by Ashlee Price
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue to Mr. Always & Forever
Table of Contents
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue to Mr. Always & Forever
More from Ashlee Price
Copyright
Keep in Touch
Mr. Always & Forever
A Secret Baby Second Chance Romance
By Ashlee Price
Prologue
Ingrid
Red.
Breath drawn, I step onto the crimson carpet and into Damien Shore’s Valentine’s party.
The palatial ballroom is dolled up in shades of red from top to bottom. Burgundy roses glaze the domed ceiling from which pendent Baccarat chandeliers bathe the room in a champagne glow. Scarlet silk tapestries braided with blushing lace wind up the grand pillars. High tables swathed in ruby taffeta stand against the walls lined in carmine velvet. In the middle of the room, bartenders in vermilion serve cocktails on the garnet-topped counters of the circular bar like cardinals ministering to a particularly wayward flock.
Even the crowd is in red, as prescribed by the invitation I’ve already surrendered to the sentry. The women are garbed in fiery couture and the men in dashing black and white tuxedos with maroon ties. All have donned cerise masks over their faces, another prescription.
With my own beaded mask in place, I make my way towards the bar. The hem of my satin gown, a take on the cheongsam but with most of the back cut out, drifts silently across the carpet. A few heads turn, some with wide grins and lipstick smiles, which I repay with my own.
I don’t really know anyone at this party, though I do recognize some guests—a seasoned actress, an ex-NBA player, the on-and-off frontman of a rock band, a senator’s mistress. No mask can hide the stink of fame—or infamy. As for those I don’t recognize, I can only guess they’re just as reputable or as wealthy, since they were all hand-picked by Damien Shore’s secretary.
I may be the lone exception, having barely snagged an invitation by calling in a favor. Still, who’s to tell? As long as I relax, drink, and wear a smile, no one will suspect I’m just a budding underpaid journalist in search of my first big scoop—which my instinct tells me I’ll find tonight.
“Found you.”
Stopping just a few feet away from the bar, I turn my head at the voice. My eyes rest on a man close to six feet tall. Tawny brown eyes peek out from a mask of red and black halves, the same shade as his side-swept hair. Even with the mask, I can tell there’s a handsome face to go with the tailored dinner jacket that hangs from his broad shoulders. That square, dimpled chin below a pair of thin lips is making my heart stop.
What better way to become Lois Lane than to have my own Superman?
As he stops right in front of me, I swallow the lump in my throat. “You were looking for me?”
“Yes.” He tucks his hands into his pockets, making his shoulders look even broader. “Ever since I arrived, I’ve been looking for the most beautiful unaccompanied woman at this party, and now I’ve found her.”
I snort, shifting my gaze to the crowd. “You mean the only unaccompanied woman at this party, or the first one you saw to play your tricks on?”
“Or maybe just the only woman who hasn’t had a drink. What can I get you?”
I glance at the bar, hesitating. Normally, I’m against men I don’t know paying for anything for me, but since all the drinks are free, it should be fine.
I grin, tapping my fingers on the faux crocodile skin of my clutch purse. “Margarita.”
“Good choice.”
I watch him head to the bar, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear while I appraise the view. As he leans on the counter, I catch a glimpse of a backside chunky enough for me to take a bite out of.
Damn.
Just then, he turns, his eyes finding mine. Blushing, I look away, lips pursed.
Why the hell am I acting like a teenager with raging hormones and a first-time crush when I’m already twenty-four?
Oh, right. It’s because I’m a virgin, which is practically the same thing. Still, I’m an adult, plus I’m working tonight. I should have a better grip on my emotions.
Get a hold of yourself, Ingrid. He’s just a man, even if he is the hottest man you’ve ever met. And you’re a woman, even though you’re a virgin.
Touching my forehead, I frown. I am so screwed.
“Is everything okay?” my crush asks as he reappears beside me, a glass of neat whiskey in one hand and my cocktail in the other.
“Yes.” I force a smile as I face him, tucking my purse under my arm.
“Here’s your margarita.” He hands me the salt-rimmed glass. “Blushing, just like you.”
I pause, fingers around the stem of the glass. He noticed?
“And everything else in this room,” he adds, lifting his glass. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
I lift my glass, set the straw aside, and take a sip, longer than usual to help me swallow my embarrassment. Afterwards, I grimace at the sourness of the cranberries and the salt-tempered bitterness of the tequila, the alcohol leaving my throat ablaze.
“Good?” my companion asks, eyebrows raised.
