Cuffed by His Charm: A Dirty Little Secrets Novel Page 5

  When I sense his hands working behind me, I glance back, see him take a condom out of his wallet and hastily apply it. Yet he never lets me breathe; his tongue is swirling over the roundness of my bottom, tickling in the best kind of way, the perfect occasional bite reminding me who’s boss here.

  By the time he raises up, hands on my hips, and positions his cock at my entrance, I’m more than ready for him. With a perfection that is unmatched by anything I know, he’s owning me in ways I need to be owned.

  His strokes are slow, gingerly working me up to ensure I’m accepting his girth, but gentle isn’t what I want. I’m wet and eager, and I thrust back against him, showing him I’m ready.

  With a low growl that shivers into my core, his hand comes down on my ass giving a stinging hit that raises me higher onto my toes. I lose myself in the quickening shifts of his hips, his cock stroking my soft inner skin. The sounds of our lovemaking matched with our scent take me higher and higher yet. My hands press against the cool marble countertop as he fills me up, taking me to a place with no beginning and no end.

  His pelvis smacks against mine in a perfect rhythm, our moans merge together in the melody of our pleasure. And just as I reach the peak, his cock is gone.

  I scream out in desperation, and with rough hands, he spins me around to face him; his mouth returns to mine. His kiss is hotter than before, more urgent. He grabs my hips and hoists me onto the island. I’m floating, lost in pleasure, while he lowers between my thighs, and slowly licks up my folds. There are few things that I find miraculous in this world. Watching Gabe O’Keefe lick his way across my heated flesh is a fucking miraculous thing.

  But it’s there, in the seconds his mouth seals over my clit that it dawns on me that he knows exactly what he’s doing. I’m not in control of any of this. I don’t choose when my orgasm hits. He knows how to work my body to ensure I get there. And the intensity in his eyes tells me he won’t stop until I get higher than I’ve ever gone.

  I grip the edge of the island, gasping, moaning, and shuddering against the pleasure he’s offering. It’s tickling in the best kind of way, and I’m struggling to keep my eyes open. I climb higher and higher and higher . . .

  Then, again, he’s gone.

  He’s on his feet, his cock posed at my slit, one of my legs hooked over his arms. I get one look into the fiery depths of his eyes before he’s pumping his hips with a rhythm that has my head tipping back. His finger comes down on my oversensitive clit, stroking the bud, and I’m quivering against the force he has me under. My back arches against the pleasure, my chin points to the ceiling as he thrusts his hips harder, rougher, faster now. All I can do is ride out the pleasure he’s delivering. Which is his particular brand of pleasure that isn’t about lust, it’s about ownership.

  There is no misunderstanding now. I’m his.

  With that truth seeping into the air around us, Gabe roars, bucking and jerking against me, and the widening and hardening of his cock sends me soaring over the edge with him.

  Before I can even recover, tingling from head to toe, gasping for air, his hands suddenly cup my face, lifting my head. Intense, emotion-packed eyes greet me. “You have me,” he says, breathless, too. “You’ve always had me, and you will always have me. Tell me you know that.”

  “I know that now,” I whisper, placing my hands over the top of his.

  His brows furrow, voice blisters. “None of this is your fault. Tell me.”

  I lean up and before kissing his mouth, I give him the answer he needs. “This isn’t my fault.”

  One brow arches. “We’re in this together.”

  “We’re in this together.”

  Chapter 5

  Gabe

  I wake the next morning, sweat coating my skin and a deep headache throbbing in the back of my skull. I slide out of bed, my morning wood ready for action that’s so far from my mind. I glance down at McKenna sleeping on her side in my bed, a naked beauty, one smooth leg out of the dark gray duvet. After all she’s been through in the last twenty-four hours, the last thing I want to do is disturb her so I move to my walk-in closet and grab a pair of black cotton pants from the drawer then quietly leave the room, shutting the door behind me.

