Hot as Sin (Contemporary Romance Box Set)

by Katherine Lace

  So I just respond, ignoring the little voice in the back of my head that tells me this is a horrible, horrible idea. Then Nick draws back and looks down into my face. One hand lifts from my shoulder to cup my face. Before I quite know what he’s doing, he shifts again and lifts me, both hands cupping my buttocks, and sits me on the counter behind me. The first thing I think is that I’ll have flour all over my ass, and wow, won’t that be attractive, but then his mouth latches to mine again and I can’t think much about anything at all.

  I loop my arms around his neck, pulling him a little closer. I want nothing more than to just get deeper and deeper inside his mouth. Or at least that’s what I think until his hands slide up under my shirt, pushing it half off me, exposing my bra. Then he’s under the bra, too, and one hand has closed around my breast. And then I know I want so much more than just his kisses. I want him on me, over me, inside me.

  What the hell is going on here? I suppose somebody would call it chemistry, the way we seem to be setting each other off. They’d probably not be wrong, but there’s one thing I know about chemistry, and that’s that sometimes if you do the wrong thing, stuff explodes. And people die.

  I draw back a little. “Nick…”

  “No, Sarah. Give me just a minute more.”

  Fine. I don’t really want to fight him anyway, except I’m scared not to. Nobody’s here to see you, I tell myself. Nobody will ever know. That’s enough to quiet the voices in my head, at least for now.

  He’s toying with my breast, his thumb plucking at my nipple, and I’m melting under the contact. I want to give myself over to him completely. It’s like we’re stoking a fire where none has been before. Compared to anything I’ve ever felt for anyone else, this is a conflagration.

  I can’t fight it anymore. I do what I want to do, which is sliding my hands down the back of his trousers. I go right under the cotton underwear and cup his ass with both hands, dragging him closer and wrapping my thighs around his hips. His glutes tighten under my fingers and he thrusts up against me. I can feel his dick, hard and hot through his clothes, through my clothes. His ass fills my hands just perfectly, and I scratch at his skin with my nails, feeling the tight muscles, the rough hair. It’s so wrong for me to want him like this, but God, I do. I really do.

  His mouth draws back from mine, and I let out a small sound of protest. I don’t want this to end. Not ever. His lips tickle against my ear. “I want to fuck you so bad right now.”

  “Yes,” I say without thinking, and he chuckles.

  “We can’t. Not right here.”

  “Why not?” I’ve lost all sense, obviously.

  “Well, first of all, it’s a commercial kitchen. Having sex in here is probably not the most hygienic thing. Second, it’s broad daylight, and there’s a chance somebody might come looking for you.”

  By “somebody” I know he means Sal, and all my carefully stoked desire disappears, falling to tatters around me. God, what would Sal do if he walked in here right now and found me damn near fucking Nick? I know damn well what he’d do.

  I move back a little, realizing he’s right. “This is a very bad idea.”

  “Of course it is.” He takes in my face, almost stroking me with his gaze. Then he reaches up with his free hand—the other one’s still having its way with my nipple, in spite of his protests that we should stop—and runs his thumb over my lips. “Let me take you out somewhere tomorrow. We can go out of the city. Nobody will know.”

  My heart leaps, wanting to say yes, but logic takes over. Thank God, because it was sure keeping quiet over the last few minutes. “No. Also a terrible idea. If Sal finds out—”

  “He won’t.”

  “You can’t guarantee it. And if he does, I’m dead. Or worse.”

  His expression sobers. I’ve gotten through to him, at least. I figure he’s finally getting his head around what I’ve been saying, and he’s picturing me lying on the ground covered in bruises, bleeding out of my mouth, limbs broken. Or something equally hideous. He can probably get as imaginative as he wants and not be far from the truth.

  “I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

  I shake my head. I’d love to believe him, but I know how these things work. “You can’t promise that. You know that.”

  “Nothing and nobody is going to get to you if you’re with me.”

  His voice is low and earnest and damn near persuasive, but I shake my head again.

  “No, Nick. This can’t happen. As much as I hate it, I’m Sal’s. Probably always will be, and not a damn thing I can do about it.”

