Forbidden (War Book 1)

by Trevion Burns

  Blue drooled around the fingers she had planted deep in her mouth, her gray eyes shining under the sunlight shining through the back door.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” Stella laughed. “Maybe a good breakfast will help Uncle Rocco forget that he just threw his whole life away for us, whaddya think?”

  Blue stilled in her seat, her smile vanishing and face going deathly serious.

  Stella paused with a frown. “I swear to God sometimes I wonder if you can actually understand me.”

  Blue stared, stone-faced, for a moment longer, before breaking into giggles once more, bare feet resuming their kicks of delight as Stella made her way to the back door with the tray.

  “Don’t move, baby,” Stella teased, cradling the tray on her hip so she could open the door with her free hand.

  The air smelled of dew from the rainstorm that had passed through the night before, and the freshly cut grass still glowed with the perspiration left behind. Everything in the perfectly landscaped backyard—the hammock in the far corner, the stone-splattered fire-pit in the middle, and even the state-of-the-art barbecue grill—were all dotted with moisture. Stella took every step carefully as the beds of her feet navigated the stone pathway that forked off into three different areas of the yard. One path led to the Jacuzzi to the left, another to the modern lounge chairs surrounding the fire-pit to the right, and the third one, straight ahead, led to the guesthouse.

  Her heartbeat sped up as she continued, tightening her grip the closer she got. Troy had commissioned the guesthouse to be built. Its modern wood paneling, sharp edges, and floor-to-ceiling windows had all been his idea. He’d purposely had it designed so the people inside had a full view of the backyard he’d paid thousands to have landscaped, and so the people in the yard had a full view of the house as well.

  Stella had never fully appreciated that facet of the home’s design until that moment. Until she came upon the house and saw that Rocco had left all the sliding shutters open, giving her a full view of the only bedroom in the small house.

  Her pattering feet froze in mid-step, mouth falling open.

  Rocco, naked on top of the rumpled white sheets of his bed, had his fisted hands planted on either side of the skinny caramel-colored woman below him, who had spread her toned thighs wide as he drove into her ferociously. Even with all the doors and windows closed, her screams of pleasure still managed to permeate the structure and rise into the morning air to kiss Stella’s ears.

  Stella wasn’t sure what froze her in place. Perhaps it was the rhythm Rocco had taken up. Grinding and thrusting with such fluidity it seemed he was moving in time to the sultriest R&B song ever created. Or maybe it was the look on his face. The same anger that always tightened his features and eyes, but with a little something extra that made every inch of her skin prickle. Or was it the look on the woman’s face as he fucked her—appearing absolutely astonished at how good he was making her feel with her head thrown back, spine arched, fingers clawed into his rock solid ass, and thighs splayed as wide as she could get them to match his every thrust? It could’ve been any of those things, Stella concluded, that had stopped her dead in her tracks.

  Or it could’ve been the most obvious thing of all.

  It could’ve been his length. His size. The incredible thickness of his gleaming dick as it moved in and out, glistening a little more every time it re-emerged. Just when Stella was sure she’d seen all of it, another inch re-surfaced to surprise her, making her wonder just how much he was working with down there. When his strokes became so long and deep he accidentally fell out—leaving every inch of his rock-hard heat bobbing in the air—she had her answer. It was an answer that made her hold her breath as it sent a shockwave through her. A shock that woke her up and finally helped her realize just how long she’d been standing there staring.

  Her newly sharpened senses told her to turn and leave.

  But her body wouldn’t move.

  Rocco, abs flexed from exertion, reached between their bodies and seized his hardness, barely able to get his own fingers around his girth, and guided the head back between the woman’s legs.

  Stella bit her bottom lip at the sight of the tip dipping in once more, her hands now clammy around the handles of the tray.

  As he sank back inside, she waited for his eyes to flutter closed from the pleasure, the way they had been before.

  But instead, he looked up.

  He met her eyes through the window.

