Dirty Love (Forbidden Bodyguards #3)

by Ainsley Booth

  Leaning back in my chair, I frown and run my hand through my hair.

  “What is it?”

  I glance over at the bed and find her sitting up, holding the sheet in front of her naked body. I give her a half-smile. That’s all I can muster right now. “Something doesn’t add up, and I’m not sure what it is.”

  “About what?”

  “Your identity.”

  “You’re still worried about that?” She frowns. “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What does the internet say about me?” She climbs out of bed, wrapping the sheet around her, and comes over. I pull her onto my lap and point to the screen. “How long have you been seeing this doctor?”

  “Are those my medical records?” She gives me a big, wide-eyed glare. “Wilson!”

  “Sorry?”

  “Work on that. You should be.” She sighs. “Since forever. He was the doctor I saw after I was discharged from the hospital when Keegan died.”

  “But that happened in Los Angeles.”

  She nodded. “We flew up to Seattle. I don’t remember why.”

  I open a new window and run a couple of searches on the good doctor. “Because he’s a family friend of the Rooks, it seems.”

  “He’s never said anything about that. I didn’t even know that Grant knew him beyond seeing him from time to time at my appointments.”

  An ugly thought begins to form in my mind. “Tell me about the B-12 shots that you get. Why do you get them at the doctor’s office? A nurse or even yourself could administer them at home.”

  She made a face. “I know, but I’m really needle phobic. And two of them every three months…Easy enough to visit the doctor’s office.”

  “Two needles?” I flip back to her records. “You get a single dose of B-12. That would just be one needle.”

  She shakes her head. “Two, every time. Jab jab.”

  My grip on her hip tightens. “I think we need to get some bloodwork done on you when we fly to Salt Lake City tomorrow.”

  DIRTY LOVE

  part five

  dirty love

  —thirty-nine—

  Wilson

  Salt Lake City

  When Tabitha gets to The Complex, where her concert will be that night, the first thing she does is have a cast and crew meeting for everyone on her tour. She acknowledges the rumors and tells them that Grant has been arrested and won’t be around for the rest of the tour. She encourages everyone to reach out to an anonymous crisis support line if they want to talk about it, but asks them not to speak to the press because of the unexpected news about his estranged family connections.

  The second thing she does is put up with a blood draw to humor me. We’ve hired a well-vetted OB/GYN who runs a fertility clinic here in the city, and he comes with a med lab tech in tow who takes her blood. The doc promises to return after the show, then disappears, and it’s almost back to normal.

  Except this has never been my normal with her. I roam her dressing room as she gets ready. I’ve seen this how many times though the distorted lens of a security camera? The way her crew set it up the same everywhere. Cases stacked in exact order, everything labeled.

  I glance at her in the mirror. Her eyes are closed and she’s running through new lyrics to a song. Same song, just revised again. It’s one of the ones they recorded last summer, the one she had a meltdown over.

  Her hair stylist smooths one more strand of hair flat, then steps back. “You’re good to go, gorgeous.”

  Tabitha blows her a kiss in the mirror, and then we’re alone.

  She gives me a look in the mirror, and I move closer. “What is it?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I feel like everything has shifted. Like this isn’t real.”

  Grant did this to her. He fucked with her reality in little but concrete ways. I hope he’s currently being gang-raped in a Nevada jail. “What do you want this to be?”

  Her lips tighten. “I want this to still be real. I want this to not fall apart like a house of cards now.” She sucks in a shaky, deep breath. “Wow. I didn’t realize any of that. But yeah, very much…that.”

  “Okay. I was going to ask how much you wanted me to unravel your new identity and weave it back into your old identity, but that answers that question.” I squeeze her shoulders.

  She shakes her head. “This is me. This is the only name I’ve ever wanted, and maybe he got it for me, but he didn’t give it to me. I won’t imbue it with that power, or let him take it away from me.” She twists in her chair, so she’s facing me, then slowly climbs up onto it, kneeling.

  She takes my breath away, she’s so fucking sexy. Every nerve ending under my skin jumps to life as she wraps her arms around my neck and pulls me in for a soft, sultry kiss. “Thank you,” she whispers.

  “That’s what I’m here for.” I push into her mouth with my tongue, deepening the kiss. Fuck, I’m hungry for her. Now is not the time, but she makes me crazy. One slide of her tongue against mine and my brain is buzzing, blocking out reason and work and everything else, because she’s my woman and I want to take her.

  When we ease apart, I’m hard and she’s blushing. She cups my erection through my jeans. “We’ll have to take care of this after the show. I do love fucking after a show. I’m going to love it with you even more so.”

  I bite her, gently. “Good. No more doubts about who you are, okay?”

  She shakes her head. “None.” She holds out her hand. “Tabitha Leyton. Nice to meet you.”

  I take her fingers in mine and let her give me a firm handshake. “Wilson Carter. The pleasure is all mine.”

  “What do you do, Wilson?”

  “Crisis management. Out of Washington, D.C. How about yourself?”

