Authors: Ilsa Madden-Mills

Very Wicked Beginnings (9 page)

BOOK: Very Wicked Beginnings

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“SHE’S, AT BEST, a fuck buddy. However, I prefer the term ‘whore.’ Fuck buddy is far too nice a term for the likes of her,” a catty voice cracks from behind me.I take a deep breath and look up at the ceiling, saying a little prayer that maybe the venomous voice isn’t referring to me. I thought I left all that behind in Anaconda. We’d been here for all of three days, so it’s highly probable they’re not talking about me, right?

Looking back down, I continue pouring Jack in my Solo cup, surpassing the line that is recommended for liquor.

“Yeah, so apparently, she’s got some serious issues and doesn’t ‘do’ relationships. So, she puts out for her guy friends whose girls are too good to give it up. That’s her idea of a relationship.”

“Really? That’s kinda gross,” I hear the other girl mutter.

Sonofabitch! I groan. Yep, they’re talking about me. I splash a little bit of Coke in my cup and stick my finger in to stir it around a little. Tears spring to my eyes, and I berate myself for still having feelings and giving a shit what people think about me.

Years of dealing with this crap should have made me immune, but I really hoped college would be different. And how the hell do they even know about that shit? Strengthening my spine, I turn and give them a beguiling smile, which causes them both to blanch.

Yeah, bitches, you’ve no idea who you’re dealing with.

“Ladies,” I say with a quirked eyebrow. Removing my finger from the drink, I place it in my mouth and suck off the excess. With a pop, I release it. “I see my reputation precedes me. Well, let me just reassure you that I’m very good at what I do. When you won’t give it up for your guy, he’ll be looking me up, and I’ll be more than happy to take care of him. No questions. No strings. Just lots of meaningless … hot … sex.” I peer around them with a searching look.

“Are they here? Your boyfriends?” I look back at them innocently. I almost snort at their mutual expressions of surprise and disdain. “Or,” I continue, “are the sticks up your asses enough so that you don’t need a man?” Both of their mouths drop on that line. Yep, gets ‘em every time. “Oh, no judgment here,” I vow. “I totally get not wanting to be tied down to any one Dick … or Tom … or Harry.”

From USA Today Author Melody Grace

an excerpt of
Unrequited

I PACE BACK and forth in the narrow back alleyway, flipping an unlit cigarette back and forth between my fingers. I’ve quit a hundred times over, but somehow I always go back to them in the end.

Old habits die hard.

I take a long breath, trying to calm the hell down. It’s just a private party, barely a couple of hundred people. I’ve sold out stadiums before; played to thousands of screaming fans without a flinch. Hell, I even played the Grammys drunk out of my mind — the only thing I remember from that night is the three blonde backup dancers I took back to the hotel for a very special after-party.

This should be a breeze.

Except you haven’t played in public since that night in London, over a year ago
...

The back door crashes open again, interrupting my black thoughts. I look up in time to see a woman fly out, tears streaming down her face. She doesn’t see me back here in the shadows, and I watch as she leans back against the wall, trying like hell to pull herself together.

She’s too pretty to be crying, that’s for sure. Her red hair is pinned back, too tight, and she’s wearing a simple black dress that’s cut way too low on the leg and high on the chest for my liking. Still, there’s something innocent in her expression that draws me in, a heartache in her gaze that’s just about the most real, honest thing I’ve seen in years.

I need a distraction, and here the universe just handed her up on a plate.

I stroll out of the dark. “You look like you could use a cigarette,” I drawl.

She startles. “You scared me!” She manages to say, quickly wiping at her face. Her eyes flick over me, and I wait for the look of recognition: that moment when it all clicks into place, and women turn on their flirtatious smiles, angling for a night with the famous rock-star they can boast about to their friends — and the tabloids, come morning light.

But her face doesn’t change. She shakes her head, a lock of that red hair slipping free around her face. “No, thank you,” she murmurs politely. “I don’t smoke.”

“Neither do I,” I give a twisted grin. “Don’t you know these things will kill you?”

Her brow knits, quizzical. “So why do it?”

“Why do we do anything that’s bad for us?” I counter, teasing. “Because we like how it feels, living life on the edge.”

“Speak for yourself,” the woman sighs. “I like it safe. Predictable. Easy.”

Now I’ll be damned if that doesn’t sound like an invitation. I close the distance between us. “That’s a shame,” I murmur, reaching out and brushing the stray lock from her cheek. “Danger would sure look good on you.”

Her mouth drops open at the boldness of my gesture. Our eyes lock, and I see the emotions skitter, clear as day across her face. Shock, confusion, and then — the tell-tale flush of desire.

She catches her breath, her chest rising under the cage of black silk, and God, I feel a bolt of lust strike through me. Her lips are perfect, pink; just begging to be kissed.

“When was the last time you did something crazy?” I ask, my eyes never leaving hers. I slide my fingers lower, down the pale column of her throat. I feel a shiver echo through her body, responding like lightening to my touch.

A rueful shadow crosses her face. “I don’t do crazy,” she whispers.

Not yet.

But I already know, a girl like this would be a miracle in bed. Innocence and sensuality all wrapped up in one tempting package.

The things I could teach her. The moans that delicious mouth would make.

“So try it,” I challenge her, teasing my fingertip lower, across her collarbone, along the high edge of her neckline. “I promise, I won’t tell.”

For a moment, she stays, lost in my gaze. I can see the desire there, the struggle as she decides. Then she looks down, blushing. “You don’t know me. This isn’t... I’m not that kind of girl.”

I stop, stunned. She’s turning me down?

“I’m sorry,” The woman steps around me, heading back towards the door, and as she does, I catch a breath of her perfume. The burst of floral scent hits me like a drug, shooting through my system in a bolt of sweetness.

Suddenly, this isn’t just a playful distraction anymore.

I want her, with a fierce possession that takes me by surprise. I want her, right here against the wall. I want to taste all of her, make her forget the reason she came rushing out here in tears.

I want a moment of that innocence, and all her wide-eyed control.

“Wait,” I order her. And then, before she can say a word of protest, before I can think the better of it, I pull her into my arms, capturing her mouth in a hot, blazing kiss.