My Sinful Desire (Sinful Men Book 2)

by Lauren Blakely

  I expected a sly remark. A hint that gave little away.

  “Ryan,” he said with a glint in his dark eyes.

  I scoffed. “Your name is not Ryan.”

  “Why not?”

  “Ryan’s a nice-guy name.”

  “Are you saying I’m not a nice guy?”

  I shook my head and curled my 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 loud 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 my ear. “What are you doing on Sunday at seven p.m.?”

  I practically held my breath at the possibility unfurling before me. “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.”

  I smiled. I wanted to see him too. “I’ll be there.”

  I ran my hand along my skirt once more, then gently touched my hair, making sure it was still in place. My heart sped up in worry. I grabbed one of Ryan’s strong arms. “Wait. Is my lipstick smeared?”

  He shook his head. “No. It’s all gone.” He softly brushed the pad of his thumb along my cheek. “But you look perfect. Every single thing about you looks perfect.”

  “Thank you,” I said, taking a deep breath as I left.

  I walked on the stage, flashing a big, bright smile to the crowd. I thanked Heaven Leigh for her performance, praising how talented she was. As I spoke, I scanned the crowd and caught a last glimpse of the man in the suit, the man who’d made me come backstage. He was on his way out, but he stopped briefly and watched me. He didn’t wave. He didn’t chuckle. He didn’t make a single gesture to say we had a secret.

  But the way he stared made me tingle all over, and the way his lips curved up in a grin said he knew he had that effect on me, and that he had every intention of doing it again.

  7

  Ryan

  I gripped the large tree trunk that had fallen on the roof, as my brother finished slicing through the last section of the wood. The chainsaw buzzed loudly in the midday air, then Michael turned it off.

  After I let go of the wood, I grabbed the hem of my T-shirt and wiped the sweat from my brow. “You think it feels hotter, since we’re closer to the sun, being on the roof and all?” I asked my 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.

  I rapped my knuckles against the pile of wood we’d chopped from a large tree branch that had fallen on our friend Sanders’s roof during a recent windy night. Sanders Doyle was a friend of our father’s from long ago. Nearing retirement and damn ready for it, he was a mechanic at the limo company where our father had worked the last few years of his life.

  “Did you meet with Winston?” I asked Michael as we walked to the edge of the roof, stopping when we reached the ladder resting against the house.

  “Yeah. But I’m not supposed to say a word about what was said.” He mimed zipping his lips.

  I laughed. “He said that to me too. But what are the chances that we aren’t going to tell each other?” I asked, though sometimes I wondered if my siblings had kept secrets from me, as I had from them. Would John Winston be privy to those secrets if they had them? “What did he ask you?”

  With his sunglasses shielding his eyes, Michael answered matter-of-factly. “Any new friends. Anything I remember,” he said, repeating what the detective had asked me. “But he also asked about Luke.”

  The hair on the back of my neck prickled at the mention of our 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. Isn’t that the point of an affair? It was all in secret.”

  “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 a part of it. They cleared him at the time, but who the heck knows?”

  “Got any new theories on why they reopened the case?” We’d already speculated for hours after the detectives showed up at Shannon and Brent’s wedding celebration at our grandparents’ 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 my eyes. “I bet they think someone else helped plan the murder.”

  “You think Mom will get out of prison?” My voice rose with a touch of hope that I knew would piss off my brother. Michael had cut off our mom. He didn’t visit her. Didn’t talk to her. Her guilt was crystal clear to him.

  But the world wasn’t black and white to me. I’d seen and heard other sides to the story. The side our mom hadn’t told anyone else.

  Michael scoffed. “Her fingerprints are all over everything. She’s not innocent, not in the least. But there might be others who are guilty too, beyond her and Stefano. 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, so we can take it to green recycling.”

  That was apparently all the discussion Michael wanted to entertain about the investigation. But I wasn’t ready to drop the subject. “You learned that from your police shows?” I asked, teasing my brother.

  “Diehard CSI fan. Now let’s get off the roof. I’m hot, and I need a beer.”

  I hefted a few chunks of wood under my arm. “You let me know when the next episode of Law and Order helps you solve the mystery, ’kay?”

  Thirty minutes later, we’d finished loading the bed of my truck with the chopped-up tree trunk, and Sanders had come out of the house to survey our progress.

  “Ah, youth. I remember the days when I could have done that,” Sanders said wistfully, one hand parked on the side of the truck door.

  “You pining for lifting tree trunks or other things we strapping young studs can do?” I teased.

