Falling for the Forbidden: 10 Full-Length Novels

by Jessica Hawkins

  Hell. I have to stand and turn away from her to hide the massive, throbbing boner in my slacks. “You can do all those things. I just need to make sure you understand safe sex.”

  She makes a face. “Why?”

  Because there will be plenty of boys who want to fuck her on her goddamn global tour, where she’ll be both a celebrity and completely inexperienced. “Because you’re going to walk out of this house in three months, and you need to know what’s out there.”

  Something passes through her eyes—maybe grief. “I see.”

  “So,” I say, my voice businesslike. “Sex.”

  “I know about condoms.”

  She knows about condoms. “You do?”

  “The oldest known use of condoms dates back fifteen thousand years ago, on a cave painting in France.”

  Surprise comes out as a racking cough. “Where did you learn that?”

  “A history book.”

  I stare at her, shocked that someone so incredibly intelligent, an actual genius by multiple measures, is this clueless about sex. It’s my fault, of course. I’m the leader in this house. It was my job to make sure she knew about her body. About protection. “Here’s what you need to know about condoms. They’re absolutely mandatory. If you decide to have sex with someone—and it is your decision—you have to use a condom. Say it back to me, Samantha. I need to know you understand.”

  “Condoms are mandatory,” she says obediently.

  That’s good, but it’s not enough. How could it possibly be enough? How could it convey to her how many assholes were out there, waiting for the chance to take advantage of her?

  Is this how fathers feel when they send their daughters into the world?

  I’m not her father. Not even close. I can’t imagine Ambassador Brooks having this conversation with his daughter, even if he had lived to have the chance. He wasn’t exactly a concerned father. His daughter had been a little secretary in his house, given orders and expected to follow them.

  Are you treating her any better, North?

  “Samantha.”

  She blinks up at me, so damn trusting. I want her to look at me that way with my cock in her mouth, with her eyes watering. “Yes, sir?”

  “Call me Liam.”

  A little cough that’s the closest she comes to telling me no. “Is there anything else?”

  Damned if this little violin prodigy doesn’t know how to dismiss a hardened, experienced soldier. She sits there so fucking prim and so heartbreakingly pretty I don’t know how to handle it. Maybe she is ready to go out into the world, to experience sex, to discover how much better a climax can be when given by someone else’s hand, but I’m not ready for it. Not even close.

  Chapter Eight

  The Japanese word “karaoke” comes from a phrase meaning “empty orchestra.”

  SAMANTHA

  Four years old. Saint Petersburg. The teacher suggested that I be placed in the music program so that it would be easier for me to acclimate to the school. Daddy signed the paper because it wouldn’t cost anything. The school provided an ancient basswood violin with a hard plastic case. A wrinkled instruction booklet showed how to place your fingers and introductory sheet music. I stayed up night after night working my fingers until they were raw.

  That began my love affair with the violin.

  Even when I’m not playing, the music lives inside me.

  I’m still warm between my legs, my body ready for something that’s never happened except in my imagination. I’ve made love with music a thousand times, but never with a man. Especially not the man who invades my thoughts every time I touch myself. He’s invading my thoughts right now, those green eyes and stern mouth a hazy picture in my mind. Muscles bunching in his jaw as he thinks about what to say next.

  Things like, It isn’t right that I let my own… discomfort get in the way of your sex education. That’s what he thinks of when it comes to me and sex—discomfort.

  I run up the stairs, still feeling the strings against my finger pads, the powder in the air. The hard gaze of Liam North. The sensations should be different, the structure of a violin wholly apart from the tangle of feelings I have around the man. They blur together anyway, a physical symphony I play and play.

  When I get to my room, Laney is there. She’s been my best friend ever since I moved here. She holds a black long-sleeve sweater in one hand and a black floor-length skirt in the other. “Oh my God,” she says on a moan. “You could work in a funeral home.”

  “Concert dress,” I say, rueful. There are black skirts in velvet and cotton and silk. Mandatory for playing in an orchestra, and even once I started playing solo, I still follow the rules.

  “What about if you have to go to a party?”

  “After a concert?”

  “Is music all you think about? Don’t answer that.”

  Actually my mind is flush with other thoughts, far more illicit, after the most uncomfortable sex talk in the history of sex talks. “It doesn’t matter what I wear. We’re not going to meet guys.”

  “Aha!” She holds up a blouse with silk ruffles and no sleeves. I usually pair it with a black camisole underneath and a thin suit jacket over the top, the fabric stretchy enough so I can raise my arms and play violin. “This will be sexy in a prim librarian kind of way.”

  “Why am I trying to look sexy?”

  “Because we’re going to sneak out and go to a club tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  “This is for Cody. You can’t say no.”

  A few weeks ago Cody confided that the new coach at Kingston High made him nervous. That’s how he said it—made him nervous. We thought maybe he was one of those macho bastards who would hit someone if they didn’t run laps fast enough. It took some coaxing on Laney’s part to get Cody to reveal what he really meant.

  That he got a little too close to the boys he was supposed to be coaching.

  “How is going to a club going to help Cody?”

  “Ohhh, and these will be great underneath.”