  “There’s always something you can do about it.”

  “Not this time.” I draw back from him, pulling my shirt back into place. His hand slides away from my breast, and I immediately want it back where it was. “I’m sorry, Nick.”

  “So am I.” He leans forward and kisses me again, long, deep, searching. I whimper, reaching up to comb my fingers through his hair. When he’s done, he stands there for what feels like an eternity, just looking at my face, into my eyes.

  Finally he steps away. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, fishes out a business card, and hands it to me. “Call me if you change your mind.” As I take the card, he adds, “Hell, call me if you don’t change your mind. Call me if Sal tries to hurt you. Call me if you’re lonely. Call me if you just want to say hi.”

  He leans forward and kisses me again, quick and gentle this time. When he heads back to the front of the store, I slide down off the counter. I hear the door close behind him, and when I make my way back out to the front, he’s gone, and so are the boxes of pastries. He’s left two hundred-dollar bills next to the cash register—double what he actually owed.

  I pick them up and ring out the order then pull all the money out to count it for my end-of-day routine.

  Time to go back to real life.

  Back home, Sal’s returned; his car’s in the garage, and there are lights on in the house that were turned off when I left. Everything still smells like spaghetti sauce. Though I’d prefer to avoid him, I head for the kitchen, figuring Sal’s in there eating his dinner. I hope he’s enjoying the extra spices in his sauce.

  Sure enough, he’s at the table shoveling down spaghetti like there’s no tomorrow. The dog sits at his feet, watching hopefully, hoping Sal will drop something or pass him a noodle or something. I’d think he developed a taste for the sauce after I gave him that sample, but the truth is that dog will beg for anything. If you’re eating it, he wants to be eating it.

  He’s a good dog. He deserves better than Sal. So do I.

  “Sarah,” Sal says when I walk into the dining room. “About time you got home. Join me for dinner?”

  I hold back the sneer I’d like to show him. No. You eat your dog-spit-infused spaghetti sauce all on your own. I’ll be fine. “No, thanks,” I say out loud. “I’m not really hungry.”

  He shrugs. “Suit yourself. Probably for the best, anyway.”

  I grind my teeth. I know better than to ask him what he means by that. He’ll tell me I’ve been eating too many of my own pastries, or that my muffin top is getting out of hand. I don’t want to hear it. So I say nothing and watch him take another big forkful of his spaghetti. The dog has started to drool.

  “So how was business today?” he finally says. I figure he gave up on waiting for me to rise to his bait about my not eating.

  At least I have good news to tell him on that front. “Not bad.” I show him the envelope I’ve brought in with me and then lay it down on the table next to him. He gives me a brief look in response to the thickness of it and then opens it.

  Sal gives a low whistle. “This is more than you usually take in on a weekday.” He lays the envelope back down. “You get some special orders or something?”

  I open my mouth to tell him about Nick buying the pastries for the nursing home, but suddenly I don’t want to share that with Sal. Instead I say, “Some schoolteachers came in. Wanted some bread and pastri
es and stuff for the teachers’ lounge, and a meeting they were having or something. They bought quite a bit of stuff.”

  “Well, good. Maybe I can still squeak a few bucks out of the place before we shut it down.”

  Cold crawls along my stomach. “Shut it down?” I thought he’d dropped this angle. Apparently not.

  “Of course.” He gives me a level look. “Sarah, you have to understand how business works.” His tone has gone soft and almost cloying, like I’m a five-year-old and he’s explaining to me why I can’t hit my little sister over the head and take her candy. “If there’s no profit then there’s no business. At some point, I’m going to have to cut my losses. You’re just not selling enough doughnuts or whatever.” He waves it off, as if it’s of no importance at all.

  I know I shouldn’t say anything. Arguing with him never gets me anywhere but back up in my bedroom nursing bruises. “It’s my business, not yours.”

  His eyes narrow. “Not unless you can pay me back for the little business loan we arranged. You know that. And you’re pretty deep into back payments at the moment.” He swirls more spaghetti around his fork. “I suppose it doesn’t really matter in the long run. When we get married, it’ll be half mine anyway in the eyes of the law.”