  “That part works just fine.” His expression shifted to gratitude. “But I appreciate you coming by to help out. Couldn’t do this without you lads, clearly.”

  “You know we’re always happy to help,” I said.

  At sixty-one, Sanders had spent his career as a mechanic bent over hoods or under engines, which had taken its toll on the man. With a bad back, and his own sons scattered across the United States and back home in Ireland, he leaned on us for heavy lifting from time to time.

  “Let me treat you to a beer,” Sanders said, clapping me on the shoulder.

  “I’m always game for a brew. And Michael was already hankering for one.”

  “Wait till you experience the AC in my house. It was on the fritz, and I fixed it myself the other day. Impressed Mrs. Doyle quite a bit with that handiwork.”

  “And you need to with the way she was pissed about your speeding ticket the other month. You do know they have apps now that tell you where the speed traps are,” I said as we reached the side gate to the backyard.

  Sanders shrugged, a little helplessly. “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 to look out better for a state trooper. Especially in California. They bust your balls there.”

  “There’s a first time for everything. Congrats on your first speeding ticket.”

  Sanders q
uieted as we reached the deck where Becky waited, shielding her eyes as she waved. “I’ve got cold beer for my favorite handymen.”

  “You are the best, Mrs. Doyle,” I said. “I’d give you a big hug, but I’m sweaty and gross.”

  “I’m not,” Michael said, elbowing me as he moved in for an embrace. “I’ll hug you.”

  Sanders stepped in front of both of us.

  “Now, now. Keep your mitts off my lady. She’s 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 Becky and planted a kiss on her cheek. She smiled at him, then led us into the house.

  Cool air blasted my hot skin. “This is heaven,” I said with a relaxed sigh.

  Becky handed beer bottles to Michael and me. “Glad you enjoy it.”

  “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 till I can spend my days drinking beer and lounging 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 before you go,” I teased.

  Sanders tensed, his spine straightening at those words. “Course not. It was just speeding.”

  “Sure. What else would it be?” I asked, with a laugh.

  “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, the set of her jaw tight. I glanced briefly at Sanders, who was rubbing his wife’s arm, then at my brother. Michael shrugged a shoulder.

  I had no clue why the speeding ticket had touched such a nerve for the Doyles.

  But the weird glances, the needy reassurance, the mix of worry and admonishment—those were all reminders of why I steered clear of relationships. They were trouble. Women needed soothing and tending to, and those were just not things I was good at.

  I was, however, quite good in other areas, and there was a woman who seemed fond of those skills. A woman I’d be seeing tomorrow.

  I couldn’t wait.

  8

  Sophie

  Ever dapper, always elegant, Holden played the final notes in a Beethoven Concerto on the grand piano.

  I tapped my fingertips against the black lacquer of the piano in Holden’s apartment overlooking the Mandalay Bay pool. Several stories below, hotel guests drank towering drinks and splashed in the cool water.

  “Finito!” Holden declared with a flourish as he finished the piece, then stood up and bowed deeply.

  I clapped and shouted my one-woman ovation: “Bravo!”

  “Thank you, thank you to all my adoring fans,” he said, then blew air kisses to the fictional crowd.

  I wrapped my 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 . . .” I let my voice trail off as I searched for just the right word to describe his musical talent. I brought my fingers to my 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. My ex-husband had achieved some sort of pinnacle in male fashion—he never dressed down.

  He was a lot like me.

  That was the problem in our marriage.

  He was a bit too much like me.

  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.

  Best friends in high school, Holden and I were perfect for each other. I was the computer geek; he was the music geek. Together we were two peas in a pod, driven by our passion for machines or instruments. We connected, we laughed, and we had a grand old time. Our easy way together reminded me of what my parents had, and I wanted that kind of love. So after college, I married my best friend.

  It seemed like a great recipe for a successful marriage. Everything between us had gone swimmingly as husband and wife, except in the bedroom. We’d learned we wanted different things from a lover. Fine, lack of bedroom chemistry wasn’t the ultimate barometer for the success or failure of a marriage, but I didn’t excite him, and he didn’t excite me, and the things we tried to spice up our love life fell flat.

  The time I’d asked him to pull my hair and talk dirty to me had resulted in him calling me a hot bitch as he tugged gently on my strands. He then broke into peals of laughter, clutching his belly as he said, “I’m sorry. I just can’t say things like I want you on your hands and knees now, woman.”

  That was where I wanted to be though.

