Dirty Secrets Read online

“We have plans after lunch,” Connor lies, spearing a bacon-wrapped date with his fork and popping it into his mouth. “What’s so important you couldn’t tell me over the phone?”

  “Fiona is pregnant.” Vincent leans back and sips his bourbon, looking like the poster child for masculine pride. I wouldn’t be surprised if the next words out of his mouth were to brag about his super swimmers. “You’re going to have a little brother.”

  “Half-brother,” Connor corrects him.

  Vincent lowers his glass. “You could at least congratulate me.”

  “Congratulations. I hope you’ll be a better parent this time. Maybe start by not cheating on his mother.”

  Vincent’s jaw twitches and his eyes narrow into angry slits. If I didn’t understand the expression if looks could kill before, I do now. “I hope he’ll be a better son instead of a complete disappointment.”

  Oh. No. He. Didn’t.

  Connor’s fork clatters to the floor and he grips the edge of the table so hard I can see the whites of his knuckles. I shove my plate away, my appetite gone even for food made better by bacon.

  “A disappointment? Are you kidding me?” I’m loud enough that even from our booth in the back people can hear me, and I can sense that they’re starting to stare. But I’m past caring. Connor may be too polite to cause a scene, but I’m not.

  “You have no idea of the kind of man your son is, do you? He’s smart and funny and thoughtful and kind.” I count them off on my fingers as I go. “He’s been a good friend to my brother for over twenty years. He let me stay with him when I had nowhere else to go. Plus, he’s a hugely successful businessman. I think you’d at least respect that. Did you know his club is one of the most sought-after hot spots in New York City? And they’re in the middle of a major renovation, adding another VIP section and a screening room for first-run movies and live-streamed concerts. When that’s done, it will be even harder to get into.”

  I stop to catch my breath and get a glimpse of Connor out of the corner of my eye. He’s released his white-knuckle grip on the table and the grim set of his mouth is gone, replaced by a bemused smile.

  He stands, grabbing my hand and pulling me to my feet. Then he throws a wad of bills down in front of his father. “That should more than cover lunch. Tell Fiona I’ll send something for the baby.”

  Without giving his father a chance to respond, he heads for the exit, dragging me along with him. We’re almost out the door before I remember something.

  “Wait.” I stop, forcing him to stop with me. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  His brows knotted. “Did you forget something?”

  “No, but you did.”

  I race back to our table. Vincent is still there, knocking back what’s left of his bourbon. So is the box of stuff that belonged to Connor’s mom, right where he left it under his chair.

  “Did you come back to lecture me some more?” Vincent asks.

  “No. I think I made my point. I came back for this.” I bend down and scoop up the box.

  He raises his empty glass to let a passing waiter know he’s ready for round number three. Two too many, in my not-so-humble opinion. “Connor was always a bit of a mama’s boy.”

  Mama’s boy? Vincent Dow may be Connor’s father, but he really has no clue who his son is. “Maybe that’s because she didn’t see him as a—what was it? Oh, yes. Complete disappointment.”

  “I thought you were done lecturing me.”

  Oh, I’m done, all right. I’ve had enough of this asshat and his monster ego to last ten lifetimes. I tuck the box under my arm and make my escape, tossing one last jab over my shoulder as I go.

  “I guess I had a little left in me after all.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Connor

  “PLEASE TELL ME you went back there and kneed my father in the nuts,” I say to Brie when she catches up to me outside the restaurant. “No, wait. Don’t tell me. Because if you did and I missed it, I’ll never forgive myself.”

  “Don’t worry, you didn’t miss anything. Nothing physical, anyway. Although I admit, I was tempted to throw a drink in his face. Lucky for him, the waitress already cleared the table.”

  She produces something from behind her back. It takes me a second to realize it’s the box with my mom’s things. “You left this behind. I figured you’d want it once you calmed down.”

