He rubbed fast and expertly, and she rocked into his hand as bright white fireworks blasted in her brain, radiating throughout her body. Faintly, in the back of her mind, she heard the song nearing the end, and she knew she’d have to come in seconds to make it to the stage on time.
But seconds were all this man needed.
“I want to taste your lips as you fuck my hand,” he said, then dropped his delicious mouth to hers once more, kissing her fiercely as she rode his fingers. He wasn’t even touching her flesh. He was getting her off through the lace. He was that good. She was that turned on. The tension in her body escalated, rising up like a rollercoaster car nearing the top of the hill. Then she reached it, hovered for beautiful seconds in that suspended state of bliss, then raced downhill as if it was an orgasmic joyride. As her own pleasure crashed into her, he ravaged her mouth with his lips, swallowing her moans, tasting her cries, and somehow it felt like kissing was coming, and coming was kissing.
Only it was more. It was being held back. And that was a hint of all that she craved.
She blinked and breathed hard as he pulled away. He arched an eyebrow, and let go of her wrists. Her skin burned from his grip. She shook her right hand.
Gently, he brought her wrist to his lips. He kissed her softly, reminding her of the first time he kissed her hand on the dance floor as he erased the sting, his lips traveling across the same territory where he’d held her tight moments ago.
“Better?” he asked quietly.
She nodded as he gave the same treatment to her other hand. All these sensations both rattled and delighted her—she didn’t know what to make of this man, and how he could talk and touch so rough and harsh in the heat of the moment then become so sweet in the afterglow.
He lowered her hands to her sides then tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. “Beautiful,” he said, his eyes softer now as he looked her over.
She smoothed a hand over her dress. Her legs felt wobbly. Her heart roared loudly. Her body still sang.
Clapping echoed loudly from beyond the curtains. The song was over. “Thank you so much,” the singer said from the stage.
He tipped his head. “You better get out there.”
Nerves took off inside her, then a blast of anger. She was not going to be dismissed. This was not going to be a one-time thing. She grabbed his tie, tugged him close. “Name. Tell me your name.”
She expected a sly remark. A hint that gave little away.
“Ryan,” he said with a glint in his dark eyes.
She scoffed. “Your name’s not Ryan,” she fired back as Heaven Leigh said her goodbyes.
“Why not?
“Ryan’s a nice guy name.”
“Are you saying I’m not a nice guy?”
She shook her head, and curled her hand around his shoulder. “You’re not a nice guy at all.”
He brought his palm to his chest. “I’m hurt. I’m a terribly nice guy. I saved you from those women who wanted to monopolize you at the bar. And I kissed you when you came so no one heard how orgasmic you were.”
“Then why are you leaving?”
“Because you have to go,” he said, nodding to the stage.
“And why are you giving me your first name only?”
He brushed his lips against her ear. “What are you doing on Sunday at seven p.m.?”
She practically held her breath at the possibility unfurling before her—that she might see this man another time. “What should I be doing Sunday at seven p.m.?”
“Be at Caesars. Outside the Fizz Bar. I want to see you again.” He paused then added, “Badly.”
She smiled. She wanted to see him, too. “I’ll be there.”
She ran her hand along her skirt once more then gently touched her hair, making sure it was still in place. Her heart sped up in worry. She grabbed Ryan’s strong arm. “Wait. Is my lipstick smeared?”
He shook his head. “No. It’s all gone.” He brushed the pad of his thumb along her cheek. Softly. “But you look perfect. Every single thing about you looks perfect.”
“Thank you,” she said, taking a deep breath as she left.
She walked on the stage, flashing a big, bright smile to the crowd. She thanked Heaven Leigh for singing and then talked about how talented the woman was. As she spoke, she scanned the crowd and caught a last glimpse of the man in the suit, the man who’d made her come backstage. He was on his way out, but he stopped briefly and watched her. He didn’t wave. He didn’t chuckle. He didn’t make a single gesture to say they had a secret.
But the way he stared made her tingle all over, and the way his lips curved up in a grin said he knew he had that effect on her, and that he had every intention of doing it again.