  I stare at the tiny scrap of black fabric she’s wearing. Spandex. “Those are booty shorts. They go under my skirt so I don’t accidentally flash five hundred people after Brahms’s ‘Sonata No. 3.’”

  “We can pair them with some stockings I saw in your drawer. That flash of thigh is going to be the sexiest thing these boys have ever seen.”

  “They’re basically underwear. Why do we have to go to a club to help Cody? Why can’t we help in a library? Somewhere that we can wear regular clothes and go during the day?”

  “Because this guy has incriminating evidence on Coach Price.”

  “And he’s just going to give it to us?”

  “That reminds me. Do you have five thousand dollars?”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Look, don’t freak out. People our age go to clubs all the time.”

  “I’ve never been inside one.”

  “Because Liam still acts like you’re twelve years old and watches your every move.”

  In my mind I can see Liam’s stern expression. Say it back to me, Samantha. I need to know you understand. Imagine if I told him I wasn’t a virgin. I already know about condoms because I use them all the time. Well, maybe not all the time. Once would be enough.

  Would he have been shocked? Probably. He might have tried to lock me up in a tower and throw away the key. Or maybe he finally would have seen me as a woman. He wouldn’t treat me like I was a little girl if I wasn’t a virgin. Would he?

  “Fine,” I say, grabbing the clothes. “We can stop by the bank.”

  She follows me into the bathroom. “I’ve been working on cat eyeliner.”

  “A little privacy, please?”

  That earns me an eye roll. “Okay, Ms. Concert Dress. I happen to know there’s no privacy in those backstage rooms. And no marble floors either. So stop complaining.”

  Privacy? No. There’s not enough room for that. And any rooms with doors are taken by people having hookups before
the show. It would have been easy to lose my virginity to someone playing the tuba or even a conductor, but I never wanted that. Being a so-called child prodigy has made me weird enough. I would like my first time to happen an ordinary way—with a man who cares about me, preferably.

  Condoms are mandatory. The words come back to me in a humiliated rush, my cheeks heating with the memory. I actually said that to Liam North. The words came out of my mouth when I was only a few feet away from him.

  Not only that, but I told him about condoms appearing on cave paintings.

  Awesome.

  The first attempt at eye makeup turns me into a raccoon.

  The second one isn’t much better.

  By the third attempt Laney achieves a somewhat smoky eye that tilts up at the side. I stare in the mirror, wondering how I look like a stranger even to myself. The ruffled silk blouse and black boy shorts look cute and sexy and completely un-Samantha-like. Maybe this is what it would feel like to be normal.

  Laney stands back, looking pleased with herself. “You look so slutty right now.”

  That makes me laugh. “Thanks, I guess.”

  She’s an unconventional fairy godmother, transforming me into someone who can go to the ball. Some people think that Cinderella was weak because she needed help. Those of us who’ve been orphaned, who’ve been alone, who’ve been smudged in cinders, we know the truth. We can be strong every day of every year. The hard part is leaving it behind for even a night.

  LIAM

  Knock knock knock.

  I’ve definitely learned to knock every single time I want to speak to her. Even if I hear voices coming from inside the room—Samantha and Laney. The door is too thick to hear what they’re saying, but they’ve been friends for a long time.

  “Yes?” That’s Laney, sounding playful and defiant like she usually does.

  It makes me wonder if Samantha told her about me walking in on her. I’m not sure whether I hope she does or hope she doesn’t.

  She deserves to share something that’s bothering her. On the other hand, it feels strangely good to have a dirty little secret with her. Too good.

  “Can I talk to Samantha?” I say through the door. Normally I would have opened it by now. It’s not like Samantha’s humping a pillow at this exact moment. Except I can’t bring myself to turn the knob. My fist tightens on the cool metal, but all I can see is small hands clenched on a white pillowcase.

  “No,” Samantha says, too loud and fast. “We’re having girl talk. Very, very private girl talk.”

  Very, very private girl talk.

  Then she is telling her friend about what happened this afternoon. My cheeks feel warm. Jesus. How long has it been since I actually blushed? Certainly not when I saw her hips fucking a pillow. All I felt was pure lust. Now I’m wondering what she’s saying about me. He’s a fucking bastard who’s barely hiding his erection when I’m around him. No, she wouldn’t talk like that. It’s the truth, though.

  “I’m heading out for the night. Call my cell if you need anything.”

  “Okay,” she says through the door, her voice like a squeak.

  Hell. “Leave her alone, North,” I mutter to myself.

  The rest of the men are already gathered downstairs, wearing clothes other than fatigues for a change, laughter bouncing off the walls. I meet Josh by the wet bar, where he’s pouring himself a drink. He salutes me with a wry expression. “Thought I might not see you tonight. Figured you’d stay here and play nurse for the night.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Eyebrows go up. “Well, well. What crawled up your ass?”

  Having to give a safe sex talk to the girl in my custody, a girl I’m responsible for. A girl I want to taste more than my next breath. “What are we doing tonight?” I ask, ignoring his question. “Because I already know it’s not a strip club.”

  “Not when you threatened to kick my ass.”