  My heart stops for a second, then thumps harder. This woman never ceases to amaze me. All I wanted was to get the fuck away from my father as fast as humanly possible. In that moment, nothing else mattered. Not even what might be my one and only chance to have mementos of my mother.

  Trust Brie to have my back.

  She hands me the box, and I stick it under one arm so I can use the other hand to tip her chin and kiss her. “Thank you.”

  “Your father’s even worse than I remembered. I’m sorry I made you made you do this.”

  “First, you didn’t make me do anything. And second, I’m not sorry we came.”

  “Because you got your mom’s stuff?”

  “That. And because if we hadn’t come, I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of watching you take down the great Vincent Dow.” I push her hair off her face and kiss her again. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  She grins up at me. “So me going off on your father turns you on?”

  “Honestly, pretty much anything you do turns me on.” I step in closer to her so our bodies are touching. Barely, but touching. It has the double benefit of making it easier to hear me when I lower my voice and let her feel the physical evidence of my arousal. “But I’ve never wanted to fuck you more than I do right now.”

  My phone buzzes—thanks for the fabulous timing, universe—with a notification that the Lyft I called while Brie was not throwing a drink at my father is here. I spot a black Volvo XC90 pulling up to the curb and quickly confirm that the make, model, and license plate match the information in the app.

  “This is our ride,” I say, leading Brie over to the car and opening the door.

  She slides into the back seat. “I thought you said we had plans after lunch.”

  “We do.” I take a second to appreciate the flash of upper thigh as she adjusts her short skirt then climb in after her, pulling the door closed behind me and setting the box down at my feet. “They involve you and me getting naked as soon as possible.”

  Our Lyft driver, a silver-haired, middle-aged woman who the app says is named Linda, turns around and glares at us. “Not in my car, you don’t.”

  Brie meets her glare with a smile designed to charm the surliest of rideshare operators. “It’s okay. I’m sure I can hold him off until we get home.”

  “You’d better,” Linda snaps, unmoved. “Because I won’t hesitate to kick your bare asses out in the middle of 7th Avenue. And there’s a hundred-and fifty-dollar surcharge for cleaning up bodily fluids.”

  I nod. “Duly noted.”

  Apparently satisfied we’re not going to hump like jackrabbits in the back of her car, she turns around and pulls away from the curb. The sudden motion puts Brie off balance, jostling her against me. I sling my arm around her and gather her in.

  “Did I tell you how hot you were standing up to my father?” I whisper the words in her ear, not willing to incur the wrath of Linda and risk getting tossed out of the car in the middle of Sunday matinee traffic. I bet she wouldn’t even bother to slow down.

  “You did.” Brie’s purse slips down her arm, and she lets it fall to the seat beside her. “But I don’t mind hearing it again.”

  “And that no one’s done that for me in a long time? I think the last person was your brother, back in high school. And he wasn’t anywhere near as sexy as you.”

  Brie lets out a snort that would be unladylike in other circumstances but she somehow makes endearing. “I’d be worried if you thou
ght he was.”

  She takes my head in her hands and pulls me down to her, planting the mother of all kisses on my lips. You know that final kiss in The Princess Bride? The one that left the five most passionate, most pure kisses behind? This kiss makes that one look like a peck on the cheek.

  Linda shoots us a warning glance in the rear-view mirror but keeps driving. We reluctantly pull apart, managing to keep it PG—okay, PG-13—for the rest of the fortunately short ride.

  But the second the doors of the elevator to my penthouse apartment close behind us, all bets are off. With the box in one hand, I’m at a slight disadvantage. But I do the best I can with the one I’ve got free, fisting her blouse and yanking it from her waistband.

  She bats my hand away. “I am not getting naked in this elevator.”

  I advance on her, backing her up against the wall of the elevator, my palm flat on the glass above her head. “How about half naked?”

  “We’ll be in your apartment in like thirty seconds.”

  “That’s thirty damn seconds too long.”

  I lower my head to kiss her, but the elevator dings and the doors slide open.

