Forbidden

by Connelly, Clare

  One night wasn’t enough…

  Will two be too much?

  Violinist Astra James has never forgotten her x-rated night with billionaire Manning Brown-Hadden – or how he walked away the morning after. He’s her step-brother, so he couldn’t be more off-limits…but his every sinful touch is branded on her memory for life! So this time, she’s going to make him beg for her! It’s her game, so she’s playing by her rules, one hot moment at a time…

  Also by Clare Connelly

  Off Limits

  Bought for the Billionaire’s Revenge

  Innocent in the Billionaire’s Bed

  Coming Soon

  Burn Me Once

  Her Wedding Night Surrender

  CLARE CONNELLY was raised in small-town Australia amongst a family of avid readers. She spent much of her childhood up a tree, Mills & Boon book in hand. Clare is married to her own real-life hero and they live in a bungalow near the sea with their two children. She is frequently found staring into space—a sure-fire sign that she’s in the world of her characters. She has a penchant for French food and ice-cold champagne, and Mills & Boons continue to be her favourite ever books. Writing for Mills & Boon is a long-held dream. Clare can be contacted via clareconnelly.com or her Facebook page.

  Forbidden

  Clare Connelly

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  ISBN: 9781474085052

  Forbidden © 2018 Clare Connelly

  Published in Great Britain 2018

  by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

  All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

  By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a "Licensed Device") and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

  ® and TM are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ®are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  Contents

  Cover

  Blurb

  Author Bio

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Excerpt

  Endpages

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  I’M HIGH FROM THE applause. As always, the sound of an audience’s appreciation for what I do, for the music I create, the songs I play, fills me with pleasure.

  But that’s not why my heart is rabbiting about in my chest, beating against my ribs in a frantic tattoo.

  It’s because of him.

  Manning Brown-Hadden. Or, as I like to think of him, my first lover. My only lover.

  A frisson of anticipation runs down my spine. Flashes of memory lance me, memories of our night together that are crystal clear despite the passage of time. The way his fingers, tentative at first, lifted my dress, tracing the flesh of my thighs with such reverence, as though I were his precious objet d’art and he my owner.

  I stifle a groan as the recollections sear me with their intensity.

  Manning is not just my lover. He is not just the only man ever to touch and kiss me.

  He is also my stepbrother.

  It’s been almost a year since that night in New York. The night we slept together. The night I seduced him. The night I brought him to my bed, knowing he had no knowledge of my innocence, knowing he would never have slept with me if he had, knowing and not caring.

  Because nothing mattered more to me than being with Manning. I’d lusted after him since the first moment we’d met: me eleven years old, unprepared for the sledgehammer of desire that would grip me from that night on. Him sixteen, but already built like a man, strong and muscled and so handsome he hurt me in my dreams.

  I dreamed about how it would feel to be kissed by him, touched by him, held by him, but nothing could have prepared me for the reality. The way he’d been rock-hard through his clothes, his body cleaved to mine so that I could feel his cock pressed to my belly. I groaned with the strength of my wanting him. The way he spread my legs apart, hovered over me for a second, his breath snagged, just like mine, as though we both knew we were on the precipice of something world-changing. Our eyes locked, all our promises and our pasts passing from one to the other, and then he drove into me, his cock so hard, so big, that even the instant flash of pain didn’t last longer than a millisecond before extreme pleasure usurped it, spreading within me like wildfire through a forest in summer.

  His eyes flared with surprise—betrayal, even—at that moment when he realised that I was untouched, that he was my first. But then he was as lost to pleasure as I, swallowed by the flames of a desire finally being fulfilled.

  I had wanted him forever.

  I’m not that girl any more—don’t get me wrong. Waking up the morning after we’d slept together, with a smile on my face and certainty deep in my heart that he would finally see what we were—see what we could be—I was quashed beyond repair when I discovered him gone.

  Nowhere to be seen.

  He’d left a note—because Manning Brown-Hadden is nothing if not appropriate.

  A – it shouldn’t have happened. I’m so sorry.

  MBH.

  For fuck’s sake! I was livid. Furious. And then I was resilient. Strong. Determined. Determined to forget him and move on. To push him from my mind. Because finally I realised he didn’t belong there.

  He slept with me and walked away. He took my virginity and left as though it were nothing. He dodged my calls and avoided family functions.

  As if I meant nothing to him.

  As if I didn’t matter—we didn’t matter.

  But I remember the way he touched me. The way his body was so hard for me. The way he was so consumed by our desire, the way he swore as he kissed my neck, his teeth sharp against my collarbone, his fingertips digging into my thighs.