I nod, my expression returning to normal. “Thanks, um… What shall I call you?”
I know the masks are there for a reason and names aren’t supposed to be given. Still, I have to call him something.
“Whatever you want,” he answers with a mischievous grin.
Hunk comes to mind, along with Delicious, Babe Magnet and Stud.
“Clark,” I blurt out instead.
For a moment, his eyes narrow, then the grin returns. “Then I shall call you Lois.”
Shit. I didn’t just blow my cover, did I?
“I trust you can keep my secret identity?” He winks.
“Of course.” I rotate my glass and take another sip.
“So, what do you think of this party?” He tucks a hand in his pocket as he glances around the room.
“Too red.”
His eyebrows furrow. “You don’t like red?”
“I find it… too bold,” I answer, brushing a bit of salt off the rim of my glass with my fingertips and placing it on the tip of my tongue. “And
maybe a bit gruesome. It is the color of blood, after all.”
His eyes travel down my gown. “And we’re all sharks who get excited by the sight of it.”
I cross my arms below my breasts, suddenly feeling self-conscious.
His gaze burns into them. “After all, it is the color of danger, and what is life without flirting with a bit of danger?”
Instinctively, I wrap my arms tighter around my chest, and my purse falls as a result. I hurry to pick it up, kneeling on the ground, only to find myself staring into his crotch as I lift my head.
Fuck.
I’m in danger, alright. At least, my virginity is.
Clark offers me his hand. “You don’t have to kneel before me, Lois. If there’s anything you want, you need only ask.”
I grab it as I straighten up, forcing my wobbly knees steady.
As I try to think of something to say, my eyes fall on his ebony bow tie. “You’re not wearing a red tie.”
He glances at it. “Nope.”
“But the invitation said…”
“To wear something red apart from the mask,” he finishes the sentence. “And how do you know I’m not?”
On impulse, my eyes dart to his crotch.
He chuckles, showing me his watch with its crimson strap.
I blush. “Oh.”
“Frankly, though, I don’t like rules very much,” he says, putting his hand away again. “And I can’t say I’ve always followed them.”
“Mr. Shore seems to like rules, though.” I place my purse back under my arm. “Or so I’ve heard.”
“You mean he likes making his own rules.” He lifts his glass for another sip.
As I do the same, I narrow my eyes at him.
How much does Clark know about Damien Shore?
Just then, the music and the crowd go silent. Heads turn towards the stairs, where a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a red suit is ascending, a young woman in scarlet and diamonds on each arm. Midway, he pauses, turning to the crowd with a wide smile.
Damien Shore.
“Speaking of the devil,” Clark mutters.
Casually, I flip my collar, pointing the tiny camera I bought on eBay a few days ago at the staircase.
“Good evening, beloved guests,” Damien Shore starts his speech with raised arms, dark eyes peeking above red sunglasses. “And welcome to my annual Valentine’s party, the grandest Valentine’s party in Texas, maybe even in the US and in all the world.”
The man to my left raises his glass. “Hear, hear.”
“As some of you know, every night is a party for me. But tonight, as I do every year, I’m throwing this party for you so that you can all have a taste of the fun I’m having. Just don’t forget my rules.”
“What did I tell you?” Clark whispers in my ear.
“First, no taking off masks,” Shore goes on. “Neither yours nor someone else’s. Two, no throwing up on the carpet. There are plenty of bathrooms for you to use. Three, no tattling. Whatever you see or hear here, you leave here.”
Yeah, right. That only confirms my suspicion that there is something wrong going on here.
“Finally, no sleeping with my household staff, not the bartenders or the maids or the guards or the horses in my stables.”
The crowd erupts into laughter.
“Although kissing and groping is allowed. Whatever you do, please—and this is the most important rule—enjoy.”
Applause breaks out. I stop the recording and join in, clapping.
As the applause dies down, Damien Shore continues up the stairs. Some of the men follow him, some with their women. Beside me, Clark gulps down what remains of his whiskey, disposing of the empty glass on a silver tray carried by a passing waiter.
“I’m sorry, but I have to go,” he says, taking my hand and planting a kiss on it. “It was a pleasure.”
My mind races.
He’s leaving me already? The disappointment of my imminent abandonment stings, but that is not all. Clearly, Clark is planning on joining those other men and Damien, and clearly, they’re up to something.
I have to go with them.
“Wait,” I call after him as he walks off. I gulp down my cocktail and hand my empty glass to the waiter before following him, placing my arm securely in his. “It wasn’t enough of a pleasure.”
