Dirty Bad Boys Box Set: Forbidden Romance Collection

I place my cell on the nightstand then pull the sheet over me.

Wesley Rich—my boyfriend.

The whole idea seems outrageous.

Yet, that wave, full in its glory, washes over me and just like that, my entire body aches for him.

I only want him.

And that thought alone terrifies and excites me.

There will be no turning back.

I am his.

Chapter Fifteen

The house is located on a quiet street in Bel Air.

I’ve never seen a house this huge, sprawling across several acres, appearing like a luxurious castle rather than a home. On the ride over, Wesley speaks briefly about his mother, married to husband number six, a man who invented some digital device that’s used on planes, hence the wealth. If I think Emerson’s home is big, this is on another level.

The community is gated, and even after w

e pass the security check, there is another large wrought-iron gate that has two men manning the entrance. Wesley is fidgeting, pulling out a cigarette in the car. I’m not fond of his smoking, and my girlfriend duties may not include nagging. I decide, for now, I will keep my mouth shut.

My focus is on my dress. I’m extremely uncomfortable. There is way too much boob showing. The black bodice is low-cut, draping down my chest and matches with a sheer skirt. The lady in the store said it accentuated my wide hips. It isn’t the most awful comment she made after I got the Julia Roberts’ treatment à la Pretty Woman.

“Did I tell you how sexy you look tonight?” He leans into me, running his tongue down the middle of my exposed chest. “You taste just as nice.”

I want him inside of me. I’ve never felt this sexual attraction to a man who makes me so irrational.

Do people have sex in cars with drivers just doing their own things? God, how I want to answer my own question.

My lips make their way to his, and with the click of my seat belt, I remove it and straddle him. I grind myself against his crotch, watching that devilish smile playing on his lips. Our kisses become deep, my desperate moans escaping into his mouth as our bodies heat up.

“You need to stop, or we’ll never get out of this car.”

“So what?” I clasp his face, bringing it close to me so I can taste him again. I hate the smell of cigarettes. I want to tell him that. And despite my disgust for nicotine, I’m becoming addicted to the taste of him.

I clear my thoughts, though with much difficulty, and then, a slap of reality knocks me fierce. “It’s too much. It’s not me.”

I climb off him, laying against the seat and taking a deep breath. He pulls me back onto him, a slight struggle as my dress tangles on the heel of my stiletto. His stare—deep and with intention—only makes me more self-conscious.

I’m not like any of the Hollywood women. I pluck my eyebrows and never professionally wax anything. I think life can be solved with a razor and tweezers. Once, Phoebe made me go to a beauty salon so she could get false eyelashes for prom. I remember sitting there, flabbergasted. The lengths that women go through to beautify themselves. Mama once told me that women would kill to have my lashes.

Then there is the whole body-image thing. I expect only the finest of plastic surgery tonight—artificial breasts and pouty lips, Botox faces and still expressions.

“You’ll run circles around these women. They know it. You’ll feel the wrath of their jealousy. And the men… you just stay by my side.”

“But…”

He kisses my lips, softly, pulling back and gazing at me with his mesmerizing eyes. “You’re beautiful… and mine. Stop worrying.”

The calm of his voice eases my concerns. I pull myself off him, resting into his side as we continue the drive. I take note of his advice. This will be the first time I have ever attended such an event. I’ve done the prom nights, weddings, and the occasional bar mitzvah but nothing that involves rich people throwing around their money for a charitable cause.

The car turns the circle, past a massive stone fountain, and parks out front. The driver courteously opens the door, guiding Wesley out first. Wesley extends his hand, allowing me to hold on as these new stilettos are difficult to balance on.

I wonder if the driver sees anything behind the privacy screen, but as I watch his goodbye, he remains professional and doesn’t let on anything.