This time, I ignore what we’ve talked about and I ease into the song, my voice soft on the first two lines. Tentative. Like I don’t know if this is a good idea.
It’s not, really.
And suddenly I’m fifteen again. Being offered something to help me chill out, then something to amp me up.
Take a chance on a wicked line
Slick smile, knowing eyes
You’d talk me into heaven
Easy trick, tricky trespass
Tumble
Stumble
Get back up
Turn and smile
That was nothing
And you never miss a beat
Take a chance on a wicked line
Slick smile, knowing eyes
You’ll be my dirty secret
Undoing, done just right
My voice grows stronger as I sing, turns seductive. By the time I’m telling my corrupter that he’ll be my dirty secret, I know what’s going on. And I like it.
Fuck. I don’t want any twelve-year-olds singing along to this. My voice cracks on the next refrain, and the producer waves me off.
Instead of starting again, he gets up and waves me into the other room.
I don’t need a pep talk.
I need a do-over on the entire year when I was fifteen.
When I push through the insulated door, I don’t stop. “I’ll be back in a few. Just—give me a few.” And I keep going.
I’m shaking from head to toe by the time I get to the room across the hall where my stuff is stashed. I close the door behind me and slump against it. Every muscle in my body aches and my head throbs. I can't keep doing this, but I have to.
On the other side of the room, from inside my purse, my phone rings.
Rings.
I never leave the ringer on, it's always on vibrate.
I scowl. Did someone fuck with my stuff while I was in the studio?
It rings again.
I scramble across the room and pull it out. The screen is blinking, which is weird, and if this were any other time in my life, I’d have turned it off and walked away. Thrown it out.
But three days ago, my life was turned upside down by the kind of man who could probably reach inside my phone and make it ring.
I tap the answer button and hold it up to my ear.
I don’t say anything.
He does, though. “What’s wrong?”
“Who is this?” My heart pounds against my ribs. I know exactly who it is. I grip the phone tighter against my ear. “How did—”
“Tell me what’s wrong, Tabitha.” Wilson’s voice is hard, strained.
I turn in a slow circle. “Where are you?”
“At the hotel.”
“I told you leave me alone.”
“And I did.”
“I told you to leave!” My voice rises hysterically, but I’m not sure I did. “Why are you still in L.A.?”
He doesn’t answer that question. “Do I need to come and get you?”
“You can’t do this.”
“We need to talk about that.”
“We can’t.”
“I’ll find a way.” He takes a deep breath, then slows himself down. “You freaked out in there.”
“How do you—” I press my fist against my mouth to stop from asking the rest of that question. Oh God, I don’t want to know the answer.
He tells me anyway. “You’ve been going to the same studio for three days. I’m monitoring it now.”
“And my phone?”
“The ringer can be turned on remotely. There’s a lot I can do from a distance, Tabitha. Including protecting you.”
“I don’t need your protection.”
“And I can be someone who knows you’re upset, and ask you what’s wrong.”
“I don’t need that, either.”
“Maybe I do.”
“I find that hard to believe.” I laugh, because what the fuck has happened to me? “Who are you?”
“I’m yours.”
“That’s insane.”
“Yeah.” He laughs, too, but not as maniacally as I do. “Look, you’re okay? I’ll let you go if you are.”
“I’m…” Not okay. “I’m singing a song I don’t want to sing.”
“Then don’t.”
“Oh, that’s a complicated impossible option.”
“I won’t ask why, but I’m curious.”
“I won’t tell you, so stifle that.” I sigh. “I’m fine now. I just needed a minute to get my shit together.”
“Sing a different song,” he says softly. “Or go and sing the hell out of that one. I thought it sounded great, for what it’s worth.”
“It’s…”
“Is it real? Is it your story?”
I swallow hard. “Sort of. But I didn’t write most of it. So it’s…uncomfortable, you know? Like people might see that it’s real.”
“You don’t shy away from those types of songs.”
“I write them differently.”
He lets my words just hang between us. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.
I write them differently. “I gotta go.”
“Kill it,” he says. Then he hangs up.
And I do.
I totally kill it.
I head back into the producer’s bay, prop my hands on my hips, and declare, “The words are all wrong.”
~
It takes another six hours, but we re-write the song and it fucking rocks. I’m so amped by the time we finish that when Grant throws his arm around my shoulders and says we need to celebrate—the first thing he’s said to me in days—I manage not to push him away.
I do want to celebrate. I pivot into Frankie’s arms, then twirl Izzie around in a circle before laying a wet kiss on the cheek of my new back-up singer, Ginger.
“Back to your hotel?” she asks, her eyes twinkling.
I’m tempted, but the motivation for saying yes would be all wrong. “I’m hungry, actually.”
We call for two cars, and when they arrive, I drag Izzie and Ginger into the first one, leaving Grant to ride with Frankie and the producer.
