My Sinful Desire (Sinful Men Book 2)

by Lauren Blakely

  My heart tripped over itself. “I want all that too.”

  He wrapped an arm around my waist, and I melted, just melted from the simple touch. “I need you to know, I was never using you. I won’t lie and tell you I didn’t put it together that you were the detective’s sister, but I want to be clear that I wasn’t trying to hide the fact I’d made the connection—it had to do with struggling to share the truth about my family with someone for the first time. And I won’t insult your intelligence by saying I didn’t wonder if you knew anything about the case. I did wonder,” he said, and I nodded, listening intently to his serious tone. “But that literally lasted for a minute, maybe two. And it ended as soon as I set eyes on you at Aria. Because once I saw you again, none of the other things mattered. I wanted you with an intensity I’ve never felt before. And the more time I spent with you, the greater that desire became.” His fingertips traced soft lines on my waist. “I know we haven’t seen each other that much in the grand scheme of things, but I already feel something for you, Sophie. Something deep and powerful,” he said, and those words weaved through me, humming in my body, buoying my heart and my spirit.

  “I feel the same,” I whispered. “I barely understand how it’s possible that I only met you a little over a week ago.”

  “I know.” He pressed his forehead to mine. “It makes no sense to me either. It was pure, one-hundred-percent lust at first sight, and then it somehow became more. And I can’t risk losing you by being so damn stubborn.” He pulled back to look me in the eyes again. His dark-blue gaze made my stomach pirouette, and the way he brushed his fingertips along my arm had my skin sizzling.

  “You didn’t lose me. I promise.”

  “I know I messed up, and I can’t promise I won’t mess up again. And I don’t really know if I’m able or ready to sit down and tell you every single sordid detail of my life—”

  I pressed my hand to his chest, thrilling at the feel of his firm body beneath the light cotton of his T-shirt. “You don’t need to tell me everything. You don’t have to deliver your entire life story, Ryan. I just want to know more about you. Bit by bit, day by day, as you’re ready to share.”

  He nodded and clasped his hand over mine. “I meant what I said at the diner. I don’t ever get beyond three dates, because I don’t like to open up. So you need to know you’re the only woman I’ve ever wanted to get closer to. You do something to me that drives me wild and makes it impossible for me to think about anything but you.”

  I couldn’t contain my grin if I tried. “You’re pretty much ever-present in my mind too.”

  “Now, listen, I’d really like to get you naked, but I also want to get to know you. So what would you say if we did something totally Vegas and took a gondola ride and talked?”

  “I would love to get to know you better, Ryan Sloan,” I said. He held out his elbow, and I hooked my hand through it, walking with him to the gondolier, excitement ping-ponging through me because we were starting something.

  Starting over, and starting anew, and starting fresh.

  We were going to make a go of this for real, with stripped down and bare hearts and minds.

  And—probably pretty damn soon—bodies too.

  But for now, there was a boat, and there was water, and there was a fake skyline that looked like a bright blue summer day, so I settled into his arms as we bobbed along the canals inside The Venetian.

  41

  Ryan

  Whew.

  That was not easy.

  That was like . . . scaling a mountain.

  Lifting a car.

  Leaping over a tall building.

  But to have Sophie in my arms again, her lush, ripe body snuggled next to me as we floated down the man-made canal? Yeah. Worth it.

  Giving voice to emotional truths was exhausting, but she was happy to listen to me talk about hockey, and I was relieved, so damn relieved, not to have to dig any deeper right now. I knew I’d probably have to later.

  “And why do you like hockey?” she asked, resting her head against me. I stroked her hair, and this moment was one of the most surreal of all—living in the present on our own terms.

  I shrugged and smiled. “It’s just fun.”

  “Fun is good.”

  “Were you looking for some deeper reason? Like it was my dad’s sport?”

  “No. But was it?”

