Lies That Sinners Tell (The Klutch Duet 1)

The muscles in his neck pulsed with the force he was clenching his jaw, the only sign of me affecting him. His expression stayed cold, remote, but his eyes burned with something. With a spark.

Jay finally knelt down. His mouth ghosted over my thighs, his lips grazing inward, almost there but diverting at the last moment. His clothed body pressed against me as he avoided my nipples and hovered his mouth inches from mine.

His hard cock strained through his jeans, pressing against my thighs.

“Don’t hesitate again,” he murmured, his addicting scent warming me as his hands moved above me.

My wrists went slack as he released the bind then stood up. I blinked at him, standing there, his face blank with no obvious plans to sate the need he’d created in me.

He’d tied me up, naked on the floor, in order to get me to say the things he wanted to hear, and when he heard the trepidation in my voice, he decided to punish me.

This man was evil.

This man might ruin me.

The sun finally set on my first full day with Jay. My last full day for an entire week.

I hadn’t known what to expect from this. From Jay. Half of me had imagined I’d be chained in some sex dungeon for the weekend, given food and water between orgasms. To be covered in marks and bruises by the end of the weekend. And I did have some. Red wrists. Thumbprints on my thighs, swollen lips, aching limbs. But nothing like I’d thought. I wasn’t disappointed. Not by a long shot. Even if I was still nursing somewhat of snit after the incident in the closet. But I hadn’t been able to hold on to that very long. After I’d slipped on some leggings and a tee—over the top of a deep red, lace La Perla bra and matching thong—soft music was playing in the kitchen.

I’d walked out, prepared to be surly, short and bitchy with Jay, even if that was juvenile. But there was wine waiting on the kitchen island, the French doors opened to the balcony. Jay was out there, sitting on a wicker chaise, watching the waves, a glass of his own in his hand.

The invitation was impossible to ignore.

I was more than aware of the ticking clock on this weekend. That I’d go to sleep in my own bed, without strong arms around me. Even though I was on edge here, with every possible emotion radiating through my bones, I didn’t want to leave. Didn’t want to be away from Jay.

He didn’t speak to me as I joined him on the balcony. Instead of sitting beside him, I walked over to the balcony railing, leaning against it while looking out at the turbulent ocean. It mirrored my thoughts. My doubts. My uncertain, fearful mind.

I sipped my wine, savoring the smooth taste and the way my mind softened as it hit my throat.

Strong hands fastened on my hips as Jay pressed up against me. I let out a hiss of breath but didn’t speak to him, just continued to sip my wine, pretending he didn’t have any effect on me.

Hair was brushed from the nape of my neck then Jay’s mouth pressed against it.

I waited for him to speak. To whisper something. Not any kind of apology, of course. Parts of me already knew that no matter how much Jay hurt me, offended me, he’d never apologize. And yet I was here, watching the sunset with Jay’s hands at my hips, drinking wine, ready for anything.

CHAPTER TEN

Of course, the Monday night after the first weekend with Jay was yet another obligatory girlfriend briefing. There had been calls and texts throughout the day, but I’d been busy on a Vogue editorial that had started at six that morning, and hadn’t left Jay’s until after midnight. I hadn’t been able to sleep last night, tossing and turning, feeling empty, alone and wanting. Feeling angry. At myself. At Jay. Which meant I didn’t spend the night obsessing over the looming milestone that had previously taken over my sleepless nights.

I was giving up old demons for new ones, it seemed.

We were at some trendy restaurant that Zoe was handling the PR for, and our table was amazing. These past few days, I’d been called by the deputy editor of Vogue—that’s only one degree of separation from Editor-in-Chief Anna Wintour herself—to let me know they wanted to use me for three more editorials, one of which was in Capri, Italy. I’d had countless emails from celebrity agents, showrunners of television shows and one from a fucking Warner Brothers director, looking for me to be involved in the next big Blockbuster.

Life was good.

Amazing.

And yet a ominous, dark cloud hung over me. Or maybe it was the relentless L.A. sunshine, seeming that much brighter now I was used to Jay and his dark shadows.