  And a gasp tore up her throat, a jolt zapping across her body so sharply it caused the tray to fly out of her hands. Thankfully, the shock of being caught had stunned her so badly that she launched that tray far enough for it to soar into the grass, keeping the plate and glasses from shattering.

  Even as the tray crashed down, she couldn’t tear her gaze from Rocco’s.

  He watched her from the corners of his own eyes; his green orbs alight, the woman now clawing at his ass, begging him to go deeper.

  Stella moved to leave, paused, then shifted back as if her mind had completely disconnected from her body save for one tiny string still holding them together. A string that was the only thing stopping her common sense and her most basic human instincts from moving in completely opposite directions.

  Rocco’s eyes gleamed as he watched her fidget and squirm, a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth.

  Stella froze once more, clenching her teeth at that shit-eating grin.

  Eyes still on hers, he clenched his fists tighter on the bed—causing his biceps to ripple and pulse—and resumed fucking his flavor-of-the-week, his eyes never leaving Stella’s through to window as he plunged. He moved with more vigor, it seemed, now that he knew he had an audience.

  Or perhaps, now that he knew he had her as an audience.

  She clenched her own fists at her sides, glared at him, and finally managed to spin on her heels, tripping over her own feet in her haste to get away. Albeit stumbling, she still managed to find enough balance to stomp back toward the house, leaving his breakfast abandoned in the grass. Her walking grew brisker with every step she took until she was jogging, then running.

  Running from what, she wasn’t sure.

  She just knew she needed to get away from it as quickly as humanly possible.

  ——

  Days later, Stella stood with her arms crossed, leg cocked, and face pinched as her eyes dashed across the red 1999 Honda Accord before her. Even through the dark lenses of her cat-eyed sunglasses, the body of the car had dents and scratches for days. Too many for her busy eyes to count all at once. It didn’t even have rims. Hundreds of vehicles in similar tragic condition dotted the car lot in every direction, with their bottom-of-the-barrel prices spray-painted on the windshields. The lot was secured by nothing but wire fencing since nobody in their right mind would bother to steal one of these junkers, and a small run-down building served as an office at the far end. A building Stella had learned that morning smelled like a stomach-turning mixture of flatulence and chewing tobacco.

  She tapped her leopard print heel—the perfect contrast to her black knee-length business dress—against the dirt gravel below her before looking up at Rocco.

  The afternoon sun shining against his hair made the black mane gleam like he’d gelled it twenty times, but the way his strands moved under the gentle breeze betrayed their true softness. Soft black strands that, just a few days earlier, had been trapped between the fingers of the woman he’d been plowing in her guesthouse.

  She drew in a sharp breath as the memory encased her, making ripples move like tidal waves under her skin. Many more women had followed the first, but Stella hadn’t dared venture out to the guesthouse again, opting instead to watch from her bedroom window as they all took the eventual walk of shame back to their cars early in the morning or in the middle of the night. Rocco had never brought any of them to breakfast or even bothered introducing them. She doubted he’d even remember their names if he tried. He hadn’t brought up the woman she’d caught him w
ith, either.

  Stella waited for him to return her gaze.

  When he didn’t, she cocked her head toward the piece-of-crap car still sitting before them. “Who’s driving this? Not me.”

  He cut a look at her from the corner of his eyes, smirking. “Yeah, you.”

  She popped the wad of gum in her mouth. “I want my Rover back. I want it now. Where is it?”

  “Your Rover? Oh, no. That’s over, Freckles. That’s gone.”

  “I want it back.”

  “Get a job.”

  “I’m trying. You sat behind me at the computer and watched me apply to every spa in New Jersey, NYC, and Connecticut! Nobody’s calling back, and even if they did, they’re sure as hell not gonna hire me if they see me sputtering into their lot in this piece of junk.”

  “They don’t care what kind of car you’re driving. They care if you’re qualified. That’s how the real world works.”

  “I’m not driving this.”

