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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♫ If he knew the things I did, he couldn't handle it And I choose to keep him protected ♪ (TLC—Creep}
The brisk breeze, signaling the evening's arrival, whirled up seventeen stories of the Liberty View building, in the Financial District. It curled around and around like a tornado and blew right under Coralie's silk robe, scattering goosebumps from her neck down to her toes. She smiled, drinking in the vast space stretching around her, the immensity of this upper-scale balcony. But her smile faded when she glanced down at her phone on the table to her right.
Moments before, she'd been seated on one of the cushioned chairs, peering over the high railing at the skyline. She'd been waiting, relaxing, unwinding; but Michael had called her and pushed her into fumbling with excuse after excuse for postponing their usual video-chat. Now, she stood, fidgeting, regretting her lies.
The screen still displayed Michael's number and the length of their conversation—ten minutes, fifteen seconds. His profile picture—a snap of him and her in her last days in San Francisco—stared back at her, as if scanning through her and judging. His harmonious hazel eyes fixed on the red marks on her neck, the gentle nibbles on her partly exposed shoulder, the hardness of her nipples through the satin gown she wore. But knowing him, he'd probably never question Coralie on these marks. He trusted her, cared for her, and if anything he'd be worried to see a single bruise on her. And he wouldn't hang up until she promised she was okay. He'd never leave such traces on her flesh, sweet and cautious as he was.
She pressed one hand into the soft fabric of her robe, and clutched her cup with her other, smacking her lips in delight at the cooling sensation on her sweaty skin. Sniffing at the scents—the fragrant flowers wilting on the patio, the crisp catered delights from a few floors above, and the liquor swirling in her glass—she retrieved her grin, basking in the momentary silence. Reveling in the end of the day, the sun setting, and the city lights flickering on like fireflies dotting the New York City horizon.
With a shrug, she tugged her robe up farther and turned away from the phone, resting against the see-through railing instead, with her back to the view of buildings and parks and busy streets. She tipped her cup to her mouth and peered up at the multiple stories above where she stood. The apartment complex was decadent, with massive windows—some open, party sounds spilling out; some closed, showing no sign of life—well-maintained facades, and scenic sights. Most had enormous balconies—like this pad—with spectacular views. It was quite the elaborate setting for an affair like hers.
With a laugh, she detected the flickering lights of the neighbor who was practicing his DJ skills, and heard the beats from his room.
In the mere day she'd been at Ryan's luxury home, Coralie Watson had learned a lot—about her surroundings, her city, herself. She also drank heavily—champagne in her morning mimosa, a splash of vodka in her Bloody Mary at noon, a whizz of raspberry Schnapps in her Sprite around three, and now, a chocolate red wine that melted in her mouth and aroused her. She clicked her tongue, blew out a breath of exhaustion, and took another sip.