  I move down the hallway, running a hand through my hair, and enter the kitchen, trying to get my mind right. I’ve made wrongs here that, while McKenna is overlooking them now because of her brother’s involvement in the tabloid scandal, she’ll remember one day. I can never forget that instead of kissing her slowly and passionately, embracing the way we fit together, I had tried to fuck her from my mind. I broke something beautiful between us, the start to the relationship we should have had, and I can’t let myself off the hook for that.

  When I reach the sink, I set to brewing coffee. A thousand things are on my mind. As I watch the drips of coffee slowly descend into the pot, the haze begins to lift, my next steps become clear. Regardless that her brother has gotten his name on my short list of people I can live without, I need to be the good in her life, not the bad. No matter what, that has to be my sole focus. Always.

  Determined to do exactly that, I turn to the counter next to me and grab my cellphone. There are no calls from Ryder, and I’m not sure if that’s a good sign or not. A quick look at the clock tells it’s a little past nine in the morning. Perhaps Ryder’s holding off dropping a harsh dose of reality on us or he’s still sleeping.

  Keeping on point, I scroll through my contacts, finding the name of a longtime O’Keefe’s bartender, and I click call.

  Joe answers on the third ring. “What’s wrong?” he asks, voice tight.

  I snort a laugh, moving to the cupboard next to the fridge, taking out a mug. “How do you know something’s wrong?”

  “It’s a Saturday and you’re awake before eleven.”

  I grab the coffeepot and fill my mug to the rim. “Touché.” And it’s probably why my eyelids are heavy and my body sluggish. “Listen,” I say to Joe, refocusing the conversation on point. “I need you to handle the pub for the next few days. Feel free to bring in a couple of the waitresses and another bartender to help while I’m gone.”

  “Sure, no probs,” Joe replies. “I’ll call McKenna.”

  I pause and choose my words carefully. “I’m afraid that you’ll need to find someone else. She’s got a personal matter going on that will keep her away for the next week or so, and I’ve got business downtown that I’m dealing with.” The last thing I need is more gossip in the pub. “If you need me, I’m a call away. All right?”

  “Totally fine, boss.”

  “Thank you, Joe.” I end the call, having no doubt that Joe will handle things in my absence.

  When I had started up the first O’Keefe’s Pub here in San Francisco, I’d hired him as head bartender. While I’d been busy opening ten more pubs across North America, he’d run the show back home. He’d likely still be the face of O’Keefe’s if I hadn’t realized I hated white-collar life. Instead of running my multi-million-dollar company, I got the hell out of there, hiring a CEO in my place, and found myself back behind the bar where I belonged.

  I lift the mug to my mouth and take a sip of the hot brew, swallowing the strong bitter coffee, and glance toward the hallway leading to my bedroom. There’s no movement or sound coming from the room to indicate that McKenna is up. I consider taking her a cup of coffee and waking her, but with all that I learned about her, instinctively I want her to rest. I also want to protect her, especially from her dipshit brother.

  Just as I take another sip of coffee, my cellphone rings again. I grab it off the counter and lift it up, seeing it’s Ryder. “Good morning,” I answer.

  “Mornin’,” he replies, a hint of tiredness in his tone. “We’ve got some things to discuss, but first, have you caught this morning’s tabloid?”

  “No. Why?”

  Ryder pauses. When he speaks again, his voice is grim. “Be warned, you’re not going to be happy.”

  Imagining the absolute worst, I place
the call on speakerphone and open the web browser, navigating to the Gotcha! website. “Fuck,” I growl, staring down at the screen, realizing the truth is far worse than my imagination.

  gabe o’keefe’s latest sex slave? Bothers me. Oh, shit does it bother me. But it’s what is beneath that line that makes me see red. They’ve printed a photograph of McKenna and me exiting my car last night when we arrived back at my apartment. Earlier I felt protective over her, now that need is raging inside me. “Do you think that her brother took this picture?” I ask Ryder, keeping him on speakerphone.

  “I wondered the same thing myself,” he replies, “and to be honest, I’m not sure. You’ll have to dig a bit more with her to find out if her brother’s that much of a dick, but I find it hard to believe that any brother would sell out the sister who clearly loves him to the tabloids.”

