BOOK TWO in the STEAMY FORBIDDEN ROMANCE series -- please read BOOK ONE, Illicit, before proceeding with this novel!
Coralie Watson, now living in NYC to focus on her singer/songwriter career, has landed herself in quite the predicament. Stuck in a...
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🔥STEAMY ALERT—some *ahem* moments throughout the chapter 🔥
♫ Have to touch myself to pretend you're there Your hands were on my hips, your name was on my lips Over, over again like my only prayer ♪ (Lana Del Rey—Burning desire)
Yawning through another workplace security video, Coralie plucked her cup from her desk. The liquid lapping onto her tongue had become cold, and she cringed, wishing she'd brought more java to put in the shared office coffee-machine. Sure, she could borrow one of her co-worker's K-cups—again—but she had no idea when she'd have time to replace it. Grocery shopping had been on her list for days, but between avoiding Delilah and spending hours naked in Ryan's bed... she never got a chance.
That morning, after another evening of frolicking with Ryan, Coralie made her way home late enough to not bump into Delilah, who'd left her a passive-aggressive note on the fridge, requesting that they talk. She must have had an inkling what Coralie was up to—her flimsy excuse of getting drunk and spending the night at a hotel because she couldn't get home was bullshit, and Delilah would call her out for it, for sure. But Coralie wasn't ready for that, to explain her behavior, her decision, her defiance.
Her phone buzzed, and she paused the security tape to pick up the call. The cute profile picture made her smile, and she put the caller on speaker.
"Hi, babe," she said, staring at Michael's adorable face as it plastered over the screen.
"Hey, beautiful." He sounded a bit distracted, out of breath—probably just finished skateboarding. It was late morning in San Francisco, and he tended to take his lunch breaks outside, away from the stuffiness of his desk. "Do you have time for a video chat? I really need to look at you, today's been rough, and I hate that we missed our call last night."
Coralie stared at her computer screen and grimaced. "Well... I'm at work, and kind of in the middle of a company-wide security thing." Her grimace grew as she realized how full of shit she was. She'd had video-chats with him in her office more than once, and when working on important lyrics or right before a recording session. What motivated her to turn him down, today? Not the security video, not the fact that she was at work...
No, exhaustion. Her body ached from all the love-making with Ryan, and she had trouble concentrating on words. She struggled to comprehend half of what the training tape tried to instruct her. And one glimpse at her off-the-shoulder sweater revealed the nibbles on her neck, reminding her of the scratch marks on her thighs, and the bruises on her ass from having sex on the floor—all things she'd have a hard time explaining to Michael.
Why the fuck did I wear this top?
Stable, reliable, wonderful Michael wouldn't comment much on it. He'd stare at the wounds and hold his tongue, or ask her how she'd hurt herself, or offer advice on how to heal. And out of obligation towards him, out of affection, Coralie would have to figure some means to placate him, to drown his doubts. But tired as she was, her imagination had turned off, disappeared, become dormant. With her silence, things would be awkward, until he finally dared to mention his hesitations, and she'd come clean, admit she was cheating—
