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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♫ Cause I can't spend the rest of my life chasing you around I want to get much closer You need to tell me how ♪ (Maroon 5—Feelings)
After a day of reviewing videos—that she looked dazed and drunk in, but no obvious sign that she'd been singing to someone—and scribbling furious thoughts to turn them into lyrics, and listening to praise from the bosses, Coralie sank into her office chair. She puffed out a heavy breath; she was exhausted, overwhelmed, and stressed. And despite her time off the day before she hadn't had an opportunity to figure herself out.
What did she want? Who did she want to be with? Ryan or Michael? Both, or neither?
To make matters worse, yet another blast from her past had resurfaced—former bff Chester, in all his rugged raunchiness, smoky and sultry and insistent on having coffee with her. He'd texted her several times since their encounter, asking about seeing her, and she'd been unable to confirm anything until seconds ago, when Nikita told her to go home. It was three-thirty, and Coralie wasn't sure she had any energy to stick around and catch up with Chester, when she should have hurried to her apartment for a nap before the bar job.
But she wanted to be near him again. The magnetism she'd always experienced in his presence had woken something odd in her gut. A curiosity, a desire to be close, to listen to him, to let his poetry draw her in. He was good with words, and his texts were tempting and troubling all at once.
Chester Chase:Not sure if you're purposely ignoring me or busy working... or you gave me the wrong number? But I'll be down at the coffee shop after four, and I'd love to see you there.
Chester Chase: And not in the stalker-ish way I've been seeing you—I mean I'd love to SEE you. Sitting across from me, sipping on a cappuccino, leaving the foam over your lips to drive me crazy. Remember when you used to do that? You were so cute. You still are.
She groaned. Of course she remembered that; their coffee dates happened when she was sober. It was all the other instances that she couldn't quite clarify. Their benders in run-down, dingy bars in the worst downtown neighborhoods of San Francisco. Or their escapades in nightclubs that played shitty music but served high-class cocktails that messed them up fast enough that they didn't have to spend too much money. And the sheets they'd rolled in together—scratchy or satin or cotton, depending on the locale they'd chosen—and the fun they'd had. It was all so blurry, and she wished she could recall how he'd made her feel, if she'd been truly aroused or only intoxicated. Did they have a blast because they were tipsy? Or had he satisfied her as much as her sore legs and scratch marks attested to?
Clearly, she'd enjoyed him, as they'd slept together on many occasions, in many places, and under many circumstances. But the common factor: they were drunk off booze and off each other, and she rarely remembered the details of their nights. She often regretted not asking him to tell her more. Did he recall it all? Would he tell her now, if she inquired on it?