  She smiles, a brilliant, carefree beam. “I’m a singer. Currently on tour, actually. I need to be in Denver tomorrow.”

  Is that all? Anything else? I want to ask. But I don’t want to steal that light in her eye. Who we are to each other and how we handle that can be a problem for another day. “It just so happens that I’m going that way myself. I’ll see that you get there safely.”

  —forty—

  Tabitha

  For the first time this tour, our show is electric. There’s this energy that snaps in an amazing show. Songs slide together smoothly, transitions carry the crowd with them, you don’t lose anyone.

  And when you get to the end of a song, the stadium roars.

  It’s deafening.

  It’s my favorite sound in the universe.

  There’s probably some good psychology there, why I like to be drowned out, but I don’t give a fuck tonight.

  I’m on fire.

  When I get to Wicked Line, I’m excited to share the new lyrics. This is version three-point-oh on this song, and frankly, maybe nobody else but me will care about the changes I’ve made.

  Maybe I’m the only one that needs to care about them.

  I march right to center stage and stick my mic on the stand. For this one, I want my hands free. I want to shake them in warning and wave them in praise. I want to dance with my people as I weave them a cautionary tale…with a happy fucking ending.

  I can’t give them the preamble that I want. I can’t stand here in front of thousands of people and say, I’m finally free. Not yet. But I can sing it.

  And I do.

  Took a chance on a wicked line

  Slick smile, knowing eyes

  Was talked into heaven

  By a pack of lies

  Tumble

  Stumble

  Get back up

  Gimme

  Grab me

  Flash a smile

  Takeaway lesson

  Nobody cares

  Took a chance on a wicked line

  Fast talker, grubby hound

  But his dirty secrets

  Couldn’t keep me bound

  The band is going nuts on the last refrain, so I give them the signal we should repeat that, and I
do it bluesy this time, slow and proud and dirty.

  Mostly proud.

  And when we finally stop, and the crowd settles down, I catch my breath in front of the mic stand and I look into the darkness. “Nothing wrong with a little pride, Salt Lake City. Am I right?”

  They burn down the house, because I’m totally right.

  ~

  My high only lasts until the end of the concert. I fly off the stage after the encore and into Wilson’s arms, but instead of sex somewhere indecent, he whispers in my ear that the OB/GYN is back and waiting in my dressing room.

  I decide not to make an inappropriate threesome joke because the look on his face is serious.

  “Ms. Leyton…” He glances past me to Wilson. “Could we have a moment alone? Just one moment, and then if you’d like Mr. Carter to come back in, of course that’s perfectly fine.”

  Wilson waves his hand and ducks out before I can say anything.

  I puff out my cheeks and stalk past the good doctor. “Close your eyes for second.”

  He does, and I pull off my sweat-soaked tank top and grab a dry t-shirt to replace it with.

  “Okay, shoot.”

  “First of all, I’ve had a chance to review your medical records, and there were some irregularities in your previous care. I asked your…Mr. Carter to step outside because what we discuss only needs to be between us, and it looks like most communication in the past included your manager, a Grant Derew.”

  “Yeah.” I press my hand to my forehead. “That wasn’t the smartest move on my part. It’s a long, complicated story.”

  “And I might not be the best physician to get into all of that with, as you don’t live here in Salt Lake City, but I take my job seriously and if I can be an ally in any way to you…”

  “What’s going on?” I cross my arms and look him in the eye. “I’ve had a crazy past week in ways I can’t even begin to explain. Give it to me straight.”

  “Mr. Carter requested, on your behalf, that we test you for birth control medication. Synthetic progestin or progesterone, specifically.”

  All the blood drains from my head. “He did what?”

  “The blood work we took earlier. Were you not aware?”

  There’s a ringing in my ears. I slowly shake my head. “No. That was…I was getting B-12 shots. I thought there was a problem with those. Double the dose or something.”

  “Ms. Leyton, I don’t know how to tell you this, but I think you’ve been on Depo-Provera most of your adult life.”

  “I don’t understand. I can’t…there’s no need…”

  “There is nothing in your medical history that would suggest you have any kind of infertility.”

  “I had a baby when I was fifteen,” I whisper. “I had a bad c-section. I was told I wouldn’t be able to have any more children.”

  “I don’t want to say one way or the other, but there is no reason for you to be getting quarterly shots of progestin other than to prevent a pregnancy.”

  I point to the door. “Can you…?”

  He nods, and the next thing I know, Wilson is in front of me. He stands there like he’s not sure if he can hug me, and I burst into tears.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “Fuck, I’m saying that a lot.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I say, hauling him closer. “How long have you known?”

  “Just since last night. And I’m not a doctor, so I thought…I’m sorry.”

  “Fucking hell. Why would he do that to me?” I mean the doctor, and I mean Grant. I mean them all, the sick, twisted fucks.

  Wilson curves his hand over the top of my head, ever so gently, and kisses my forehead. “So you couldn’t have more children. So they could control you.”

  And punish me. Fuck with my head.

  Children.

  I could have kids. “Wilson…”

  ~

  The next thing I know, I’m lying flat on my back on the couch, and the doctor is kneeling beside me, taking my pulse.