Chapter Six
Ryan gripped the large tree trunk that had fallen on the roof, as his brother finished slicing through the last section of the wood. The chainsaw buzzed loudly in the midday air, then Michael turned it off.
Ryan let go of the wood. Grabbing the waist of his faded gray T-shirt, he wiped the sweat from his brow. His skin was baking under his shirt.
“You think it feels hotter since we’re closer to the sun? Being on the roof and all,” he asked his brother.
“Absolutely. It’s a proven scientific fact that working on someone’s roof equates to a ten-degree increase in temperature,” Michael said as he set the chainsaw on the tiles, resting it by his feet so it wouldn’t topple into the yard.
Ryan rapped his knuckles against the pile of wood they’d chopped from a large tree branch that had fallen on their friend Sanders’s roof during a recent windy night. “Now we just need to get this over to green recycling and we’re good.”
Sanders Foxton was a friend of their father’s from long ago. Nearing retirement and damn ready for it, Sanders was a mechanic at the limo company where their father had worked the last few years of his life. Thomas Paige had been on the job the night he was killed, chauffeuring a group of teenagers around town for their prom, first delivering them safely to the dance, then to their homes. Then he’d returned to his house in his own car and was shot four times in the back in his driveway after midnight.
“Did you meet with Winston?” Ryan asked, as they walked to the edge of the roof, stopping when they reached the ladder resting against the house.
“Yeah. But I’m not supposed to tell you a word about what was said,” Michael said, miming zipping his lips.
Ryan laughed. “He said that to me, too. But what are the chances that we aren’t going to tell each other?” he said, though sometimes he wondered if his siblings had kept secrets from him, as he had from them. Would John Winston be privy to those secrets if they had them? “So what did he ask you?”
With his sunglasses shielding his light blue eyes, Michael answered matter-of-factly. “Same as before. Any new friends. Anything I remember,” he said, repeating what the detective had said to Ryan. “But he also asked about Luke.”
The hair on Ryan’s neck prickled at the mention of their mother’s lover, a local piano teacher. “What about him?”
Michael sneered. “Wanted to know what I knew about their relationship. Like I had a clue about the affair. I mean, what the hell? Isn’t that the point of an affair? It was all in secret.” He made a gesture with his fingers as if he were digging and hiding something.
“Did Winston say he thinks Luke was involved?”
Michael shook his head. “Nah. That man just asks questions. Didn’t share any details. And I have no idea if Luke was part of it. They cleared him at the time, so who the heck knows?”
“Got any new theories on why they reopened the case?” They’d already speculated for hours after the detective showed up at Shannon and Brent’s wedding celebration at their grandmother’s house a week ago and dropped the bomb about the investigation’s new life. “It’s frustrating that they know something but won’t tell us.”
Michael pushed down his sunglasses, meeting Ryan’s eyes. “Here’s the thing. I watch eno
ugh police dramas to make a guess. And it’s this—I bet they think someone else helped plan the murder.”
“You think Mom will get out of prison?” Ryan asked, his voice rising with a touch of hope that he knew would piss off his brother. Michael had cut off their mom. He didn’t visit her. Didn’t talk to her. Wanted nothing to do with her. Her guilt was crystal clear to Michael.
Ryan understood why, but the world wasn’t black and white to him. He’d seen and heard other sides to the story. The side their mom hadn’t told anyone else. He couldn’t let go of the dream that she’d been framed. That he and his siblings weren’t born to a killer.
Michael lifted his chin and scoffed. “Her fingerprints are all over everything. She’s not fucking innocent. But there might be someone else who’s guilty, too. Murder for hire isn’t a to-go order. You don’t walk into a store and order a hit with fries on the side.” Michael shook his head, as if to chase the thought away. “Now let’s get this wood down to your truck.”
That was apparently all the discussion Michael wanted to entertain about the investigation. But Ryan wasn’t ready to drop the subject. He rarely wanted to drop the issue that had gnawed at him for eighteen years. “You learned that from your police shows?” he asked, teasing his brother.