  Still, he left. Still, he left me—as though I was a meaningless hook-up rather than the woman who knows him best in the world

  Well, maybe he was right. Maybe this isn’t important. But to me his complete desertion has been the breaking of my world.

  I’m no longer in love with him. But I sure as hell still want him. And now that I�
�m in Paris, where he’s living, I’m determined to show him that he still wants me. I’m going to make him want me. Make him beg for me. And then I’m going to walk out the door without a backward glance, letting him have a taste of his own medicine.

  One night wasn’t enough for me, but two ought to do it…

  I haven’t come straight to his luxurious penthouse from the performance. I don’t want him to see me as Astra James, prodigy. I want him to see me as a woman who is intent on one thing and one thing only.

  So I’ve ditched my black couture dress and the heavy concert make-up, replaced the former with silky underwear and a sheath-like dress and the latter with bright red lips alone. My dark hair I’ve brushed loose around my face, the way I know he likes it.

  I’m ready for this—ready for him.

  Manning Brown-Hadden isn’t going to want to let me go this time. But that’s too bad: he’s not going to have a say in the matter. This is my show, my rules, my game. And I’m playing to win back my pride.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE CONCERT WILL BE over by now. I imagine Astra in her beautiful dress, chatting to the other musicians backstage, and my gut clenches. I stare out of the window towards the Maison de la Radio, straining to see what I can.

  There is a thick fog, the distant passage of headlights and the glowing Tour Eiffel.

  Where is she staying tonight? In what bed and with whom?

  One year. Almost, not quite. But it might as well be ten.

  Fucking my stepsister was a dick move—but not just because she’s younger than me and I’ve known her since she was eleven.

  My father would kill me. Kill her. He’d be beyond livid. Yet, his anger I can wear. I don’t like to upset him, but I would. For Astra I’d do just about anything. It’s not his anger I seek to avoid but his distress. He’d be devastated. He’d feel betrayed—by me. And, having seen Carter weather two bad heart attacks in the last three years, no way am I going to risk inflaming him further.

  ‘I’ve adopted her, Manning. She’s part of the family now. Not a stepdaughter, not your stepsister. She’s my daughter. Your sister. She’s ours. Your job is to look after her, you hear me?’

  I looked after her, all right. I made her come again and again. My ‘sister’.

  I remember Astra the way she was that night, tangled in bedsheets, her long, tanned legs with those brightly painted toes making me ache for her anew. I dressed silently, watching her the whole time, half willing her to wake up, wanting her to see me, wanting her to ask me why I was leaving. Wanting her to look at me with those huge caramel eyes of hers, to smile at me, to tell me she understood.

  She didn’t wake. Why would she?

  She was exhausted.

  Despite her innocence and inexperience I’d taken her again and again, pleasuring her until she was shaking and moaning, her face pink, her breath rushed. I’d taken her in the kitchen, in the lounge, on my bed. Her eyes had grown heavy at some point and I’d watched her fall asleep.

  I’d still wanted her.

  My gut twists as flashbacks of that night haunt me, dancing on the periphery of my mind, so real I could reach out and touch them, so cloud-like and intangible that I can’t.

  The moment I thrust into her, taking her hard because I’d been waiting for her sweetness for as long as I could remember… How many of my teenage fantasies had featured my stepsister in the lead role? It was fucking wrong how I lusted for her, but I had never been able to help myself.

  Besides, they were only dreams. Dreams that I could pretend weren’t happening; dreams that didn’t mean anything.

  Lies I told myself again and again.

  I craved her, all right. I craved her when she came to live with me in New York for a year, parading around my apartment in my own goddamned T-shirts, so when I went to pull them on they smelled like her.

  I craved her for all those years until, at twenty-one, she invited me to her place for dinner and I was weak. I was weaker than I should have been.

  Even then I knew the tension had been building between us for months—years. Sweet, hot, demanding, captivating, suffocating need. But I’d fought it so fucking hard, with every fibre of my being. Then I went to her place and she answered the door in just a floaty dress and a huge smile. Our eyes met and everything inside me broke down with the utter certainty that we would be together.

  I took her hard, just like I’d wanted to for so long, and I broke through the barrier of her inexperience, that testament to her sweetness, and I made her mine.

  I remember the way she tasted, her innocence, her beautiful flesh. Her nipples were dark against her skin, aroused tight buds that I lashed with my tongue until she almost cried from the pleasure. Fuck. My dick is hard now, just remembering the way she whimpered beneath me, arching her back, begging me for more, asking me for all of myself.

  She is all mine.