We head to a tapas bar in West Hollywood that’s more club than restaurant. Before long the table we’re standing at is littered with plates and glasses, and I’m three shots into celebrating in style. I don’t hear my phone ring at first, because the music is loud, but Ginger’s next to me and she points to my bag.
I pull it out, ignoring Grant’s curious look. It’s a text, not a call, and again the screen is flashing. The phone number isn’t legit, but I know who it’s from anyway.
003-3000: having a good time?
Tabitha: not now, have a stalker
I add a winking emoticon to soften the words, then reach for my drink, pretending my pulse isn’t racing as I wait for his response. When it comes, I immediately silence the ringer, but I don’t look at the screen. I wait until Grant gets dragged into a conversation with an industry person that stops by, then check it out.
003-3000: just watching your back
Tabitha: not necessary
003-3000: I’ll be the judge of that
That shouldn’t turn me on. Liquid heat rushes though me, a mad wildfire.
Tabitha: we need to have a talk about boundaries
003-3000: we can talk whenever you want
Tabitha: not now, I’m celebrating
003-3000: I can tell; I want you to have fun
Tabitha: are you sure about that?
003-3000: definitely…ask your friend to dance
I glance at Ginger, then look around the room. Where is he? It’s crowded tonight, and there are too many shadows.
Maybe I’ll take his suggestion after all. I click out of the text message screen and my phone stops flickering. When I click back into my messages, there’s no trace of that conversation.
Who the hell are you, Wilson Carter?
A question for another time. I put my phone away in my bag, hand it to Frankie
to keep an eye on, and grab Ginger’s hand. “Come on, let’s dance.”
—seventeen—
Tabitha
We dance for a couple hours. There aren’t any more text messages, and I never see him, but when everyone else decides to go to an all-night club on Sunset Boulevard, I beg off and head back to the hotel.
I hate being alone, but I don’t think there’s much risk of that when I get upstairs.
I’m not wrong. The elevator stops on the third floor, and my pulse jacks up as the doors open.
Wilson gets on. His jaw is hard, his eyes piercing. He doesn’t say anything, but he presses the sixth floor button. As he moves, I catch the scent of him, cool spring morning and fearlessness. It’s the height of summer in Los Angeles, but that doesn’t touch him. And beneath that sweet, grassy scent is something more masculine. Something familiar.
His scent carries with it markers of our night together. Reminders of a bond I didn’t ask for and don’t know how to handle, but one that made me happy, too.
For better or worse, I’m glad to see him. No, glad isn’t it. Glad doesn’t touch how I feel.
Relief, hunger, ache…
I’m his.
There’s no denying it as he stands next to me.
When the doors open again, we both get off.
His room is right across from the stairwell. He lets me in, and my skin tingles as I move past him, but he doesn’t touch me.
He still doesn’t say anything.
It’s a small room, standard size. A bed, a television on a dresser, and a small desk. That’s covered in computer gear. A laptop, a tablet, a few black and silver bricks that look like external hard drives. Wires running everywhere.
My pulse leaps, a nervous beat I can feel in my neck.
“This is dangerous,” I whisper.
He crowds behind me, his hands on my hips. Rough, demanding. “Wouldn’t want it any other way.”
Lord help me, but that works. It makes me wet, it makes me ache. “I…” Tipping my head back against his chest, I close my eyes.
“I know you’re tired,” he whispers. “Let me take care of you.”
“I’m not yours,” I protest weakly.
“Shut up.”
“You aren't listening to me.”
“I am. I'm just disregarding your protest. Maybe I am not yours yet, but you are definitely mine. Mine to protect and mine to worry about.”
“How can you know that? We just met.”
“Life has a fucking twisted sense of humor. I promise you that five days ago I thought I would never have someone like you in my life.” He makes a disbelieving sound. “And then you…were you.”
I don’t know what to do with that kind of tenderness. And when I spin around in his arms, from the look on his face, neither does he.
When we crash together, there’s nothing tender about it. He hauls me up his body as he consumes my mouth. I kiss him back, desperate for more. Biting, tasting, soul-stealing and everything in between. I want to climb inside him, be his and let the rest of the world go. Never stop kissing him.
I want so much that I can’t have.
With a groan, he squeezes me to him and turns. But instead of the bed, he carries me into the bathroom, bumping into the door on the way in. He sets me on the counter and leans in, kissing me softly this time. So soft it hurts, and I push him away.
His eyes pierce into me, seeing my resistance, my fear. He cups my cheek and holds my face in front of his, but he doesn’t kiss me again.
And then after a long, agonizing beat, he steps back and I slide off the counter.
The bathroom’s small and cramped with us both in here. I catch a glimpse of us in the mirror as I turn. He looks almost preppy compared to my bad girl get up. Black skinny jeans. Grey tank top over a black bra. Silver necklace, dark lipstick, heavy eye makeup. And he towers over me, a blond-haired and blue-eyed avenging angel. Blue jeans and a dress shirt rolled up to his elbows.
