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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♫ See these feelings are outta control Talk about losing, losing all my shit for you ♪ (BANKS—Bedroom wall)
Ryan's satin sheets scratched Coralie's back as they bunched beneath her when she stretched. Though she'd brushed her teeth at some point the night before—between sex sessions, she was positive—her tongue tasted like sour wine and her throat was clogged and croaky.
Thirsty, she reached for the nightstand, hoping to find a glass of water, something to soothe her, and drown the grossness in her mouth. But she almost spilled everywhere when her phone, residing next to her drink, came alive, buzzing like crazy.
She'd put it on silent before bed, and its vibrations shook the nightstand so hard, she worried it would wake Ryan.
"Fuck," she whispered, grabbing the glass first, and transferring it to her other hand as she snatched her phone. "Fuck, what time is it?"
Meaning to check the clock on her cell, she accidentally clicked the green pick up button, and gasped as she realized, all too late, who was calling her.
Michael! Crap!
"Shit." She glued the receiver to her ear. "Hello?" Keeping her tone low, she gripped the cup so tight, she feared it might shatter.
Michael's melodious morning voice blasted into her ears, and she winced. "Babe? You okay?" His chipper tone diminished. "You sound far. And quiet. Like you're echoing... are you in a big empty room? Wait," a clap came from his end, as if he'd smacked himself on the forehead, "are you in the studio? Shit, it's about that time, huh?"
Pulling the phone away to squint at the screen, she saw the time, at last—ten am.
"Oh, uh..." She brought the cell to her ear again and took a quick sip of the stale-tasting water before depositing it onto the nightstand. "Yeah, it is that time, but, uh... no, I'm not in the studio."
No, she wasn't recording songs or sitting behind her desk at the office, as she should have been. She was in Ryan's high-ceilinged, non-decorated, vast bedroom. Heaps of fluffy blankets surrounded her, giant pillows rested under her tangles of hair, and the floor-to-ceiling window was covered by a darkened curtain that had prevented her from waking up when she'd hoped to. Sure, Nikita had said to come in late—but Coralie would be really late, today.
After all the drinking—she and Ryan had several shots of vodka and half a bottle of red wine after they returned from the bar—and the wild sex, her mind had deactivated. And so had her phone; she'd apparently turned off all her alarms. Or she'd slept through everything, who knew. Inebriated as she'd been last night, anything was possible.
As she tried to move her legs, she bit her lip to not scream out in pain.
"Oh," said Michael, drawing her back to him. "Then... where are you? You sound distracted. Should I call later?"