  “Married—” I start, almost choking on the word, but he’s still talking.

  “Even though technically it’s mine already. I paid for it.”

  He’s right. Sort of. His money paid for it; my money hasn’t been sufficient yet to pay back the loan. Otherwise I wouldn’t be putting up with him on a daily basis. Otherwise I wouldn’t be living in his house and allowing him free access to my body. He has me bent over a barrel. Between a rock and a hard place. Whatever cliché you prefer, but none of them quite match the level of anger, hatred, and despair that’s become the everyday normal for my life over the last several months. The backs of my eyes start to burn, but there’s no way in hell I’m going to break down in front of Sal.

  “So, we’ll get married,” Sal continues, and my stomach lurches, “and then I’ll take care of the bakery. I’ll figure out some way to turn a profit, even if it means collecting on the insurance money.”

  I know exactly what he’s talking about. “Well,” I spit, and I know, again, that I’d be better off if I just kept my big, stupid mouth shut, “I guess you know best.”

  I turn on my heel and head upstairs. At least I have my own room—I can lock the door and not have to worry about Sal busting in and demanding sex, or just busting in and hitting me. I flop ungracefully onto the bed and sob, because there’s not one damn thing else I can do.

  Sal doesn’t bother me that night—thank God—and the next morning he seems pretty even keeled. Which is a nice change. I go about my business, trying to pretend my business is really mine, trying to believe I can really accomplish something with my life. It’s a nice delusion, I guess.

  Things stay quiet for a couple of days, which is a welcome relief. Then, one morning when I’m on my way out the door to go to the bakery, Sal says, “We’ve got dinner tonight. Try to be home a little early so you can be sure to be presentable.”

  Great, I think. What the hell has he got going on now? But when I get home, early as requested, he’s all smiles.

  “Did you forget it’s your birthday, Sarah? Go get changed—I’ve got a big surprise for you at dinner.”

  My brain is just stupid enough to jump a little in anticipation. Maybe he’s actually going to do something nice for me. After all, it’s my birthday. I hadn’t forgotten, of course, but I hadn’t been thinking about it much, either.

  I change into a lacy black dress and heels and drape a string of pearls around my neck. I look good. Damn good, if I do say so myself. Sal makes an approving noise as I come down the stairs, and as we head for the car, he actually takes my hand. It’s almost affectionate.

  What the hell is he up to?

  The restaurant he takes me to is pretty upscale, so I’m glad I erred on the site of fancier clothes. I see several familiar cars in the parking lot—dark sedans, which are thoroughly stereotypical but still practical for the mob types Sal hangs with. I can’t imagine he’s invited a bunch of his colleagues for my birthday party. He doesn’t like me enough for that.

  When we go inside, the maître d’ greets Sal with a wide grin. “Everything’s ready, Mr. De Luca.” He turns to me. “And you must be the birthday girl.”

  “Um, yeah, I guess I am.” I’m starting to get nervous now, and even more so when the maître d’ loops his arm through my elbow.

  “This way, then,” he says, and leads us both toward the back part of the restaurant.

  The whole back section is a separate room, and as Sal and I enter the door, everyone at the tables stands and starts to applaud. “Oh, my God,” I whisper. He really has invited all his colleagues for a birthday party. I recognize several faces from the party, and of course I recognize Phil Spada, Sal’s boss.

  And there’s Nick Angelino. His gaze catches mine and he gives me a smile that’s just a shade too warm for plain courtesy, but I don’t think anybody sees it but me. Sal certainly doesn’t; he’s too busy shaking people’s hands as he moves after the maître d’ to our seats near the middle of the big table.

  Once we’re seated, I try to focus on what’s going on around me. I’m getting birthday greetings left and right, from people I know and even more people I don’t. It’s overwhelming, especially since I’m still nervous about what Sal’s ulterior motives might be.

  Maybe it’s just a birthday party. My conscience nags me with this, but I know better. There’s never a “just” anything with Sal. Or with any of these men, for that matter. It would behoove me to remember that.