  “Nah. He wasn’t a sporty guy. He was all about cards and cars and poker and pool. He loved this town because he loved the little bets. He had a regular card game going with a couple of his buddies once a month,” I said. My dad was good at cards and had used some of his winnings over the years to pay for night-school classes the last year of his life, always trying to better himself. But while I might be able to share little details of my dad with Sophie, I wasn’t ready to delve into the fights my mom and dad had had, over things like money. Letting Sophie into my life didn’t mean baring every single little detail—it meant not hiding the things that mattered. Like my memories of my father. “He was a good man. He wasn’t perfect, but he took care of us, and he taught us manners and respect, and he never missed a chance to go to the park with us.”

  She slinked out from my hold and turned to face me. “He sounds like a great guy. I’m sure you miss him.”

  “I do,” I said with a nod. “I really do.”

  I sighed heavily, and Sophie must have decided the hockey talk and this admission were enough for now, because she cupped my cheeks and brushed her lips to mine. It was a soft kiss at first, and she explored my lips as if she were kissing me for the first time. Soon enough she pressed harder, nipping me with her teeth, nibbling and sucking, and making me groan in the middle of the canal, with the stripe-shirted gondolier mere feet from us.

  The kiss was a new beginning. A promise of more that we would share. A hint of what we might become.

  And it blurred the rest of the world. Because all I knew, felt, and wanted had been reduced to the soft, sweet feel of her lips, the smell of her skin, and the scent of her hair.

  Then she picked up speed, veering out of poetic and into ravaging. I’d never let her lead in a kiss before, but I did now, and she sure knew what to do to me. I was turned on well past the point of propriety in a gondola.

  I broke the kiss, clasped my hands on her shoulders, and looked her in the eyes. “Spend the rest of the weekend with me. Come to my house. Swim with me. Meet my dog. Play a round of pool. Besides, I have a change of clothes for you if you need one,” I said, holding up the bag with the peach dress in it.

  She made grabby hands, and I yanked the bag back. “You can have it if you say yes.”

  Her eyes lit up. She tapped her chin, pretending to think about it. “I feel like you left one very important thing off the to-do list.”

  I lowered my hand to her ass and squeezed hard. “No, beautiful. That’s a given. Fucking you will be the main item on the agenda.”

  42

  Ryan

  I opened the sliding glass door to my deck and stood on the threshold, stopping to take in the gorgeous sight before me.

  Sophie wore a white bikini and huge black sunglasses as she stretched out on a lounge chair by the pool, reading her iPad under a big yellow umbrella. Her skin was so fair, I doubted she was a sun worshipper. But even so, she looked stunning with the rays casting their glow on her legs.

  Late-afternoon shadows fell across my yard, along with a quiet hush. The stillness of the moment—both the silence and her beauty—felt like a dream. But the image was too sharp, too crisp to be anything but real.

  My real life. My real chance. A real change.

  Okay, some things hadn’t changed. I couldn’t keep my hands off her.

  After a pit stop at her condo, since she’d insisted on picking up clothes, I drove her to my house once I’d ensured my family was already gone. I wanted Sophie to meet them, but I didn’t have the patience for a get-to-know-you session when I simply had to have her. We’d christened the hallway the second t
he door was closed. I took her against the wall, with Johnny Cash hiding his snout under a pillow on the couch as if he couldn’t bear to watch. Now, my mutt was sprawled on the cool grass under a tree, back legs sticking out behind him like Superdog.

  But the woman.

  Oh, the woman.

  Sophie was all mine for the next twenty-four hours. No dropping her off at midnight. No final kiss in front of her building. And no bumping into her brother.

  I struck all thoughts of her brother from my brain as I walked across the deck, down the wooden steps, and over to the pool area where she was. I had two drinks with me, and when I arrived by her side, she lowered her shades to the bridge of her nose, looking exactly like a glamorous movie star on vacation.

  “Are you playing my waiter today?”

  “Maybe I’m the pool boy,” I said as I handed her a mojito.

