Forbidden Men Book 7: The Girl's Got Secrets
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Linda Kage
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274K
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47
Prologue
I opened my bleary eyes, half-awake from postcoital bliss as the naked woman on top of me shifted, the soft, smooth warmth of her flesh caressing my own. She slid off the bed and presented me with a spectacular view of the most perfect ass ever, and my smile grew eager... until she pulled on a pair of panties and then reached for her bra.
Wait, no, that wasn’t supposed to happen. Blinking myself back into better consciousness, I tried to sit up and found it damn near impossible. “What’re you doing? What’s wrong?”
She didn’t answer, which wasn’t surprising. I hadn’t been able to pull more than a dozen words from her since we’d met, and nothing she’d said so far had been in English. But in the lyrics of Jason Derulo, her booty hadn’t needed explaining. Not then, anyway.
Apparently, it did now since she’d gone and hidden hers under a silky piece of black lace. And damn, she looked really good in those silky black panties, especially from the back, where I could see two tanned cheeks peeking out the bottom of all that swirling lace.
“You’re not leaving, are you?” I tried to sit up again. Still wasn’t happening. I frowned at the fur-covered handcuffs constraining me to my headboard and spent a few seconds muttering until I could twist into a somewhat upright position.
Across the room, she pulled on her stretchy black yoga pants I’d taken off last night with my teeth.
I guess it was time to pull out my high school Spanish. This was going to get ugly, but I didn’t care.
“Sentarse.” Shit, no. That was sit, not stay, wasn’t it?
“Quedarse,” I tried again, finally remembering the correct word for stay.
The waistband of her pants indignantly snapped into place on her hips as she spun around to send me a lethal glare; not that I blamed her. I had just given her dog commands.
I winced and repeated, “Quedarse,” then added a pathetic little, “por favor.”
She sighed and rolled her eyes before jerking on her top and reaching for her purse.
“No! Don’t go. Please, don’t go. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I did wrong, but I’m sorry. Shit, what’s sorry in Spanish?”
“Lo siento,” she said, her voice a quiet, sexy hum that was damn near a whisper.
No idea what lo siento meant, but it sounded stimulating as hell coming from her lips. My body responded, and I had to bend a leg to try to cover my exposed hard-on, so she wouldn’t see how aroused I was while she was trying to ditch out on me.
“Elisa!” I cried, my voice cracking with desperation. I even banged my cuffs against the metal rails of my bed’s headboard to get her attention.
When she paused at the doorway, her back to me, I held my breath. Such a crucial moment. Whatever I said now could be the deciding factor for her to stay or go. But all I could think to say was, “I’m sorry.” And I didn’t even know what the hell I was sorry for. I just knew I’d done something wrong, and it was making her leave.
It couldn’t have been the sex. Last night and this morning had totally rocked my casbah. It had hers too; the minx definitely wasn’t quiet when she came. So, what—
She turned back slowly. My heart stuttered in my chest when I saw the tears streaming down her face. “Elisa?” I whispered, worried as hell.
What in God’s name had I done wrong?
“En serio lo siento tanto,” she choked out, her face red as she began to sob into her hands. “Tengo que hacer esto.”
I shook my head. Derulo was freaking whack. This definitely needed explaining.
But as I opened my mouth to spit out more broken Spanish, begging her not to go, Elisa whirled back to the exit and raced up the stairs until I could hear the door at the top slam shut.
“Hey!” I yelled, my frustration morphing from the worried kind into the pissed kind. “What the hell? Elisa! You can’t just start crying and then run off like that. Get your ass back here and uncuff me from this fucking bed! Tell me what I did wrong. Please! ELISA!”
She didn’t return. And I couldn’t chase after her.
I spent the first thirty seconds of my solitary confinement throwing a major tantrum, thrashing on the mattress and trying to dislocate my wrists by failing at pulling them free of the handcuffs. The damn things were no longer fun... or kinky.
The next thirty seconds, I filled the air with a profanity I’d never used before, blatant and blaring. But nothing I screamed freed me from this bed.
After that, the panic set in. With bruised wrists and a sore throat, I wondered how long I was going to be trapped buck-ass naked to my own bed. People would worry about me eventually... after a few days maybe. The guys in the band. Pick. They’d come around to check on me.
But what if I dehydrated to death before then, or the building caught fire and burned down around me? Or...
Fuck. Now I had to take a piss.
Hadn’t Stephen King written a horror book about someone left handcuffed alone in a bed? I hated horror movies. I didn’t want to star in one of my own.
I jerked on my bonds a few more times to relieve some of my anger and rising fear, but I only succeeded in injuring myself further.
How the hell could she have just left me here like this? It wasn’t as if I didn’t know where she worked. I could find her. And, oh... would I be finding her. She would not be getting away with this without repercussions.
And what had those tears been about? It freaking messed with my head. I wanted to be nothing but pissed, except I was worried too. But I tried to focus on the rage.
“Wrong fucking move, princess,” I told the empty room, grinning bitterly as I plotted my revenge. Wonder how she’d feel if I handcuffed her to a bed and forced her to tell me every mysterious thought in that pretty head of hers with torture tools like feathers... and chocolate syrup?
And damn it, there went my stupid dick again, hardening at the thought of her in handcuffs and drizzled in something that needed to be licked off. Didn’t the little fucker realize I was in dire straits here? So not the time to be thinking about sex.
Even if last night had been the crème de la crème of marvelous encounters.
On my nightstand, my phone rang. I whipped my attention that way and gaped at it sitting so close and yet so far away.
It rang again, and I could make out the name “Sticks” on the screen. Perfect. If I could confide in anyone on earth during a situation like this, it would be him. I knew I could count on Sticks for discretion, loyalty, and hopefully some freaking help.
Now, I just had to finagle a way to answer his call.
I swung my leg over and used my big toe to try to slide the answer button on. Took two tries, but by God, I did it.
With another tap of the trusty toe, I turned it to speakerphone. “Hey, man,” I panted out, impressed by how casual I was able to sound while handcuffed buck-ass naked to my bed. “What’s up?”
“Not much.” His voice filled my apartment and was like music to my ears. “I was starving and thought pizza sounded good for lunch. Want to come with?”
“Sure,” I said; I even shrugged a bare shoulder to keep it all laid-back and casual-like. Yep, I was just chilling here without a care in the world.
“Cool. I’ll swing by and pick you up in a bit, then.”
“Sounds good. But, uh, quick question first.”
When I didn’t ask anything within five seconds, he said, “O...kay. Shoot.”
I bit my lip, debating whether I really had it in me to confess what had happened. The embarrassment would kill me. And though he’d be the kindest about it, I doubt even Sticks would let me live this down.
But then I thought about the whole Stephen King thing, and my bladder gave another lurch, reminding me how full it was. So I clenched my teeth and sucked up my pride.
“You don’t happen to have... handcuff keys, do you?”
