a son. I’m a stepmother. My husband has a son. I’m a stepmother.
Sitting in the service, with Geoffrey's casket in front of me, my thoughts are on repeat. All I can think about is how the hell did I not know he had a son? How do you not tell someone you have a kid? Who does he live with? Where has he been?
I need to snap out of it and shelve these thoughts for another time. I need to keep my head in the game and make sure I don’t stuff up the act of the grieving widow. I’m a Rockwell and that means nothing less than perfection. I pull and tug at my dress, making sure everything is in order. My mind is all over the place, but if I keep my eyes foc
used to the front, hopefully nobody will notice.
Someone speaks into a microphone, and the murmurs buzzing around the left side of the room immediately grab my attention. I realize it must be his turn to say the eulogy. Standing, he buttons up his suit jacket, and walks toward the steps that lead to the lectern. I try and ignore how his black trousers tighten around his ass every time he climbs a step, but between his firm body and gorgeous face, there’s nothing about him that doesn’t turn me on.
He stands tall behind the lectern, and pulls a paper out of the inside of his suit coat. Setting it down, his hands straighten his tie and he looks into the crowd. His eyes find mine, and he speaks directly into the microphone.
“Hi, I’m Lucas Geoffrey Rockwell.”
4
Lucas
I barely held it together while delivering my father’s eulogy. If it hadn’t been for Charlotte sitting in the front row, I’m not sure I would have made it. The moment we locked eyes, I knew I had to be strong for her and for my father. He would have expected no less from me. Rockwells don’t cry in public. Hell, Rockwell’s don’t cry - period. We also don’t show emotion, preferring to appear unaffected no matter what the situation entails. “We must have a calm facade at all times.” I hear my father’s words in my head. “There’s always someone watching - always someone waiting for you to slip up.” He fed those words to me from an early age and they’re always there in the back of my mind.
Sometimes, it’s hard to keep the Rockwell mask in place and I just want to be like every other eighteen-year-old. I want to blow off my homework and go to the frat party at the nearby university. I look older than I am, and no one would even question me being there. When I go back to school in a few weeks, I’m going to do just that. I may even find some sexy little cheerleader to suck my dick. God knows it could use some fucking attention.
