Forbidden fruit
never tasted this sweet…
The world knows
Samantha Brooks as the violin prodigy. She guards her secret truth—the desire
she harbors for her guardian.
Liam North got
custody of her six years ago. She’s all grown up now, but he still treats her
like a child. No matter how much he wants her.
No matter how bad he
aches for one taste.
Her sweet overtures
break down the ex-soldier’s defenses, but there’s more at stake than her body.
Every touch, every kiss, every night. The closer she gets, the more exposed his
darkest secret.
She’s one step away
from finding out what happened the night she lost her family. One step away
from leaving him forever.
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Excerpt
Rest, Liam told me.
He’s right
about a lot of things. Maybe he’s right about this. I climb onto the cool pink
sheets, hoping that a nap will suddenly make me content with this quiet little
life.
Even though
I know it won’t.
Besides,
I’m too wired to actually sleep. The white lace coverlet is both delicate and
comfy. It’s actually what I would have picked out for myself, except I didn’t
pick it out. I’ve been incapable of picking anything, of choosing anything, of
deciding anything as part of some deep-seated fear that I’ll be abandoned.
The
coverlet, like everything else in my life, simply appeared.
And the
person responsible for its appearance? Liam North.
I climb
under the blanket and stare at the ceiling. My body feels overly warm, but it
still feels good to be tucked into the blankets. The blankets he picked
out for me.
It’s really
so wrong to think of him in a sexual way. He’s my guardian, literally. Legally.
And he has never done anything to make me think he sees me in a sexual
way.
This is it.
This is the answer.
I don’t
need to go skinny dipping in the lake down the hill. Thinking about Liam North
in a sexual way is my fast car. My parachute out of a plane.
My eyes
squeeze shut.
That’s all
it takes to see Liam’s stern expression, those fathomless green eyes and the
glint of dark blond whiskers that are always there by late afternoon. And then
there’s the way he touched me. My forehead, sure, but it’s more than he’s done
before. That broad palm on my sensitive skin.
My thighs
press together. They want something between them, and I give them a pillow.
Even the way I masturbate is small and timid, never making a sound, barely
moving at all, but I can’t change it now. I can’t moan or throw back my head
even for the sake of rebellion.
But I can
push my hips against the pillow, rocking my whole body as I imagine Liam doing
more than touching my forehead. He would trail his hand down my cheek, my neck,
my shoulder.
Repressed.
I’m so repressed it’s hard to imagine more than that.
I make
myself do it, make myself trail my hand down between my breasts, where it’s
warm and velvety soft, where I imagine Liam would know exactly how to touch me.
You’re
so beautiful, he
would say. Your breasts are perfect.
Because
Imaginary Liam wouldn’t care about big breasts. He would like them small and
soft with pale nipples. That would be the absolute perfect pair of breasts for
him.
And he
would probably do something obscene and rude. Like lick them.
My hips
press against the pillow, almost pushing it down to the mattress, rocking and rocking.
There’s not anything sexy or graceful about what I’m doing. It’s pure instinct.
Pure need.
The
beginning of a climax wraps itself around me. Claws sink into my skin. There’s
almost certain death, and I’m fighting, fighting, fighting for it with the
pillow clenched hard.
“Oh fuck.”
The words
come soft enough someone else might not hear them. They’re more exhalation of
breath, the consonants a faint break in the sound. I have excellent hearing.
Ridiculous, crazy good hearing that had me tuning instruments before I could
ride a bike.
My eyes
snap open, and there’s Liam, standing there, frozen. Those green eyes locked on
mine. His body clenched tight only three feet away from me. He doesn’t come
closer, but he doesn’t leave.
Orgasm
breaks me apart, and I cry out in surprise and denial and relief. “Liam.”
It goes on
and on, the terrible pleasure of it. The wrenching embarrassment of coming
while looking into the eyes of the man who raised me for the past six years.