  Or she was, at least.

  Now she is the world’s. The darling of the classical music scene.

  How many men have wanted her? How many men have watched her, their dicks hard, seeing her beauty and wanting her to wrap herself around them, to take them deep like she did me?

  Fuck.

  I stare at my phone, half-willing myself to dial her number, half-willing myself to throw the damned thing out of the window.

  I imagine what might happen if I call her. If I dial her and say, ‘I want you. Now.’ Would she come over? Or be angry? A bit of both, I suspect. She has every right to be pissed with me for the way I ghosted out of her life, and yet surely she understands why?

  My reasons for leaving still stand… I can’t forget that. Astra is forbidden. I must remember that.

  I need a drink. It’s going to be a long night, knowing Astra is in town and that I can’t have her. It’s the only way to cope with this—I must stay away. If I see her again I am lost, and the promises I have made myself and the duty I owe my father will all cease to matter. They’ll become the background noise to far greater needs. Astra will be my all when I see her, so I can’t.

  I’m halfway to the bar when the doorbell sounds. I change course, unbuttoning the top button of my shirt as I go and pushing the sleeves up to my elbows.

  I don’t bother to look through the glass circle. My building is the most secure in Paris; no one can get in without passing several security checks. It’s the home of actresses, models, porn stars and politicians. And people like me, billionaire media scions who fantasise about their little stepsister.

  And there she is.

  Astra James—but not as she is in my memory. Not innocent and sweet.

  She is hot as fuck, and, fuck, I want her…

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘ASTRA? WHAT ARE YOU doing here?’

  He frowns, almost as if he’s forgotten my name, as if he’s forgotten me. Bastard. No such luck here. I stare at him as a starving man would a buffet. I stare at him like he’s my salvation, when really he is my pain, my problem. My past.

  I straighten my back, determination renewed.

  ‘I’ll give you one guess.’

  The words are purred, and before he can answer I step forward, my hand on his chest pushing him out of the way so that I can move past him, into the elegant hallway of his penthouse.

  He’s been here almost a year, but the place still looks like a hotel suite. The same generic, fashionable, expensive décor that all our homes boast. Luxurious, tasteful, impersonal. There is no mark of Manning’s possession here. No sign of his tastes and proclivities, no indication of what he’s interested in.

  The door clicks shut behind me and I turn around slowly. Manning stands with his hands on his hips, his sleeves rolled to his elbows so it’s very easy to admire the golden tan of his skin, the beauty of his forearms. Arms that have been wrapped around my body tight, like a prison. Arms that I have traced lines over with my tongue, tasting his salty flesh. He wears the gold Rolex that was a gift for his seventeenth birthday.

  I’d known him only three months then. I
was already in love.

  His shirt is unbuttoned at the collar. I stare at his throat and my mouth goes dry. I fantasise about running my tongue from his lips to his chin and lower, to the cleft at the base of his jaw.

  I have been planning this since my agent booked this gig, since I knew I would be in the same city as him. I have planned this night and yet now that I’m here, faced with him, a kaleidoscope of butterflies dance in my belly and my knees are trembling.

  ‘Astra.’

  It’s a heavy sigh. His frown seems locked to his face. His handsome face. All huge eyes, so dark they are almost black, framed by thick lashes, a nose that is straight and prominent, cheekbones and a jaw that are carved as if from stone, and a mouth that has been designed to pleasure and to please. His jaw is covered in stubble. Not a fashionable stubble, carefully cultivated to suit an image. This is distraction. Laziness. A five o’clock shadow on speed.

  ‘Well, stepbrother,’ I murmur, my voice just a husk in this huge apartment. The Eiffel Tower sparkles beyond the balcony. ‘Aren’t you going to kiss me hello?’

  His eyes blink closed and I know then that I’ve got him. That he is fighting me again like he has done for years—with the exception of that one night in New York.

  Victory dances along my spine. This is going to happen. And I’m going to enjoy it.

  ‘Is that what you want?’

  He opens his eyes, spearing me, and the heat in his gaze unfurls like a whip.

  No way. He doesn’t get to flip this around. He’s not asking the questions; I am.

  I glide towards him, lifting a hand under the strap of my dress as I go, dropping it down my shoulder just enough to make him look there. To make him look at my skin, remember how I taste and feel.

  ‘You’re so fucking soft,’ he had groaned as he nuzzled my flesh, tasting every inch of me. ‘Just how I dreamed you’d be.’

  And then he left. After making my body writhe with ecstasy, birthing in me a belief in heaven and God and angels and the ever-after because his possession of me had been so perfect. He’d left.