  He moved toward the car, patting the roof. “It’s a brand new engine. Transmission’s solid. Justin and I already inspected it head to toe. 1k is a damn good deal, and the profit we made selling the Rover will put a serious dent in your credit card debt.”

  “It would’ve been a much larger profit if some madman hadn’t ripped a hole into every seat with his pocket knife in a moment of rage and psychosis!”

  He straightened and smirked at her.

  She tightened her crossed arms, making her breasts swell high.

  His eyes fell to the square neckline to watch.

  “Who’s driving this?” she asked again with a shake of her head, prompting a guttural laugh from him. The kind of laugh that exploded from a person’s lips before they could control it.

  And it was her turn to let her eyes fall—to the perfect white teeth he so rarely showed her. Teeth she always managed to forget were even in his mouth until he surprised her with a front row seat.

  “A-to-B. That’s it. When you find a real job and learn how to scratch your own ass without assistance, feel free to buy another Range Rover on your own dime. Until then…” He chucked the car keys at her. “She’s all yours, Princess.”

  She caught the keys with one hand; her lips curled into a sneer and her Range Rover-loving heart at her feet.

  ——

  Stella’s heart had stayed at her feet for many more days after losing her beautiful truck. It had remained there when those days had moved to weeks. Weeks that had quickly begun to feel like years as her life was slowly, but surely, ripped out from under her in a bloodbath that rivaled a medieval war. The massacre hadn’t stopped at the Range Rover either. He’d wasted no time moving from her truck to her closet. Her jewelry. Her clothes. Her shoes. Every last one of her beloved handbags. In the blink of an eye, they’d all been set up out on a folding table in her driveway with a ‘yard sale’ sign hanging down above the garage.

  She’d never known a humiliation like the one she’d felt when each and every one of her spoiled housewife neighbors had stopped by in the middle of their morning jogs or coming home from their yoga classes. Smirking and sneering with pumpkin spice lattes in their freshly manicured hands as their eyes dashed over all the belongings that had once hung lovingly in Stella’s closet. Mocking her taste even as they dropped serious cash for the bargain basement prices Rocco had on offer. Some got bags, shoes, and clothing for half what Stella had paid.

  And Rocco’s hand had been out to eagerly accept every dollar. Every ‘best offer’. Shutting Stella down every time she tried to explain to him that he could get much more for this limited edition bag or that one-of-a-kind shoe. He hadn’t wanted to hear any of it.

  It burned her up from the inside out and brought hot tears to her eyes every time she thought about it. So much so that it’d been a struggle every day to fight the urge to reach into his jeans pocket and seize the very knife he’d used to slice and dice her prized truck to pieces weeks earlier.

  Her hot eyes stared at his pocket even at that moment, wide and feral, begging her to do just that. To grab that knife and end him now. Before he delivered the next blow—the ultimate blow—and took her out for good.

  The ultimate blow was the beige bag he’d just placed on top of the pawnshop’s glass counter. The bag that had been made in France with the world’s most finely crafted grained leather. The exquisite tote that had made the pawnshop’s elderly owner draw in a gasp from behind the counter the moment he’d laid eyes on it. The bag that had nearly made Stella scream, when he’d squeezed the top of it with his grimy fingers and offered then 5k on the spot.

  5k?

  For that beautiful bag with rolled leather top handles, a leather belt, gold hardware with a padlock, and a hanging clochette with keys!

  For the bag that she had paid over fifteen grand to secure?

  As her heated eyes rose up to the owner from where she stood trembling next to Rocco—digging her fingers into the glass display case filled to the gills with junk that didn’t amount to a quarter of what she’d paid for that bag—she realized the owner wasn’t grimy at all. He was actually a sweet little old man with shock white hair, red cheeks, and a friendly smile that reminded her of a forest elf.

  But at that moment, with his hands laid atop the most beautiful thing she’d ever owned, he was grimy. A heathen. A monster.

  “Please don’t do this to me, Rocco,” she whispered. “Please. You’ve sold my truck for pennies, emptied out my entire closet and forced me to endure a humiliating garage sale that I will never live down with my stuck-up, high-society neighbors—and I’ve allowed it all without complaint.”