  “I agree,” I tell him. “It’s one thing to print my picture, but something else entirely to print hers.” I consider what I’ve heard of Evan from McKenna, and I wouldn’t put it past him. I ask Ryder, “But what are the chances it could be a random paparazzo following me?”

  “Actually, I think those chances are pretty high,” Ryder explains. “You’re now the focus of the tabloid. Let’s say your stories are selling magazines or they’ve seen an uptick in their website hits, your pictures would come at a high price. The chance it could be a random paparazzo is not unlikely. Sadly, until we find her brother, we won’t know for sure.”

  I sigh heavily at the thought that now I have more photographers following me. In the silence of my mind it’s almost comical. The truth is, in the past I loved the attention. I purposely sought it out and attended events that I knew would have media presence. If women loved me, they came to my pub, and that brought money to my business. My status as a ladies’ man was part of my success. But I’d always done my best to keep my truth out of the tabloids. I didn’t mind them telling lies that gave good attention to my pubs, but the truth about who I fucked and how I fucked them was none of their goddamn business.

  Some things the world doesn’t need to know, nor does my mother. I’d already had to explain to her and my father, who live in Delaware, that the original story about me owning a sex club was fake news. I never like lying to my mother, but she’s a proud woman and this knowledge would be too much for her.

  The world feels like it’s pressing down on me, with responsibilities piling up, when Ryder says, “I’ll keep an eye on what pictures are being printed about you, but honestly, if you pay attention I think you’ll notice photographers following you. Just be cautious and aware of what you do and when you do it.”

  Don’t screw near a window is what he’s basically telling me. “I understand,” I say, hating the shitshow my life has become. “What else do you need to tell me?”

  “Evan does actually have a debit card,” Ryder explains. “We’ve been looking through his bank statements all night.”

  “Do I even want to know how you did that?”

  I turn toward the soft, sweet voice behind me and find McKenna leaning a shoulder against the doorway to the kitchen, wearing only my O’Keefe’s T-shirt, which reaches mid-thigh on her. I move to her immediately, taking her hand and pulling her close, and she gives me an even warmer smile.

  We may have intense things between us, including broken trust that will need time to heal, but the moment I look into that smile, I can’t help but think we’ll be all right. I made a promise last night even if she didn’t hear it: I will not let this break us. For her. I have to stay sharp and keep on point.

  “No, McKenna, you don’t want to know,” Ryder says, breaking me away from my thoughts. “From what we’re seeing he’s been staying at the Bay Inn for a week now. Would you like my team to go there?”

  I glance at McKenna for her reply. I’ve made enough decisions for us that haven’t ended well. “This is your show now. You tell us how you want to proceed.”

  She gives me a quick kiss on the lips. “Thank you for that.” Then she looks at the phone. “How about we go there first. Hopefully Evan’s there and fine, and we can put this matter to rest.”

  “Sounds like a good plan,” Ryder says. “You’ll keep me updated?”

  “Of course,” I reply. “Thank you for your help.”

  “Like I told you a long time ago, this affects us all.”

  The phone line goes dead. I hit the home button, keeping the phone in my hand, and McKenna smiles. “He’s a good friend to you.”

  It’s a statement, not a question. I answer her anyway, “I’m incredibly lucky to have the friends that I do.” But I’m not thinking about Ryder or anyone else, I’m only thinking about her. “I called Joe not too long ago and told him you wouldn’t be in for the next week or so.”

  She smiles. “Thanks, I appreciate that.”

  I return the smile and ask, “Did you sleep all right?”

  “Amazing, actually.” Her expression changes, becoming more intent. “But what about you?” She cups my face, eyes searching mine. “You look tired.”

  “I slept fine, but I think you need to see this.” I open my Web browser again on my phone, pull up the tabloid’s article, and hand her the phone, even if it’s the last thing I want to do.

  She stares down at the article for a few long seconds, and then shocking me, she begins to chuckle. “So, I’m your sex slave, huh?”

  I frown, crossing my arms. “There is nothing remotely funny about this, McKenna.”