“Ha ha.” Michael rolled his eyes.
“Besides, when do you even have time to watch TV? You’re always working.”
“That’s because my business partner is busy wining and dining,” he said, staring sharply at Ryan.
Ryan blew on his fingers as if they were too hot to handle. “What can I say? One of us needs to seal the deals.” He pretended to cast a fishing rod and reel in a big one. “Can I help it if I’m just a good people person who knows how to win them over?”
Michael shook his head and laughed. “Get your ass off the roof. I’m hot, and I need a beer.”
Ryan hefted a few chunks of wood under his arm. “You let me know when the next episode of CSI helps you solve the mystery, ’kay?”
Thirty minutes later, they’d finished loading up the bed of Ryan’s truck with the chopped-up tree trunk.
“Damn back,” Sanders muttered, one hand parked on the side of the truck door, the other patting his spine in frustration. “But I appreciate you coming by to help out. Couldn’t do this without you guys, clearly.”
“You know we’re always happy to help,” Ryan said.
At sixty-one, Sanders was seven years older than their dad would have been if the two men still went out for beers, or to shoot a round of pool as they had done regularly the last few years of his dad’s life. But all that time Sanders had spent as a mechanic bent over hoods or under the engine, had taken its toll on the man. With a bad back, and his own sons living in Arizona, he leaned on Ryan and Michael for heavy lifting from time to time. They were happy to help, especially since Sanders had looked out for them. Though they had grandparents who’d raised them during high school, Sanders had remained a close friend, stopping by, checking in, and making sure they knew how to change a tire and check the oil pressure—his way of passing on a part of Thomas Paige after he was gone.
“Let me treat you to a beer,” Sanders said, clapping Ryan on the shoulder.
“I’m always game for a brew. And Michael was already hankering for one.”
Sanders waggled the salt-and-pepper eyebrows that matched his hair. “Wait ’til you experience the AC in my house. It was on the fritz and I fixed it myself the other day. Replaced the air filter. See, I still can manage a few things all by my studly self.”
Ryan laughed. “I bet the missus was impressed that you didn’t have to call us on the AC problem,” he said as they walked across the front lawn.
The older man winked. “Truth be told, she likes it when you come over. Between you and me, I think she’s got a crush on the whole lot of you. Probably had eyes for your dad, too,” he said with a no-big-deal shrug, and Ryan couldn’t deny that he enjoyed the free and easy way Sanders had of talking about his father. Some people were afraid to mention the deceased. They tiptoed around the family history.
Not Sanders. He talked openly about Thomas Paige, and Ryan had always liked that.
“That wouldn’t surprise me,” Michael said with a wink. “Our good looks did come from him.”
The air was heavy with silence for a brief moment. Because the natural next thing to say would be to mention the traits that came from their mom.
Ryan broke the silence. “Hey, is your wife still pissed about your speeding ticket? You do know they have apps now that tell you where the speed traps are,” he said as they reached the side gate to the backyard.
Sanders rolled his eyes. “I know, I know. What can I say? I was getting tired and was eager to get home so I gunned the engine. The highway looked free and clear. You’d think four decades of driving would have taught me better.” Ryan had been ribbing Sanders ever since he was nailed by a state trooper in California a month ago. First time ever that the normally cautious driver had landed a speeding ticket.
“They have coffee for that problem. The falling asleep at the wheel one,” Michael said as they reached the deck.
Sanders’s wife Becky stood by the sliding glass door, shielding her eyes as she waved. “I’ve got cold beer for my favorite handymen,” she said.
“You are the best, Mrs. Foxton,” Ryan said. “I’d give you a big hug, but I’m sweaty and gross.”
“I’m not,” Michael said, elbowing Ryan, as he moved in for an embrace. “I’ll hug you.”
Sanders stepped in front of both of them.
“Now, now. Keep your mitts off my woman. She’ll be liable to leave me for one of you,” Sanders said with narrowed eyes. “I’ll be the only sweaty man touching her.” He draped an arm around his wife and planted a kiss on her cheek. She smiled at him then led them into the house.
