Rogue Desire: A Romance Anthology (The Rogue Series)

by Adriana Anders

  “I love you,” I whispered.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Thank God.” He huffed out a breath that I thought might contain relief. “I was worried I’d have to run for mayor or something to get you back.”

  <<<<>>>>

  ALSO BY ADRIANA ANDERS

  UNDER HER SKIN

  BY HER TOUCH

  IN HIS HANDS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A huge thanks to Ainsley Booth and Tamsen Parker for inviting me to take part in this project. To the rest of this talented crew: it has been pleasure being part of this team! Thank you to Tamsen, Emma Barry, Poorna Metro, Ozan Williams, and Madeline Iva for reading and giving feedback on this puppy. Thanks to Kim Cannon for her great edits, to Amy Jo Cousins and Ainsley Booth for ensuring that we actually got this book up. As always, thank you to Le Husband for being my real life HEA.

  Finally, thank you to my readers, who are an amazing crew. Putting out books is a pleasure with people like you reading them!

  To keep in touch, sign up at www.adrianaanders.com/newsletter or join my reader group: www.facebook.com/groups/booksmarttarts/

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Adriana Anders writes romance that's dark, smart, and full of heart. She has acted and sung, slung cocktails and corrected copy. She’s worked for start-ups, multinationals and small nonprofits, but it wasn’t until she returned to her first love—writing romance—that she finally felt like she’d come home. Today, she resides with her tall French husband, two small children and two cats in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, where she writes the gritty, emotional love stories of her heart.

  DEEP THROAT

  DAKOTA GRAY

  WEBSITE|FACEBOOK|NEWSLETTER

  ABOUT THIS BOOK

  He's an escort, but that's not his biggest secret. She’s a maid at the hotel he uses “for business.” When their worlds collide, everything is put on the line. But indulging every secret desire comes at a cost, and the sins of the past won't be forgotten.

  CHAPTER 1

  HAYLEY

  T he first time Davis Shaw strolled into the Hartsburg Parks with a blonde bombshell on his on his arm, I finally knew the true taste of envy—it’s bitter, drugging, takes your breath right out of your lungs. I’m a maid on paper and an overall grunt in reality for the hotel. I’m surrounded by patrons of our hallowed halls who can afford a dinner that costs more than what I get paid for a full week of work. But I didn’t envy them. I’ve learned their lives come with a barrel of secrets one would kill to keep.

  But the woman with Davis? I would have groveled through glass to spend a day in her Louis Vuittons. That emotion only deepened every time she lingered in the hallway after a night of whatever they did at the hotel. He’d stand in the doorway, cup the back of her head and his fingers would part the strands of her hair as he fisted his hand. Then with a tenderness that turned my eyes green, he’d place a kiss on her forehead. I never had to guess how the woman felt. Her entire body would curve into him, melding every inch of their bodies that could experience touch.

  And what would Davis do?

  He’d smirk. Not an asshole one as though he knew he had a godlike dick and a mouth that could make women sell their souls to have it taste their flesh. The smirk was like the kiss—faint but potent. The half smile only made better with his blue-green eyes and his mussed honey-colored strands. I’d swooned right along with her.

  For weeks afterward my stomach churned with envy because always, always I’d find myself on his floor around check out time, and he’d be brushing his lips along her forehead and she would be melting into him because that simple intimacy gave her life.

  Want to know the first thing he said to me after I yearned for him in the shadows?

  “Come change my bedding.”

  Sexy, right?

  But then he started to smirk at me, and say things like, “How’s the hotel business?”

  And I’d reply with no sign of my filter in place. Once I had even said, “No rock stars have checked in. So no suspicious nosebleeds to clean up after.”

  He’d laughed then disappeared into his room.

  Sometimes he’d fix his blue eyes on me, looking rugged and pretty as always and say, “Come in. You’re walking like your feet hurt.”

  Patrons and staff should never mingle so I’d decline. Yet there were times he’d look worn around the edges.

