BOOK THREE in the STEAMY FORBIDDEN ROMANCE series -- please read BOOK ONE, Illicit, and BOOK TWO, Explicit, before proceeding with this novel!
Coralie Watson wants--no, needs--a break. As her fame rises, so does her infatuation for Chester, her desi...
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♫ Don't call me late at night, knowin' what I'm like, can't trust myself When you walk out, don't turn around, don't talk me down ♪ {Jojo—Don't talk me down}
With no windows to peek outside, no means to tell if the sun was blaring or if the sky had taken on a drab, grayish color, all Coralie could stare at was her computer screen. At the cursor flashing, faster and faster, reminding her of the blank page she needed to have filled by the end of the day. The song she was supposed to write and submit, titled Complicit, that she'd mentioned to Nikita. That she'd claimed would be big—bold, shocking, and truthful.
But she never should have told Nikita; she never should have boasted that she'd come up with lyrics so fast, when she couldn't make sense of the feelings she was supposed to use to write them. Her feelings—the deep, poignant emotions that kept rumbling about in her heart. Those that pricked at her scalp and inside her brain, and that animated the nerve endings in her vagina so much that she couldn't sit still.
What had she been thinking? Sure, she'd been enticed by the idea of writing in a journal to keep track of her thoughts for a month, to determine which of her three potential suitors—she still scoffed when thinking of that word—popped up the most. To understand which one seemed to haunt her, taunt her; which one was strictly physical or mental or both. And to use all of it as inspiration for lyrics.
But it had been a few hours since she'd had the discussion with Delilah, and already she dreaded having made that decision. Committing to jotting down her feelings—and thinking she'd easily turn them into a song—and to actually figuring out what and who she wanted? Blocking all three men so she'd have a reprieve, time and space to think, a break from the constant ups and downs they caused? Or that she caused herself—she was responsible for all this, after all.
Who was she kidding?
The screen's brightness made her squint. And its emptiness made her throat itch, her fingers twitching over the keyboard restlessly. She shifted to look at her cell-phone, instead, as it sat inches from her mouse. Its screen was locked, black, blank as well—but she feared what hid underneath it, past its blockade. What would populate once she unlocked it, if she chose to? She'd felt it vibrate several times since she'd silenced it, and hadn't looked at it, hadn't wanted to discover which of the three culprits was bothering her.
Asking her for forgiveness—Ryan, always Ryan. Asking to meet with her—Michael, of course. Or wanting to fuck her senseless—Chester, who else?
She couldn't let any of them in, right now. She'd made a vow to herself—and chortled at the idea of keeping that vow. Last time she'd promised herself something—to stay celibate—she'd lasted a few months before giving in to the urges she'd repressed for years, the sensations she'd been scared of and now craved. Sex—how she'd loathed it when with Jayden, with how he'd treated her, how he'd forced her. And before that, the near-rape; she'd been scarred, and had never expected to retrieve her sex-drive.