  And that was where he wanted to be too, because he’d inquired casually one evening over our second pinot noir if I might want to try a threesome with another guy.

  “Maybe someone who could say those things to both of us? Who could give all kinds of those sexy, dirty orders you like?” he asked.

  My ex-husband went both ways, and when he went, he submitted. Which meant we didn’t and wouldn’t and couldn’t ever gel. There was simply no room for two submissives in a marriage.

  But was that the right word for me? I didn’t really know if the term fit me, since I’d never been in that type of relationship. My experience was limited to Holden and to a college boyfriend who’d been rather “fratty” in bed.

  Still, I knew what turned me on. I knew what I fantasized about.

  Being dominated. Being taken. Being tied up. Even if I’d never fully experienced that type of lover, I was sure of what made my blood heat up and my body spark. Fantasies tripped through my mind late at night in bed, alone, and they often involved being pinned.

  Bound.

  Tied.

  After struggling to make it work between the sheets, Holden and I had both agreed we’d be better off friends than lovers. The transition away from him wasn’t wholly easy, and there had been times when I’d felt unsure of myself and my femininity. But we made a pact to stay the close friends we always had been.

  A talented pianist, Holden had both toured the world and played in recording sessions for commercials and jingles, and he’d be joining the symphony at the concert I’d arranged in two weeks to raise money for the community center. “Do you think Clyde will try to marry you off again at the concert?” Holden asked.

  I wrapped my fingers around the edge of the piano. “He’s bringing a boy-child to the event. I have no doubt he wants to pawn me off on his lawyer grandson, and he thinks if he can just get us in the same room, we’ll fall madly in love.”

  Holden shuddered dramatically. “Being the glamorous divorcée”—he sketched air quotes as he used the moniker that a Vegas high-society blog had bestowed on me—“isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, is it?”

  I swatted his shoulder. “You’re a glamorous divorcé too.”

  “Oh yeah. They’re lining up in droves for a piece of me,” he said with a wink.

  Piece of me. My mind flashed back to a couple of nights ago at Aria, and to the commanding way Ryan Whoever He Was had controlled my pleasure backstage. A frisson of longing raced through me. I craved his touch again.

  “Hello? Did you just drift off to la-la land?” Holden asked, waving his hand in front of me.

  I blinked then grinned, caught in the act of remembering a hot encounter. “I did. Because I met someone the other night, and we had a fantastic time.”

  Holden patted the piano bench. “Sit. Tell me everything.”

  I sat on the bench and recounted the details. Not all of them. Not the particularly naughty ones. But the tidbits about how we met, and how he showed up at the gala, and how I barely knew anything about him.

  “Which I like,” I added. Perhaps I liked it so much because it was the op
posite of my experience. I’d known everything about Holden, I’d gone in with my eyes wide open, and we hadn’t worked out.

  I knew virtually nothing about Ryan. Maybe the change was what I needed. To go into this thing blindfolded.

  Wait. Add that to the list of things I wanted to try. Blindfold.

  “Be careful,” Holden said in warning. “He could be anyone.”

  “That’s why it’s fun.”

  “That’s also why it’s dangerous.”

  I nodded. “I know. I like danger.”

  “I just don’t want to see you get hurt,” he said, patting my knee.

  “It’s only fun and games. I’m not interested in anything more. In fact, I hope I never learn his last name,” I said as I crossed my legs and kicked a foot back and forth, demonstrating how completely content I’d be in that scenario.

  Even though, truth be told, I was terribly curious about the man behind the orgasm.

  9

  Sophie

  So many sartorial choices.

  On the one hand, the sun-yellow dress hugged my hips quite nicely.

  On the other hand, the red one with the tiny white polka dots did offer a nice little cleavage peekaboo.

  As I tapped my finger against my lips on Sunday afternoon, weighing the options for tonight in my perfectly organized, neatly arranged, color-coordinated closet, my phone buzzed from the back pocket of my jeans, signaling a text.

  Absently, I reached for the phone, noticing the time. Seven more hours until my date. Four hundred twenty minutes. Twenty-five thousand, two hundred seconds.

  Then I spotted the first line of the text.

  Oh.

  Oh my.

  As I opened it, my belly flipped, my body lighting up simply from the intoxicating memory of his backstage skills.

  Ryan: This is Ryan. Question. Are you afraid of heights?

  A grin spread quickly across my face. I hadn’t expected to hear from him until I saw him this evening. And he hadn’t asked for my number either. He must have put those security skills to work to find it. I liked that he’d been hunting for me. I liked it a lot.