  I’d say some variation of, “What brain rot are you reading this week?”

  He’d tell me and eventually become animated, but that became dangerous after a while.

  “Year of Yes?” I had asked. “I’m supposed to believe you’re reading this?”

  He’d push from the desk’s chair, slowly unbuttoning one of his crisp, white shirts. His long fingers so methodical and patient with the ivory buttons I could almost feel his touch on my skin. “Hayley, how often do you say no to things you really want to do? To things that scare you?” The question had been pitched in a tone that made my panties feel unimportant.

  That voice is his super power. It’s why he knows my parents still live in the same neighborhood I grew up in—a rough but safe one. I’m an only child. I love books too. Pretty much any inane detail a guest shouldn’t know about me, because his voice makes me lose my shut-up button.

  Week after week I donned green and envied the blonde. I shouldn’t, especially when I learned what and who she is to Davis. How could I not know when I’m looking for secrets the guests have thoughtlessly revealed?

  And his secrets?

  She calls him Lincoln. The trashcan by the bed is filled with dental dam and condom wrappers after her stay. My boss lets him stay well past checkout, and we are on notice to be at Davis’s beck and call. Lastly, I’ve caught him dancing…or he’s let me watch without comment. His hips move with such fluidity, catching whatever bass beat is lingering in the air and I swear he makes the O element have an ‘O.’

  Davis Shaw is the epitome of sex on two legs. He’s the hotel’s dirty secret.

  I shouldn’t love the way he flusters me. I shouldn’t seethe when the blonde gets a forehead kiss.

  I shouldn’t.

  But I do.

  I do even though I have my own secrets, and I’m trying to find out his client’s. That last one—doing that can put me in jail.

  CHAPTER 2

  DAVIS

  T he sound of the hotel’s bathroom fan and the water from the sink can’t dull the sharp crack of glass dropping to the floor. My heart sputters because I put a Do Not Disturb sign on my door. No one should be in here with me. I wait, only able to hear the thud of my heart in my eardrums.

  A curse comes next and I’m out the bathroom in only a towel I grabbed from the rack. For a fleeting moment I think this is how people in horror movies die. Like idiots they follow an unexpected noise to investigate.

  I wish for a gun, any weapon as I barrel into the main room. At my back is a kitchenette. To my left is a writing desk and TV. In front of me is the bed, dresser/night stand, and that’s where I find the culprit.

  My shoulders lower once I see Hayley picking up the fractured pieces of the lamp next to the bed. As always her hair is up in a too-tight bun. Her uniform is boxy and an ugly shade of light blue with a white collar, sleeves and pocket. White orthopedic shoes match the ensemble.

  She should be sexless. My eyes should skate over her because she’s virtually invisible in the get-up. That’s not to mention her eyes are too far apart. Her cheekbones too stark in her heart-shaped face.

  But I’ve seen her smile and that makes her bottom lip heavy, plump—kind of begging to get nipped. I’ve been witness to dubious expressions that put a mischievous gleam in her brown eyes. I’ve been on the receiving end of her never-ending questions when she finds a book on my nightstand and wants to talk about it.

  The problem is I’ve seen her stripped raw, tired…vulnerable, and still there’s a glow to her brown skin that makes me curious. That makes my stomach tight,
my heart beat skittish and my dick hungry for a taste of her.

  Do I say all that to Hayley? Fuck, no. She might be the only person I can be myself around, but she’s the last person I want stirred up in my fucked-up existence.

  “Hey,” is what I settle on for a greeting.

  “Sorry.” She’s not quite meeting my eye, but the sultry rasp in her voice grips me. “I was trying to make the bed and tripped.”

  She tosses me something and out of instinct I open my hand to catch it. A phone, not mine. Interest digs into me as I recognize the black iPhone with a silver case decorated with hearts. My palms dampen as my heart kicks. I could kiss Hayley—all tongue. She’s just tossed my freedom to me.