  “Saved by the bell.” She ducks out from under my arm and strolls through the doors into the hallway. “Literally.”

  “Not for long,” I say, my eyes tracking the sexy back and forth of her ass as I follow her out of the elevator. “As soon as we’re inside that apartment, you’re mine.”

  She steps to the side so I can put my key in the lock. “I’m counting on it.”

  The lock clicks, and I push the door open. She breezes past me, dropping her purse then her denim jacket then unzipping and stepping out of her skirt. Like Gretl leaving a trail of breadcrumbs.

  I dump the box on the kitchen island and follow the trail to down the hall to my bedroom. She’s reclining on the bed, her long, bare legs stretched out in front of her, her candy apple red five-inch heels that scream “fuck me” still on her feet. As I cross toward her, she kicks the shoes off and starts to unbutton her shirt.

  “Stop.”

  “Why?” She undoes another button, and her shirt falls open. “I thought you wanted me naked.”

  She’s wearing a lacy lavender bra that matches her panties and makes her tits look fantastic, and for a split second I consider joining her on the bed. But I have other plans for her. “I do. But not there.”

  “Then where?”

  “Stand up. Shirt off.” My eyes flick to her do-me heels, discarded on the floor. “And put the shoes back on.”

  She follows my instructions, a damn goddess in her lacy lingerie and sexy stilettos. I lead her to the wall of windows overlooking the street below and the Hudson River beyond.

  Her eyes widen to greenish-gold saucers. “Here?”

  The corners of my mouth twitch. “Worried someone will see us?”

  “Are you?” she asks, one delicately arched brow lifting.

  “We’re on the twelfth floor. The chance of any pedestrians looking up here is slim.”

  She bites her lip and stares out the windows, her gaze going left then right. “What about the people in the building across the street?”

  “It’s only seven stories, so we’re a little higher than they are. But I suppose someone could still see us.” I press my hand gently into her lower back, urging her toward the glass. “Does that bother you? Or excite you?”

  “A bit of both, I guess.” My hand slides down, settling on the sweet curve of her ass, and she shivers. “Isn’t that what makes it so hot? The sense of urgency. The risk of getting caught.”

  Fuck, this woman. She makes me want things—do things—that are totally out of my comfort zone. Things I’ve never contemplated—much less done—with any other woman. Like semi-public window sex.

  If I think too much about the psychology of it, it’ll freak me out. Me, Connor Dow, abhorrer of attention, shunner of the spotlight, fornicating in plain view of all of lower Manhattan.

  So I don’t think about it. And I don’t answer her question. Not with words, anyway. Instead, I let my hands do the talking. One grabs her wrists and pins her arms above her head, palms flat against the glass. The other slips under the edge of her panties, my index finger grazing her clit.

  “Jesus Christ, you’re wet,” I growl. “You weren’t kidding when you said the thought of getting caught excites you.”

  “I never kid about sex.” She arches her back, begging me without words to penetrate her. “Or what makes me feel good.”

  “Does this make you feel good?”

  I push my finger inside her, and she moans. Her hot breath forms a steamy circle on the window, and I can feel sweat beading at my brow even though my thermostat is permanently set to a comfortably chilly sixty-two.

  “How about this?”

  I add a second finger and bend down to nip her shoulder. She sucks in a ragged breath and closes her eyes, resting her forehead on the glass.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  She moans again, and that’s all the encouragement I need to go further. I kick at her feet in those fuck-me pumps, nudging them apart.

  “Open your eyes,” I demand.

  “What if I don’t want to?” she asks, eyes still closed.

  I withdraw my fingers. “Then I won’t let you come.”

  “Bastard,” she hisses. But her eyes open and she lifts her head off the window.

  “That’s better.” I grab the thin lace of her tiny panties and tear them off in one quick move, the sound of ripping fabric echoing in my cavernous bedroom.

  “Hey,” she protests even as her breathing quickens and she widens her stance. “I liked those.”