He grins. “Would you like to have more, then?”
I nod.
“Good.”
Holding my hand, he escorts me up the long stairs. At the end of them a pair of heavy wooden doors open on an even longer, dimly lit corridor.
As my platform heels clatter on the wood and the music from the ballroom fades, my heart pounds and a voice in my head tells me I should turn back. Indeed, the wall sconces that resemble medieval torches make me feel like I’m marching into a dungeon. The paintings that hang between them, eerie paintings of torture and dark sexual encounters, lend a somber feeling to the air.
Still, I continue. Another voice is telling me that whatever story I’m looking for waits at the end of this corridor. I’m not leaving until I have it.
Finally, we reach the end.
“Are you sure about this?” Clark asks, pausing before another pair of heavy wooden doors, these lined with black velvet.
I give another nod. “Yes.”
He nods at the men in black guarding the doors and they open them. We step in, my breath leaving me as I find myself in a different world entirely.
Here, in this room, just as spacious as the ballroom below but darker, naked men and women with their hands in chains and collars around their necks dance on pedestals, some around poles, some inside golden cages. Others are blindfolded and suspended from the ceilings or tied to crosses on the walls, moaning as the guests lay their hands on them. Others still are already being fucked on the tables and chairs scattered throughout the room, while some are simply being bent over and whipped, their screams of pain and pleasure filling the air.
My mouth going dry, I clutch Clark’s arm tighter, suppressing the shiver that threatens to climb up my spine as I record the images—a shiver of fear.
And at the same time, surprisingly, one of excitement.
Even as my mind finds the scenery revolting and wrong in many aspects, my body appears to be reveling in it. My underwear are getting moist beneath my gown as heat pulses through my veins.
What is up with this place?
A maid in black offers me a drink and I take it, gulping down the contents of the shot glass in an effort to calm my nerves. I have no clue what it is, but its taste is surprisingly pleasant.
Spotlights turn on to shine on a stage at the front of the room. As the curtains are drawn, I see Damien Shore sitting in the middle like a king on a throne, naked women—no, girls and boys who look barely over sixteen—lined up on either side of him.
He claps his hands. “Let’s begin the annual Valentine’s auction, shall we?”
The crowd roars and the auction proceeds.
I stand there, too shocked to move.
How can Damien Shore, and all these other people, participate in such a barbaric event? The thought makes me sick to my stomach, and my fists clench. All of my principles shout for me to stop it, to help these helpless boys and girls, and I vow to do so. My article is already being written inside my head as my hidden camera records the show.
This will be your last Valentine’s auction, you sick bastard.
The first girl gets sold to the highest bidder, who takes her away.
“Excuse me.” I turn to Clark. “I think I need to go to the bathroom.”
Without waiting for him to say anything, I leave his side, slipping into the crowd and emerging on the other side. Catching a glimpse of the girl and her buyer, I follow them down another corridor, where they disappear into a room. The man is so busy with his new purchase that he leaves the door open, and I peek in, letting my camera capture everything even as I close my eyes and try to shut out the sounds of their fornication.
I try… and fail.
The creaks of the bed springs, the slapping of skin against skin, the sucking, the groans, gasps, moans and cries of pleasure all seep into my ears and into my mind, conjuring images of another man—Clark—and myself on a bed. Sweat beads on my skin. My gown feels too warm, too tight, especially around my aching breasts. My underwear are drenched.
What is this sensation?
My shaking hand goes to the front of my gown, grabbing a fistful of satin over my wildly beating heart, which seems to be in the throes of a fever. A moment later, my purse slips and hits the floor.
The sound of the leather against the wood vibrates through me like the clanging of a gong, breaking me out of my trance.
And I’m not the only one.
The man on the bed stops and turns. “Who’s there?”
Hastily picking up my purse, I leave the room, my head still spinning. Standing in the corridor, I wonder what to do next, but before I can come up with a solution, I hear footsteps approaching and see blurry shadows of burly men cast on the wall.
Shit.
Suddenly, a hand grabs my arm, pulling me. Again, my purse falls to the floor. My wrists are placed in handcuffs behind me as my body is pinned against the wall. I open my mouth to scream, only to gape as I recognize my assailant.
“Clark?”
In the next moment, his hand grasps my chin and his mouth descends on mine, robbing me of breath. With my lips parted, his tongue immediately slips in, and my knees buckle at the taste of him. Heat slides all the way to my toes.