  For months I’ve been fucking a prima donna—a cute, leggy blonde one—but a debutante nonetheless. She likes to whisper sweet nothings in my ear, and brag about the illegal shit her father does as a senator.

  Who would I tell? I’m not exactly on the right side of the law. Haven’t been for years. That was until six months ago when I…went under new management. Oh, I doubt my new pimp will be happy with how I got my hands on the phone, but he’s desperate for those sweet nothings.

  So am I.

  Hayley’s squeak breaks my fantasy of running down the street screaming freedom from the top of my lungs. I draw my gaze to hers. Her attention is fixed just below my waistline. I track her stare.

  Shit.

  The hand that had been holding up the towel is the same one I used to catch the phone. I’ve been giving her full frontal while I held the first glimmer of liberation in my hands, and since Hayley was breathing, I’m half-mast. She licks her lips, and I go from half to three-fourths of a wood. When she bites that plump bottom lip, I forget myself.

  “See something you like?” I didn’t mean to say that, but the sweet, smart-mouthed Hayley is looking at me like she wants me in her throat.

  “It’s… You’ve…”

  I know that voice. She’s tripping up on the manscaping. It’s kind of a given in my line of work, along with getting tested every two weeks. She swallows and glances away only to sink her teeth into her bottom lip and look again.

  Sex, sexual attraction in this suspended second with her is real and raw. It’s been like that between us for months—always in fleeting moments I hold onto for dear life. I’ve never done more than flirt because I have the power in this circumstance. I’ve paid the manager of the hotel an ample “fee” to let me use his staff like they work for me too. One complaint and Hayley could lose her job.

  People don’t become maids because it’s their lifelong dream. They need a job and are willing to scrub toilets to make ends meet. So I tip her well, and when she’s not paying attention, I squint at her ass when she bends over to see if I can find a panty line. I never do. Drives me fucking nuts, and it’s why I’m sporting wood with a woman wearing ugly ass orthopedic shoes.

  But those hard boundaries are there for a reason. Doesn’t matter if she’s the first woman in a long time that I’ve been attracted to who isn’t paying me. I can look but never touch.

  Reminded of those hard lines, I pick up the fallen towel and hold it in front of myself. “I can clean that up.”

  She finally tears her gaze from me to glare at the floor. “I’m…sorry. I didn’t mean to…” She shakes her head like she can’t say stare longingly at your cock.

  Probably can’t. Hayley is sweetish. “My being naked…that’s not on you.”

  She lifts a shoulder, still not meeting my eyes. “Don’t be nice to me.”

  That’s a strange thing to demand when I just flashed my dick at her, and practically invited her to jump on it. “Nice is bad?”

  She picks up another piece of the broken lamp, sighs and holds herself stiff. “Be anything but.”

  “Is that really what you want?”

  She shakes her head no, but her mouth says, “Yes.”

  I lower my brow, work up to a dark glare and say, “Hurry the fuck up with that.”

  She laughs, all husky. Fuck me at the sound of it. I ignore the way my stomach tightens. I shut down the thoughts of anything but since most involve her dressed in a French maid outfit. Her laughing. Her giving me lip. That bottom lip that seems heavy and begging.

  Can’t think like that, not with her. The phone is a heavy weight and a reminder why I’m even in this hotel. A dark emotion with guilt tattooed on its neck takes another bite out of me.

  See, I used to be an honest gigolo, and I know what people think when they hear that. There’s no honesty to be had in my profession—the oldest one on the planet.

  But I had rules. I never dated someone that I wasn’t attracted to. If someone ordered off the menu—okay. Fine. In plain terms, I never fucked someone who I wouldn’t have fucked for free. Hence why I needed to be attracted to a client in the basest way. If not, as an old Southern friend of mine would say, that’s just a dog that won’t hunt.

  Beforehand, my playmates and I would come to clear terms about what they expected from me and what I could give them. If they paid me to wear a suit at an important event that’s exactly what I would do. I’d be witty or somber, depending on what they requested. I would play priest if they needed to confess, and never tell another soul.