  She laughed. “I don’t have pool-boy fantasies, I assure you.”

  I sat at the end of her chair with my Macallan on ice. “What fantasies do you have?”

  She raised an eyebrow as she took a sip of the drink. “I fantasize about a man who can make a drink like this. This is divine. How did you know I like mojitos by the pool?”

  I shrugged, quirking up the corner of my lips. “Lucky guess.”

  She shot me a skeptical glance as she pushed her sunglasses on top of her head. “I’m not so sure that’s just luck. I suspect it’s more of your military intelligence training.”

  “You think they teach us how to identify a woman’s drink of choice?”

  “No, but I think you have a supremely analytical mind and like to piece clues together, and somehow you decided that a woman like me drinks mojitos.”

  “And what traits would suggest mojito drinking?” I asked, enjoying the banter as the sun dipped toward the horizon.

  “You tell me,” she said, crossing her ankles. Her toenails were painted violet. I wasn’t a man who cared about polished fingers or toes, but somehow this little detail seemed so very Sophie.

  “Gorgeous, confident, smart, fun . . . and likes to enjoy things that taste good.”

  She made some sort of sexy humming sound in her throat. “You taste good,” she said.

  My dick leaped to attention, and I was ready again—I was always ready with her. I dropped a hand to her leg, wrapping it around her calf and squeezing, as I tipped my forehead toward the iPad. “What are you reading?”

  “A biography of Tommy Lee from Mötley Crüe. I have a thing for rock-star biographies.”

  “Interesting. Where does that come from?”

  She pursed her lips, as if considering the answer. “I think because the lifestyle is so extravagant and extreme. I read them for fun back in college, with a sort of wide-eyed awe, and these people seemed so foreign but so fascinating. They still are—the hours rock stars keep, the crazy things they do, the excess, the conquests, the dangers. It’s like a vicarious thrill ride into a world I’d never want to be in but love watching unfold.”

  “Are you a voyeur?” I asked with narrowed eyes.

  “Ha. Hardly. I just like to see the curtain pulled back,” she said, taking a quick drink. Then she set her glass on the small table next to her lounge chair. “What do you like to read?”

  “Business strategy books to stay sharp. Thrillers to keep the heart rate up. And international news to stay educated. That probably sounds terribly prosaic.”

  She shook her head. “No. Not at all. I love your reasons too. They tell me more about what matters to you,” she said with a sweet smile. “Plus, I think whatever anybody’s reading is a good thing. Truth be told, I was actually switching back and forth between reading the Tommy Lee book, and this email exchange with my contact in Rüsselsheim.”

  My ears pricked. “Your Bugatti?”

  A grin stretched across her features, like a very satisfied cat. “I’m going there to check it out in ten days.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “Are you bringing it back?”

  “An import service will. But I want to touch it and feel it and drive it myself before the final sign-off.”

  An image of Sophie running her hands along the sleek body of a high-end sports car played before my eyes. “What milestone is this one? You said you reward yourself for hitting charity milestones.”

  “I like numbers, especially the big fat ones with lots of zeroes, so I decided that since I sold my company for a hundred million dollars, when I hit that goal in money raised for others, I’d get this car.”

  I whistled in admiration. “To say I’m impressed is an understatement. Both with the sale, and also with what you’ve raised.”

  “Thank you. Though that’s not all from my pocket. I do give a lot to every cause I raise money for, but my bigger job is simply asking others to open their wallets. I’m lucky to know many generous people I can call on,” she added, as if that somehow lessened the accomplishment.

  I tapped her knee lightly with my fingertips. “And you convinced them to part with their money for a good cause. It’s amazing, however you slice it. Why did you decide to go into philanthropy?”

  She reached for her glass and took a long drink. “Because I could.”