  “So did I.”

  “You could have asked me to take them off.”

  “I could have. But I didn’t want to wait that long.” She sighs as my hand returns between her legs, my fingers pushing into her again. “I’ll buy you a new pair. Hell, I’ll buy you a hundred new pairs.”

  “What do I need a hundred pairs of underwear for? Unless you’re going to keep tearing them off me.”

  “Better make it two hundred.”

  “They’re not cheap, you know. I have expensive taste in lingerie. It’s my one indulgence.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I’m filthy rich.” I suck her earlobe between my teeth and bite down. Not hard, just enough to draw out a sexy little gasp from her pouty lips. “Now stop complaining so I can make you come.”

  She wiggles her ass, pushing back against me, fucking my fingers. I can see her seductive smile reflected in the glass, and her next words make my answering grin even broader and my dick impossibly harder.

  “As you wish.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Brie

  WHO IS THIS GUY?

  I know who he is, obviously. I’m not in the habit of having sex with strangers. But the man pinning me to the window, torturing me with his fingers as Manhattan continues to go about its daily business below us, is not the man I’ve been living with for the past month.

  Sure, that guy likes to take charge in the bedroom. And his dirty talk is off the charts. But this? This is next level alpha male. He’s bold. Daring. Reckless.

  And if he doesn’t quit dicking around and make me come soon, I’m going to end him.

  “Quit teasing me. What happened to making me come?”

  I grind against his fingers, desperate for release. He, of course, pulls them out ever so slightly, enough that he’s no longer hitting my g-spot.

  Fucking tease.

  “I’m getting there,” he says, his fingers withdrawing even further, belying his words.

  “Get there faster.” I press my palms against the window, using it for leverage as I continue my bump and grind, trying to force his fingers back inside me. If he’s not going to fuck me, dammit, then I’m going to fu
ck him.

  A low, sexy noise comes from deep in his throat, and he ducks his head to nip my shoulder. “The build-up is half the fun. The sexual tension. The delayed gratification. The anticipation.”

  “Says the person doing the teasing. It’s agony for the one being teased.”

  He nips me again, right at the hollow where my shoulder meets my neck. What’s with him and the biting? Not that I’m complaining. It’s hot AF.

  “Trust me. It’ll be worth it.”

  Trust him. It scares me, but I do. I trust him enough to fuck him where anyone could see. To relinquish control of my orgasm to his talented fingers.

  To be careful with my heart and not break it.

  Wait, what? Where did that thought come from? My heart has nothing to with this. This is about scratching an itch. Friends with benefits. Not happily ever after.

  Right?

  I groan and let my head drop to my chest. My eyelids flutter shut and my forehead bangs against the glass. “You’d better not leave any marks. I have to be on set tomorrow, and I’ll never hear the end of it from the makeup artist who has to cover them up.”

  His free hand, which was around my waist, comes up to tug on my hair, jerking my head back. “Eyes open, remember?”

  Damn him.

  I force my lids open and turn my head to look at him over my shoulder. His shirt is unbuttoned—when did that happen?—his face is flushed, and his whiskey-brown eyes are clouded over with passion. A thin line of sweat dampens his brow, and if I’m not mistaken, his dick is about to bust through the zipper of his jeans.

  “Please.” I’m barely able to breathe, so the word comes out as a whisper.

  His fingers start moving again, going deeper this time as his thumb dances across my clit. He strums me like a master, finding all my hot buttons and applying the perfect amount of pressure, bringing me closer and closer to the edge with every stroke, every thrust.

  “Look down,” he murmurs, his breath fanning the hair at my temple. “Do you want them to see you come?”

  My only response is a groan, my mouth no longer able to form coherent speech. He kisses my shoulder, my neck, the sensitive spot behind my ear. When his lips part and he and sinks his teeth into my skin, a shiver rolls through me. It travels down my spine, swirls around my hips, and settles between my legs, making me jolt back into him.