  I forget it again, though, when I catch sight of Nick again. He’s sitting next to a pretty girl in a dark-blue dress with an incredibly low neckline. He seems to be chatting her up, but I don’t get the sense from their body language that they’re a couple. Certainly not a long-term couple, by any means. There’s a certain distance between them that tells me they were probably thrown together specifically for this party. That’s fine. He might be expected to take her home after dinner, but that doesn’t mean he will.

  He meets my gaze again, as if he senses I’m looking at him. I look quickly away, but then I can’t keep from glancing back not even a second later. Nick grins, and my whole body goes hot. I’m so happy to see him I can barely contain it, but at the same time I’m so acutely aware of Sal next to me and what his reaction would be if he knew what I was thinking. If he knew what Nick and I did the other day in the back rooms of the bakery.

  I can feel the warmth of Nick’s mouth on mine, the shape of his hand burned onto my breast. My nipples go hard and start to tingle as if he’s actually touching them. I have to make myself switch my attention or surely someone will realize I’m paying way too much attention to Nick and not enough to Sal.

  The food arrives along with wine, and it’s enough of a distraction that I’m able to keep my eyes to myself for a few minutes. It’s wonderful food—fork-tender steak, pasta cooked perfectly al dente, fresh vegetables grilled and seasoned so they taste like summer. My stomach’s twisting around itself, not sure if it’s terrified or elated, but I still manage to eat because the food’s just that good. And from time to time I feel Nick’s eyes on me, and sometimes I shift just a little so I can meet his gaze.

  The surreptitious glances start to feel like a love affair all on their own. I lay a hand on my lap, my fingers idly brushing the inside of my thigh. What if it were his hand? What if he could come right under the table, climb up under my dress, and bury his face between my legs? My whole body goes weak just thinking about it.

  I shouldn’t be thinking about it. I should focus on Sal. But I can’t help it. After a few seconds it’s like I can actually feel Nick’s tongue on me, stroking, stabbing, teasing. My clit starts to throb, and the pulsing spreads up inside my body. My pussy feels hot and swollen. I squeeze my legs tight together, trying to get
the sensations back under control, but the action only turns the heat up higher.

  Finally I resolve not to look at Nick again for the rest of the evening. That doesn’t last long, but the next time I glance up, he’s paying attention to the woman who’s probably his date, and he doesn’t look back.

  That’s fine. I need to chill the hell out before I draw any attention to myself. I feel like I’m so aroused, Sal must be able to smell it. That’s ridiculous, of course, but still. I clear my throat, dab wine from my lips with my napkin, and focus resolutely on the last few bites of my steak.

  That’s when Sal pushes up from his seat, wineglass in hand. He taps the glass with his spoon. He’s going to make a toast, obviously. Toast to the birthday girl, I assume, and my face goes hot. I blush too easily, I know, especially when I’ve had a bit to drink.

  “Attention, everybody!” Sal calls, and the chatter and general hubbub around the table fades. “I’d like to make a toast to Sarah, the birthday girl, who’s been by my side now for…” He glances at his watch, which garners a few laughs. “Several months now.” More soft laughter. I know exactly how long it’s been, practically to the minute. I’m sure he actually doesn’t, unless he’s been counting down the minutes until he can fuck me over by yanking my business out from under me. I struggle to make myself watch him with a smile on my face. I hope I look like an adoring girlfriend and not like I’m nauseated.

  “Happy birthday, Sarah,” he says, “and many happy, healthy returns.” He turns toward me and I have no real choice but to stand and touch my glass to his. As I sip the wine, I want more than anything to see what Nick’s doing, but I know I can’t. I keep my focus on Sal.

  “Now,” Sal goes on. “I also have an announcement to make, and I hope you’ll indulge me for a few more minutes.”

  An announcement? I wonder what that’s about. Everyone at the table is listening raptly. Out of curiosity, I search out Phil Spada, just to judge his reaction. His face is set in a slight smile, completely appropriate for the situation. There’s nothing to read from his expression at all, except that maybe he’s pleased I’ve made it to another birthday.