  “There she is. Welcome back, Tabitha.”

  “Did I just faint?” I ask groggily.

  Wilson’s face blurs into my line of sight. “Like a champ.”

  I close my eyes and sigh. “Great.”

  “This was a lot of information to process.” The doctor pats my hand. “What time do you move on to Denver tomorrow?”

  “The bus leaves first thing.”

  He hands me his card. “Then let’s follow up by phone, and I can recommend someone to do further testing when you get home to…”

  “Seattle.” My stomach twists. “Not my regular doctor.”

  The OB shares a dark look with Wilson, then squeezes my hand again. “No. Not that doctor. He’s not going to be treating anyone much longer.”

  Once he leaves, Wilson carefully lifts me off the couch and I curl into his chest.

  “So much for it being over,” I say quietly.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Like I was run over by an emotionally manipulative, gas-lighting Mack truck.”

  He nods above my head. “Right. Stupid question. Let me try again. What can I do?”

  I wriggle off his lap and hold out my hand. “Come wash my hair?”

  There’s a big shower off this dressing room. It’s cold and sterile, every surface tiled, and once the water hisses to life, the splashing drops echo throughout the space.

  It fits my mood to a T.

  Cold. Distant. Functional.

  I’m sad, but I’m angry, too.

  I’m a grown fucking woman, and so little of what has happened to my body so far in this life has been on my own terms.

  What happens to me now will only happen on my terms.

  My body.

  My heart.

  My soul.

  My fucking terms.

  I undress stiffly, then get in the shower. Wilson watches me. He slowly follows after grabbing a couple of towels. I hadn’t thought of that.

  I’m having trouble thinking clearly about anything except this need to be scrubbed clean.

  To make my own choices.

  The crew stocked the shower with my preferred shampoo and conditioner, so Wilson uses both, and still we don’t talk.

  There’s nothing to say.

  He cascades bubbles over my body, shoulders to toes, and massages me everywhere I’m tense.

  Still, nothing to say. No break in the cold anger.

  When he rinses the conditioner out, it slides slick and smooth down my back, and suddenly I know exactly what I want.

  He moves to turn me under the stream, to rinse my back, but I resist and take his hand instead. I show him what I want. I guide his fingers through the slickness to the seam of my ass, then I lean forward and brace my hands against the tile.

  He hesitates, his fingertips pressed against my rear entrance.

  But he doesn’t say anything. I don’t want him to. I just want him to take me there, to fill me up and change me. I push back and one fingertip works its way in, violating me by request. I swallow a moan and try to relax. I know how to do this. We’ve done this before.

  “Shhh.” He breathes against my ear as he covers my body with his.

  I shake my head. No talking.

  He sinks his teeth into my neck, a gentle hold, really, but it does the job. It distracts me and then he’s inside me, one finger, then two. More liquid dribbles between my cheeks, and he works it into me, pushing me quickly past the uncomfortable burn.

  Then his fingers are gone, and the thick cock that replaces them at my entrance is—oh shit, why did I want to do this, oh fuck, no…—pressing into me, and it’s so big, it’s so hard…

  I tip my head back and open my mouth, but nothing comes out. No scream is big enough for this.

  And behind me, Wilson is talking now. “Oh, my girl, you’re so good. Fucking hell, look at you take me. So pretty. So perfect. I know, I know, it’s hard, but you want this. Don’t you? You want to chase everything else away, and me too. Fuck. I can’t think o
f anything else right now. Your ass is mine, Tabitha. All mine. You own me, too. You know that? You own my heart.”

  I push into him, desperate now to have him seated all the way inside me, deep and full and as stretched as I can be.

  He leans over me again once he finishes working his cock into me. “Touch yourself,” he whispers. “Feel how wet you are. You’re dripping onto my balls. You like this? I love it. I love you, too.”

  Panting, I reach between my legs and he’s right. I’m so slick it’s on my thighs, and all I have to do is graze my clit and the first tremor of an orgasm threatens.

  He swears under his breath. “I felt that inside you, Tabitha. Fucking hell. Do that again.”

  I stroke a tentative half-circle around my clit and jerk forward against the tile wall from the intensity of it. He follows me, gripping my hips. I start to shake, and he eases out an inch, then pulses back into me. Another thrust, another shivering swipe of my clit. My legs start shaking and I moan his name, then it’s all over.

  He fucks into me again, and my climax begins. It’s unlike anything I’ve experienced before. I swear it starts in my brain, like an explosion at the base of my skull, then spirals down through my body and wraps around him, deep inside me, triggering more little bombs that go off down my legs, through my belly, and last in my clit, that one so bright and intense that my eyes cross and my words slur together.

  Wilson holds me through it, then eases out of me, letting me down to the shower floor. He’s still hard and swollen. I watch in awe as he lathers up, then falls to his knees in front of me as he jerks himself hard and fast.

  “Where do you want it?” he asks, his eyes bright and fevered.

  That’s easy. I slither in front of him, and rub my hand over my belly. “Right here,” I whisper.