Cool air blasted Ryan’s hot skin. “This is heaven,” he said with a relaxed sigh.
Becky handed beer bottles to Ryan and Michael. “Glad you like it here.”
“Now it’s really heaven,” Michael said, then knocked back some of the beer.
Sanders squeezed his wife’s shoulder possessively. “Only four more months ’til I can spend my days drinking beer and sitting on my ass on a lounge chair on the pool deck as we circle the Bahamas.”
Becky smiled. “I can’t wait. We’re going on a cruise for three whole weeks. It’s been a dream my whole life.”
“Just make sure they don’t make you do time for your speeding ticket,” Ryan joked.
Sanders seemed to tense, his spine straightening over those words. “Course not. It was just speeding.”
“Let’s not talk about the trip to California right now,” Becky said in a quiet but firm voice that brooked no argument. She turned away, her shoulders rising and falling as she took a deep breath. Ryan glanced briefly at Sanders, who was rubbing his wife’s arm, then to his brother. Michael shrugged a shoulder.
Ryan had no clue why the speeding ticket had touched such a nerve for Sanders and Becky.
But the weird glances, the needy reassurance, the mix of worry and admonishment—those were all reminders of why he steered clear of relationships. They were trouble. Women needed soothing and tending to, and those were just not things Ryan was good at.
He was, however, quite good in other areas, and there was a woman who seemed fond of those skills. A woman he’d be seeing tomorrow.
He couldn’t fucking wait.
* * *
Ever dapper, always elegant, Holden played the final, jubilant notes in Beethoven’s ninth symphony on the grand piano.
Sophie tapped her fingertips against the black lacquer at Holden’s apartment overlooking the Mandalay Bay pool. Several stories below, hotel guests drank towering drinks and splashed in the cool water.
“Ta da!” Holden declared with a flourish as he finished the piece, then stood up and bowed deeply. Sophie clapped and shouted bravo, giving a one-woman ovation that was loud enough to be worthy of m
any.
“Thank you, thank you, to all my adoring fans,” he said, then blew air kisses to the fictional crowd.
Sophie wrapped her arms around him in a hug. “You’re going to be amazing. Though that’s not a surprise in the least.”
“You really liked it?”
“Liked it? I absolutely loved it. It was…” She let her voice trail off as she searched for just the right word to describe his musical talent. She brought her fingers to her lips like a chef pleased with a dish. “Magnifique.”
He sighed happily and beamed, placing his hand on his chest as he mouthed thank you. He wore tight blue slacks, loafers, and a crisp, striped button-down. Her ex-husband had achieved some sort of pinnacle in male fashion—he never dressed down.
He was a lot like her.
That was the problem in their marriage.
He was a tad bit too much like Sophie.
He liked clothes, he liked shopping, and he liked kicking back on the couch and gabbing over a glass of chardonnay and a pint of ice cream. No, he wasn’t gay. But he wasn’t entirely straight either. Which might not make sense to most people. In fact, Sophie hadn’t tried to explain the demise of her marriage to “most people” because, one, it was none of their business, and two, they wouldn’t understand.
Best friends in high school, she and Holden were perfect for each other. She was the computer geek; he was the music geek. Together, they were two peas in a pod, driven by their passion for machines or instruments. They connected, they laughed, and they had a grand old time. Their easy way together reminded her of what her parents had so nearly missed, if fate hadn’t drawn them together again twenty years later.
Sophie had seen the love her parents had, and she didn’t want to let it pass her by. Or to wait twenty years for it. So after college, she married her best friend.
It sounded like a great recipe for a successful marriage. Everything between them had gone swimmingly as husband and wife, except in the bedroom. They’d learned they wanted different things from a lover. Fine, lack of bedroom chemistry wasn’t the barometer for the success or failure of a marriage, but Sophie didn’t excite him, and he didn’t excite her, and the things they tried to spice up their love life fell flat.
Sinful Desire Page 5