  Rocco chortled loudly enough to catch the attention of their fellow patrons in the shop.

  “Okay, maybe I complained a little. But this bag…” She placed her hands on top of the shop owner’s, who was still holding onto the rim. “This bag… is an authentic HERMES Togo Birkin 30 Gris Tourterelle! I begged Troy for years and years. I’ve dreamed about it since middle school when I watched my first Sex and the City episode under the bed sheets on mute so my mom wouldn’t find out and make me turn it off. Sell my truck, sell my house, sell my soul, but please… please, don’t sell this bag. I love this bag. Please…”

  He searched her eyes, green orbs softening. Even his perpetually taut shoulders sank. His hands joined hers and the shop owner’s as he placed them on top of the pile.

  His eyes fell to her lips, voice gentle. “It’s your favorite, Freckles?”

  “My very, very favorite.”

  “You’d be devastated if I sold it?”

  “I don’t know how I’d ever go on living.”

  “You’d just… die?”

  “I would die, Rocco.”

  He nodded, snatched the bag out of her hands and held it out to the shop owner, eyebrows high. “Sold.”

  Stella grabbed the bag and tried to snatch it from Rocco’s hold, but he was too strong, too fast, and pulled it away before she could get a good grip, holding it high above his head. She slammed her body into his side and clawed for it, cursing him under her breath the whole way.

  “Are you serious right now?” He outmaneuvered every swipe she made with the same ease he would a fly buzzing in his face. “Stop. People are looking.”

  “Give me my bag.”

  “It’s gone. Accept it.”

  “No! Give it to me.”

  With a sigh, Rocco gave up on her, raised his eyebrows at the shop owner over the counter and hauled the bag across the space like a point-guard passing the ball to a teammate down the court. The owner caught the bag with ease, held it up to Rocco with a smile, and proceeded to ring it up, tapping on his register with glee. He informed them that he’d have to get their cash from the safe in the back before disappearing behind the beaded curtain next to the register.

  Stella slapped her hands on the counter with a whimper, having half a mind to jump over that glass, follow him into the back and duke it out. A fight to the death. She couldn’t take Rocco—he was too s
trong—but she could definitely take that little old man.

  “If you jump over this counter I swear to god I’m arresting you.”

  “You should be thanking God the precinct took you back after the stunt you pulled with the FBI.”

  “I gave them ten years of my life, it’s the least they could do, and you should be thanking God somebody gave shit enough about you to pull that stunt with the FBI in the first place.”

  Her eyes widened in his, and she cocked her head back softly.

  “Blue—” He cleared his throat. “You should be thanking God somebody gave a shit enough about… about Blue.”

  She crossed her arms with a huff then looked away once more, blinking rapidly against the moisture burning her eyes.

  “You really about to cry over a damn bag?” He leaned on the counter to get a better look at her face.

  She avoided his gaze, looking off to the left. “It’d just be nice if you didn’t get so much pleasure out of watching my life fall to pieces.”

  “I watched my own life fall to pieces, and I’m still breathing. You’ll survive.”

  “So this is all just to punish me because you’re angry?”

  “I’m not angry, Stella. I’m furious.”

  Her eyes shot back to his.

  Silence fell as they studied one another, their gazes dancing all over each other’s faces. Rocco raised his eyebrows at her, inviting her to try him further. She craned her neck and raised her eyebrows at him too, holding his gaze, dragging her nails against the glass. The same way that woman had dragged her nails along his ass when he’d been plowing her in the guesthouse.

  Her breathing quickened. “Not sure how it’s possible for you to be so furious…” When had her voice fallen to a whisper? “Considering all the tension you must releasing…”

  His eyebrows jumped even higher. A smile threatened his lips—a smile that bordered between amused and downright arrogant. It almost drove her to bite her tongue, lest she give him more of a reason to let that maddening grin spread any wider.