  “Oh, come on,” she says placing the phone on the counter and then grabbing my crossed forearms, eyes twinkling. “I could be called worse things. Besides”—she glances down my bare chest, licks her lips, then glances into my eyes again, desire running rampant in hers—“being your sex slave wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”

  I like the way she’s looking at me. It’s like she wants to give me everything, and goddammit, I want to take everything she’s got. I slide my hand across her back, pressing all her lovely curves against me. And just before I seal my mouth seductively across hers, I whisper, “Be careful what you ask for, sweetheart.”

  McKenna

  After a quick trip to my condo in North Beach, where I ran inside for clean clothes and freshening up while Gabe waited in the car, we arrive at the Bay Inn, not far from Evan’s apartment. The clock on the nightstand reads 11:04 a.m. when we enter the shithole of a hotel room. My nose crinkles at the scent that’s somewhere between roadkill and mold wafting from the room. I glance around the small space with a double bed, not finding anything of Evan’s here. The only sign anyone’s been here at all is the unmade bed, leaving one big question unanswered: Why was he here?

  It’s a thought that obviously shows on my face. Gabe steps next to me and asks, “Has Evan ever stayed here before, or at any hotel for that matter?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t have any idea why he came here.” I move toward the six-drawer dresser. “It honestly makes no sense at all. He’s got a gambling problem”—I open the first drawer—“so I can’t see him spending money on a room unless he felt like he had to. He’d much rather spend his money on gambling.”

  “And he has his apartment to pay for, too,” Gabe says behind me.

  I know the reaction I’m going to get even before I say, “I pay for his apartment.”

  Still, the silence at my back feels stronger than even I anticipated. I glance over my shoulder, finding Gabe unnaturally still. “It doesn’t cost me very much,” I explain. “You saw his place, I pay his rent with a week’s worth of tip money.”

  One brow arches. “Is that supposed to make him mooching off you okay?”

  I’m not sure how to answer him but I figure with all we’ve been through we need to be truthful right now. “I know I’m breaking all the rules in the twelve-step program. Even though I’m enabling him, it’s because I don’t want him to hit rock bottom. Evan is my brother, and I do love him.” I turn back to the dresser with the flat screen TV on top, avoiding the tension I’ve created, and
open each drawer, finding them all empty. A shred of fear trickles in. “He must have come here to hide,” I say, admitting that hard truth. “It’s the only assumption, since he didn’t check out”—which the lady at the front desk told us—“and he didn’t bring any of his things with him.”

  “Whether or not that’s true,” says Gabe, “this brother of yours is lucky to have you.” His compliment warms me, and I watch as he takes his cellphone from his pocket. He dials a number and then presses the phone to his ear, blazing eyes still on me. “Ryder, it’s Gabe. Could you come by the Bay Inn? All right, excellent. Thank you.” He ends the call, staring at me with a look that I can’t decipher, but one that only deepens my guilt about this.

  Again and again, Gabe’s helping me when I can’t help but think that maybe he shouldn’t be. Hell, he’s calling in the very people that my brother apparently sold out for money, and even they’re helping me. Deciding to stop thinking about what Evan’s done, I move a short distance past the bed and flick on the lights in the bathroom; the sight before me takes a minute to process.

  But then I do, and I learn the real meaning of fear.

  “Gabe,” I yell.

  He’s there not a second later, his hands bracing my arms. “What’s—”

  The rest of his question dies off as he moves me away from the doorway to get a better look at what I can’t take my eyes from.

  Blood covers the bathroom from floor to ceiling, a large pool of crimson on the sink. Hell, there’s even blood splattered on the mirror. There’s enough to know this blood isn’t from a cut shaving. “Come away, McKenna.” Gabe’s soft, comforting voice slides over me; his arms tenderly wrap around me.

  Gabe moves me to the bed, and as my stomach turns, I sit down on the crumpled sheets and drop my head into my hands. I keep my mouth shut, both holding in the screams and desperate not to throw up. Blood. All that blood. I feel Gabe’s hand slide across my back, trying to comfort me.