  It was understood from the beginning that I would be the guy to give them a compliment, encouragement…an orgasm. I would be all those things without casting judgment, but I would not be their boyfriend or happily ever after.

  Never.

  Shit, that’s more honesty than anyone would get on a first date or the fiftieth with some men. I took pride in that.

  So, yeah, I used to be honest. I used to let a woman like the debutante reveal every doubt, insecurity and vulnerability. They’d tell me all the ways to get them off and we’d discover new ones. Those secrets would die with me.

  That was until I tried to do a normal thing—like buy a house. That led to my new pimp aka Special Agent Bryson Lark, a man who put certain promises in writing as long as I told him those secrets about the debutante. Eventually they’d have enough on her father and voila I’d be free.

  It’s me or the debutante, and I’m choosing me. I’m choosing me because she knows the kind of monster her father is. I’m choosing me, because…I got a taste of normal and I want more. I’m dying for it, and Hayley’s been teasing me with it to the point of distraction.

  But I can’t have normal with her. I’ve poured gasoline on every inch of this old life and I’m just waiting to throw the match before I walk away.

  Ironic, really, she just handed me the match.

  Firmly putting those cold and ugly facts at the forefront of my mind, I turn my back to her to go through the rest of my ritual of leaving the hotel. She cleans. We don’t say anything to each other, but every now and again I can feel her stare on me. My skin heats. I slide my gaze to catch her only to find a blush in her cheeks as she pretends to pay me no mind.

  By the time she’s finished with the room, I’m dressed in jeans and a black dress shirt and sitting at the small writing desk to put on my loafers. All I need is for her to leave so I can call my new pimp. I’ll give him the phone, and he’ll do whatever. Then I can gorge on normal until I’m sick with it.

  “Davis?”

  It’s likely only in my mind, but she seduces each syllable of my name, making Davis sound like a whispered confession. It has to be all in my mind because I haven’t told a woman my real name in ages. I’ve forgotten what it sounds like.

  I straighten in the chair, balling my hands against my knees to keep from doing anything stupid. “Just to be clear, am I still being mean to you?”

  Her laugh is more like a huff as though she’s exasperated with my teasing. I know she’s not. There’s a gleam in her eyes. “Did you want to order lunch while I’m here? I’m off in a few minutes, so someone else will bring it up.”

  “Something with steak.”

  She tsks at me. “How many times have I told you only to order the special? It’s the best ba
ng for your buck.”

  I prop my elbows on the table, and take her in. She seems recovered from my unexpected peep show. I take the light tone of our exchange and lean into it. “What’s today’s special?”

  “Something I can’t pronounce. It’s French, but I had it for lunch. It’s great.”

  “Are you trying to get me to eat snails?”

  “It was some kind of bird. Really tender, juicy. And, really, you’re getting it for the sauce. It had wine and butter. Mostly delicious wine.”

  Did I mention I have a crush on her? The reasons are legion. “Then that’s what I’ll have—some kind of bird with butter and delicious wine.”

  She chuckles, lingering for a moment that has nothing to do with her job. I swallow the words that would sound like stay or flirt with me a little longer. I hold my breath. Finally Hayley mutters a goodbye.

  I go back to putting on my other loafer, my head clear again with her gone. That’s when I remember I hung the Do Not Disturb on my door. More often than not it’s me who steps out of the confines of what we should be. She follows the rules. So why would she come into my hotel room unannounced? Why would she stay if she heard me in the shower?

  I glance at the phone on the desk, scrolling through my memory. The debutante had placed it on the nightstand before getting undressed.

  Where had Hayley said she found the phone? The floor? No. Under the bed. No. She’d never said where.

  The innocent, logical explanation is that the cell got knocked off the nightstand when Hayley tripped, but that doesn’t account for her being in my room in the first place. Maybe I’m just being paranoid. I know the world I live in. There are very few people I trust wholeheartedly. Hayley doesn’t fit in my world. She’s smart. She’s quick. She’s sweet-ish.