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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♫ With a taste of a poison paradise I'm addicted to you Don't you know that you're toxic? ♪ (Britney Spears—Toxic)
When her headache turned into a raging, roaring migraine, Coralie called Nikita and requested to take the day off. And Nikita, in her borderline inappropriate voice, suggested Coralie's pain was due to a sex hangover. But she agreed to let her sleep the night's events off and not come in to work.
She also commented that there was, to Coralie's dismay, a couple of videos popping up online about her performance, all with stellar reviews.
"Please, don't post anything that you guys filmed yet," Coralie begged, gritting her teeth as she snuck on her underwear. "I... would like to approve it, first. I'm not sure I... enjoy my face when I'm singing."
"You looked hot," said Nikita on the other end, and the sincerity swimming in her tone was palpable. Almost too palpable. "Like you were making love to the microphone, for real. Everyone is loving it, so far. Great reviews. We'll have lots to talk about tomorrow!"
As she hung up, Coralie grumbled; her making love to the microphone wasn't hot, it was dangerous. If Michael saw the footage and somehow detected that she was eye-fucking someone in the crowd, she'd be toast. Discovered. Busted.
Coralie was lucky to have such understanding—albeit a tad too open—supervisors, and resolved to return to her place for the day. She needed to pout about her situation, and far from Ryan.
He was still in the shower—or pretending to be—so she left him a note thanking him for the night, for breakfast, and letting him know she needed some time to herself. She had no clue when she'd see him again. When he was in his moods, he tended to get cruel... like that moment in Paris when she'd thrown macarons in his face for implying that she didn't matter that much to him.
Thinking of that worsened her ache, so she hurried to get ready, diverting her thoughts as she gathered her things. She dressed in last night's outfit, still stinking of her intense, heavily vanilla scented Victoria's Secret perfume and the outdoors, and reminding her of their tryst in the alleyway.
Ugh, why can't I stop fantasizing over that?
Glaring at her platform pumps, she ordered a Lyft to pick her up. No way was she taking the subway feeling like she did, or wearing those shoes, or with her smeared make-up. She'd packed some essentials in her purse for an overnight stay, but if she lingered to fix her face, she'd bump into him. And she didn't want to view his scowl or hear whatever rude comments he'd come up with this time.
An hour or so later, as the Lyft driver dropped her off at the bottom of her apartment building, her phone buzzed once, signaling that she had a message. She opened the device as she hauled her exhausted self up the stairs, and slowed her ascent when she read Ryan's words.