Unspoken angst hangs heavy, but apparently we’re going to ignore that. He pats my hip. “Get naked. I want to wash the night off you.”
“Shower sex? Hell yes.”
He laughs. “I’m going to give you a bath.”
Oh. That sends a weird thrill through my belly. Okay.
I take off my jewelry and tank top as he turns the taps to start the flow of hot water. He frowns at the tiny hotel toiletry bottles on the counter, then grabs the body wash and empties it into the tub.
I’ve just sat down on the toilet to take off my sandals when he turns back and kneels in front of me.
Wordlessly, he undoes the strap at my ankle. Then he takes the other foot and braces it against his thigh, releasing me from that sandal, too.
“Up.”
I stand, and he unbuttons my jeans. His fingers graze my tattoo and I shiver. The trembling gets stronger as he leans in and kisses my belly.
“Shhh…” He works my jeans down my legs, his palms skimming my flesh and raising goosebumps everywhere he touches.
The tub is almost full now. He turns me around, facing it, and takes off my bra, leaving me naked and ready to be cleaned.
“Hair up?”
I shake my head. It’s not what I’d usually use, but the hotel conditioner will be fine, and I want to wash the day off every inch of my body.
“In you get.” He holds my hand until I’m stretched out beneath the bubbles.
I take a deep breath, then slide under the water, getting my hair wet. I use my fingers to scrub my scalp before I surface, an when I do, Wilson’s still crouched beside the tub.
A half-smile transforms his face. “Feel good?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I wash your hair?”
I don’t use regular shampoo—I pay way too much for my hair to look this good to risk it to the crap they normally put in that stuff—but hotel conditioner is fine, and I tell him just to use that. I add a pleased little smile at the end so he knows I’m appreciative.
He stands up easily and twists to grab the conditioner bottle. He’s a big guy, and seems bigger still when he’s fully dressed and I’m naked in the tub.
The fatigue that had hung over me when I arrived is gone now. Heat blooms inside me as I greedily look at his legs, the tight curve of his ass, his narrow hips. I’ve done a lot of kinky shit in my time, but nobody has ever given me a bath before.
It’s almost cute, but I don’t do cute.
So when he turns around, I’m waiting for him, kneeling in the tub, my legs spread wide, everything from my hips up displayed for him above the water.
I’m at exactly the right level to see his erection swell behind the fly of his jeans. I take my time dragging my attention up to his face, and when I get there, his gaze is hot.
Scalding, really.
“This can only be tonight,” I say.
We both know he doesn’t accept that. But he bites his lower lip and rakes his gaze over my body. “Then I better make it good enough for you change your mind.”
That’s where he’s wrong. I gave up my right to choose my own path a long time ago. But I’m not selfless. If he’s game to fuck me silly, I’m not going to push him away until he’s done. “Do your worst.”
—eighteen—
Wilson
Fucking temptress.
My jeans are uncomfortably tight as I loom over Tabitha’s naked, bubble-slicked body. My worst? “Can you handle that?”
“I can handle anything,” she says, her nipples tightening as she looks up at me. “Do what you want with me. I’m yours to play with.”
“Until you bite.” I grin and grab a towel to kneel on. “Turn around. I’m going to wash your hair.” I wait until she’s settled with her back to me, then I gather her wet strands in my fist and tug her backward so my mouth is next to her ear. “Get you squeaky clean everywhere.”
“Promise or a threat?” She twists her head as much as she can and water runs down my arm, soaking into my rolled-up sleeve.
“Bot
h.” I release her and squeeze conditioner into my palm. I carefully work it into her thick red hair, coating the strands before massaging her scalp with my fingers.
“You’re good at this,” she whispers.
“First time.” I clear my throat, trying not to think about how good it feels to hold her head in my hands. How I could turn her around and get her to blow me. A quick screw isn’t going to bind her to me any more than the other night did.
I need to get under her skin. Fucking is a means to an end tonight.
But she’s just as equally interested in getting under my skin. I soap up her back, then her sides, edging onto the swell of her breasts, then down to her waist, and the whole time, she’s talking smack to me.
And it’s making my dick harder than I thought possible.
“I didn't take you for the guardian type,” she breathes.
“Is that how you think I see you? Someone to take care of?”
“Isn’t it?” She shifts, lifting the curve of her bottom out of the water. A red flag invitation to be violated there. I reach for the conditioner. “Do you see me as a girl in distress, needing rescue?”
“Is that what you want? A father figure to protect you, baby girl?”
She freezes.
Maybe I’ve gone too far. Maybe my dick is genuinely cutting off the blood flow to my brain.
“I can take care of myself,” she says softly. “And I've had enough father figures ruin my life, thank you very much.”
But she follows that with a slow, inviting glance at me over her shoulders.
I raise one eyebrow. “Should I finish what I started?”
She nods, and I coat my fingers with conditioner.
“Are you mine to play with?”
Dirty Love (Forbidden Bodyguards #3) Page 7