  “Sorry, but the stink of desperation and coercion really messes with my hard-on.”

  “What about a girl who loves attention and dancing?” Josh says, challenging me. He likes fucking with me. And apparently, he also likes strippers.

  “Are you really going to tell them apart?” I ask, my voice caustic. I can’t keep my employees from visiting a strip club on their off time, but I’ll be damned if I go with them.

  “Or a college girl who’s paying for tuition on tips?”

  “What about all the girls turning in their take to a pimp at the end of the day? The ones kicked out of their homes? Underage? What about the ones who don’t have a fucking choice?” I stop myself, breathing hard. Too late, I realize how much I gave away with my little speech. It’s too painful to think about what could have happened to Samantha without someone to look after her. Her violin fame might have given her some protection—or it could have made her a greater target.

  He gives me a hard look, but his voice is light. “Okay, we can have a good time without the chance of human trafficking. If you insist.”

  I wouldn’t be okay with strippers on a regular day.

  Today is not a regular day.

  After having the sex talk with Samantha, I have no desire to watch men reduced to animals over a pair of tits. Especially when all I can see is Samantha’s full lips forming my name, her eyes fluttering as she imagines me between her thighs.

  “So what’s the plan?” I say, forcing my tone to be casual.

  Josh pulls out his phone and texts me. The message contains only a photo of an ordinary brown rock holding down a one-dollar bill. The prize. “Jeff’s going to fly us over the desert,” he says, referring to our resident pilot. “We each get a parachute and a bottle of water. First one to find the prize wins.”

  This is what happens when you put a bunch of over-muscled alpha men together. We have to compete to find out who’s the best, even if one of us has to die trying.

  I glance down at my gray button-down and black slacks that I wore for a night in the city. “You could have told me before I got dressed.”

  “There are a handful of not-quite-street-legal cars waiting for us at the rendezvous point. We’ll take them into the city. Drinks. Dinner. More drinks.”

  Hassan joins us at the bar, throwing his arms over our shoulders. He’s already buzzed, which is maybe not ideal for jumping into the desert. “Let’s get this fucking party started,” he says.

  I raise my eyebrow at Josh, who sighs. We’ll have to jump after Hassan and make sure he makes it to the rendezvous point. It wouldn’t do to have him die the night before his wedding. His fiancée would be pissed, for one thing. And all those hors d'oeuvres would go to waste.

  Chapter Nine

  The Helicopter Quartet was written by controversial composer Karlheinz Stockhausen. It involves sending four members of a string quartet into the sky in four separate helicopters and having each musician play their individual part. Meanwhile, they are recorded and broadcasted into an auditorium where they are all played simultaneously for an audience. Stockhausen reportedly composed the piece after a series of unusual dreams involving helicopters and a swarm of bees.

  LIAM

  The call comes when I’m ten thousand feet above the ground. A small buzz in my pocket, which reminds me to zip my phone and wallet into the harness so I don’t lose them on the way down. I glance at the screen. A notification that someone’s at the south rear exit.

  Someone’s always coming and going at the compound. An overzealous security system monitors every single entry point. I’m anal enough to leave the notifications on even though I don’t usually need to see who it is. Except right now almost everyone is on a job or in the chopper. I left two men at North Security, one on guard duty, one off. I don’t expect trouble, but I’m a cautious man. Untrusting.

  Which means there are very few people who could be leaving right now.

  If I had to guess, it would be Cody in his beat-up truck that’s older than him with a hundred and fifty thousand miles on it. He probably visited Laney and Samantha,
playing Mario Kart in the game room. There are a few people in front of me to jump, so I swipe to pull up the secure app that streams the video cameras.

  Sure enough, there’s the white truck pulling to a stop.

  The gate slides open, well-maintained and smooth. The truck pulls forward and disappears from view. Relief fills my chest, which is funny considering I’m about to jump out of the open side door of the chopper. This is an adrenaline jump. A good-time jump. A hundred times easier than having the sex talk with Samantha, pretending that I think of her as a daughter when I don’t.

  Hassan jumps, and the men cheer.

  The next few guys go quickly. They’re eager to get down on the ground so they can beat the groom-to-be. Either that or they’re hungry. Probably both.

  Josh glances back at me, a question in his eyes. We’ve been through enough close calls that he can feel the unease inside me without me having to say a word. He can feel it even before I do.

  Why the fuck am I uneasy?

  Everything I do at home, the training and the security, it’s about precaution—not actual danger. That’s for South America and the Middle East. That’s for the fucking jungle that is Washington DC. In the hill country of Texas? This is my land. I shouldn’t be worried about a damn thing.

  I give Josh a terse nod. Whatever it is, it can wait.

  He offers a salute, lacking his usual ironic twist.

  When it comes to the command structure, we don’t fuck around, not even on a bachelor party. He jumps, his movements as casual as stepping off a porch. The wind carries him sideways, so it looks like he’s floating. In the next moment a deepening fog swallows him whole. My stomach clenches into knots, but it has nothing to do with the men who just jumped out of the helicopter.

  “Your turn,” comes a voice in my ear. The pilot.

  “Sorry, Jeff. Looks like you’re our designated driver.”