  I brushed my fingers along her thigh, loving the simplicity of her answer. She’d chosen to do good because she was in the rare position of being able to. She could have done anything with her time, her money, and her access, and she’d opted to donate the hours in her day to help others. The choice was a deliberate one, and it said so much about her. “Beautiful answer. I love that. I respect that. Did you ever think about starting another company? So many other entrepreneurs launch additional businesses.”

  “I had no interest in being a serial entrepreneur,” she said, shaking her head. “I know I’m lucky to have had the successful run I had with my company—to start it when I did and sell it when I did. And now I’m lucky enough to use all my business skills to help with things that matter more in the world. I’ve raised money for animal charities, for sick children, for cancer research, for kids in need, for troubled kids, and so on. I’d much rather devote my time to doing that.” Then she added, almost apologetically, “Even if it can be just as much work and require just as much management as running my own company.”

  “I hear you on that. It must be consuming at times. Everyone needing and wanting things,” I said, flashing back to the gala and the way the two ladies there practically hunted Sophie down to make their own cases for the children’s wing.

  “That’s true. Which is why it’ll be all the more fun to go for a joyride in my new car,” she said with a glint in her eye.

  Though I could jet off anywhere in the world with her and hole up in a five-star resort on my dime, she could do all those things for herself too, and then some. I did well for myself, but I wasn’t in a position to drop that kind of cash on a car, and she was. Perhaps for the first time, I was keenly aware that while I was successful, Sophie was in another class. It didn’t annoy me and didn’t make me feel any less of a man. But I wanted to make sure she felt the same way. “There’s not much I can give you materially that you can’t get on your own,” I said matter-of-factly. “Does that bother you?”

  She laughed loudly. “Not in the least,” she said, then reached for my hand, lacing her fingers through mine. Her smile was gentle and tender. “You don’t have to shower me with expensive gifts. You don’t have to give me presents at all if you don’t want to. I loved the peach tulips and the pinot grigio, and I am in some kind of mad love with the dress you had your sister track down for me. It’s beautiful, and it’s perfect for me, and I didn’t have one like it, and I’ve been coveting one. So thank you,” she said with a squeeze of my hand, then added softly, “Besides, the things I want from you don’t cost money.”

  I tensed for a moment, shoulders tightening and chest burning. I wasn’t ready to have a more serious talk about commitment. Letting her in and talking more was all I could handle. “Such as?”

  She took her time answe
ring, trailing her fingers along my bare arm. “What I want is for you to take me for a ride in my new car someday.”

  A groan rumbled through my chest, escaping my lips. My God, I’d struck gold when I met her. She was precious and rare and so fucking giving. “Pretty sure I’m the luckiest guy in the world.”

  “So that means you’d like to get behind the wheel?”

  “There’s only one thing I want to do in that car more than drive it,” I said in a low voice, raking my eyes over her gorgeous figure.

  She tapped her index finger against her lips and peered skyward. “Hmm. You mean you want to see how far back the passenger seat goes?”

  “Exactly. That’s exactly the kind of test-drive I want to give you in your new car.”

  She gestured to her iPad. “What if I told you I had pictures of it?”

  I made a show it to me now gesture with my fingers. “I want to see that car,” I said, then ran my palms up and down her calves, my way of imploring her. She murmured softly, a sound that said she was enjoying my touch. I took advantage of it, digging my thumbs into her ankles and working my way up her legs, stopping to kiss her calves along the way.

  She reached for her iPad, swiped a finger across the screen, and then brought up the email. “Are you ready to be dazzled by its beauty? Can you handle it?”

  “If I can handle how gorgeous you are, this car won’t be a problem, because I’m sure it doesn’t hold a candle. But show it to me anyway.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere.” She turned the iPad around and showed me the photo. My heart skipped a beat. The automobile was a thing of beauty. A gorgeous, gleaming emerald-green sports car that stirred up every desire in me to hug the curves on a downhill, to hear the purr of the engine, to stomp on the accelerator in this sleek ride. I actually pressed my fingertips to the screen and stroked the photo.