Page 19 of Forbidden Confessions, Volume 2 (The Forbidden Volumes #1)

Rush

F uck me. If it’s hard not to want Vanessa while watching her from the curb outside, being this close to her and not claiming her is agony.

Somehow, I find the restraint to be a good boy—at least until it’s obvious she doesn’t want to answer my question.

And I need to know. The idea of her with Paul makes me violent.

“Um…” She bites her pouty lip. Her long lashes brush her cheeks flushed from the wine.

Any chance my nearness is contributing to her rosy face?

“You heard about that?” She winces, then tries to cover the expression with a smile.

Yep, within five minutes of the guy asking. I know everything that happens to Vanessa. At work. At home. At school. I know what she’s watching on Netflix. I know what she’s reading on her device. I even know what she surfs on her laptop late on a Saturday night when she’s feeling alone.

What would she say if she knew I was aware of all her most forbidden fantasies?

Vanessa bustles to the table with platters of food. I take the rest and follow her, grinding my teeth as she bends over to set the plates down, revealing the womanly curve of her ass—and more. Jesus, is she even wearing panties?

As we sit, I start to sweat. I knock back the last of my wine, trying to cool down. But I’ve done all the drinking I should tonight. Vanessa needs me to keep her safe, which means staying sharp—and keeping my hands off of her.

No idea where that fortitude will come from.

I shrug. “Everyone heard about it.”

She rolls her eyes. “Why is the staff so gossipy?”

“Because talking about co-workers is more entertaining than work.”

“It’s so annoying…” she huffs as she loads up a plate of chicken, potatoes, and biscuits that look every bit as good as my mother’s—and that’s saying something.

Vanessa isn’t a gossip. She doesn’t seem to care one whit who on staff is doing whom.

In the months I’ve watched her, she’s kept remarkably to herself, mostly chatting with co-workers if it affects the job in some way.

But I’ve also seen her comfort people. I especially adored the way she dropped everything a few weeks back to help one of the new front-desk clerks who suddenly had to put down her dog.

Vanessa was compassionate and sweet and everything a person could want in a friend.

Once she hands me my plate, she dishes herself some dinner, then digs in while I pour more vino into her empty glass.

I’m not trying to get her drunk so I can get her underneath me.

If I ever coax her there, I want her one-hundred-percent sober and on board.

But right now, she needs to relax and forget about the danger.

Worrying about that shit is my job. But since I’m not allowed to put her in an orgasm coma, booze is my next best option to calm her.

“Can’t argue with that. So did you?” I prompt. “Say yes to Paul?”

“No.” She hides her face behind her hands, then peeks over her fingers at me with those batting blue eyes.

She’s a woman…but sometimes she has this lost little girl quality that makes my dick so fucking hard.

Yes, I’m a total pervert.

And the fact she turned down a guy who’s perfectly acceptable boyfriend material—and doesn’t have blood all over his hands—confuses me. “Why?”

“He’s a nice guy. It wouldn’t be right for me to lead him on.”

“You’re not interested?”

“No.”

I can’t help the smile that crosses my face. “I’m happy to hear that.”

She blinks in confusion. “Why?”

If I can’t touch her, I don’t want anyone else putting their hands on her, either. That’s not fair, I know. But no one said life was.

“Honestly, I don’t think he’s right for you,” I say, digging into my food.

Vanessa sighs. “He’s really into Star Wars, has a comic book collection, and loves cosplay. Nothing wrong with it, just not my jam. How’s your dinner?”

“Damn good. Wow… This might be the best gravy I’ve ever tasted.” I level a hot stare on her. “I should marry you.”

She giggles. “Maybe you should. Gravy whenever you want…”

Holy shit, I want a lot more than gravy from Vanessa, especially now that she’s flirting. It’s got to be the wine because this isn’t like her—at least not the her in the office. But she’s letting her guard—and her hair—down with me. It’s another turn-on I don’t know how I’ll ignore.

“Maybe I will.” If her father doesn’t kill me for the mere suggestion. But I really would marry her for her gravy…and all the other things I’ve come to adore about her. But now, I need to take care of her. “Tell me how you’re feeling.”

When her smile fades, I have to dig my fingers into my thighs to stop myself from comforting her. But being this near her for this long has decimated my restraint. If I touch her at all, I’ll drag her onto my lap, lay my mouth over hers, and fuck the consequences so I can fuck her.

“Calmer than I thought I’d be a few hours after having an intruder in my house.”

Because she’s on the verge of being tipsy. “Good. Drink up.”

When I nudge the wineglass a little closer, she lifts it and complies.

Her easy acquiescence, along with the sight of her graceful throat working, does something to me, probably because the soft line of her neck leads straight to the swells of her chest, flushed and flashing a hint of cleavage over the V-neck of her T-shirt. And her tits underneath…

The stuff D-cup dreams are made of.

Focus. Her safety comes first .

After swallowing another amazing bite, I clear my throat. “Can you think of anyone who might want to break into your house and why?”

“No.”

“Has Paul given you any reason to think he’s that kind of creep?”

“He’s harmless.”

I suspect she’s right, and that’s unfortunate because the alternative is much grimmer. “Have you had other trouble lately with anyone? Or noticed anything unusual?”

She finishes nibbling a biscuit. “No. It’s been quiet around the neighborhood. The Abbotts next door have been on a cruise. Mrs. Crafton is always here. She sees everything. She mentioned a guy from the gas company coming by this afternoon but?—”

“Did she have any details?” Can it really be a coincidence that a meter reader and an intruder prowled around her place on the same afternoon?

“No, but I didn’t ask. I can call her…”

I shake my head. “We’ll deal with it tomorrow. It’s getting late.”

She glances at the clock on her microwave and her eyes go wide. “Is it really after nine?”

“It is.”

“It’s a good thing I don’t have any homework tonight. I couldn’t concentrate. I go to night school,” she clarifies.

I nod. “Too rattled?”

She tries to suppress a smile but can’t. It’s damn cute. “And too tipsy.”

We finish dinner in relative silence, except the moaning I can’t quite seem to check. Once we both push our plates away, I see she’s consumed a second glass of wine. I fill her up one more time. I suspect she’ll need it—along with a couple of aspirin—before bed.

When she starts clearing the table, I wrap my fingers around her arm. “I’ll get the dishes. Why don’t you take a shower and get ready for bed?”

“It’s a lot of dishes. I hate to leave you to?—”

“I’m fine. Trust me, being one of the younger kids in my family, I did a lot of dishes. Only my younger brother, Ridge, had it worse,” I say to see her reaction.

She pales. “O-okay. If you don’t mind. I’ll just go and…”

“Sure. Why don’t you let me sweep your bedroom and bathroom one last time, make sure it’s clear and that your uninvited guest didn’t leave any surveillance gizmos behind.”

“Didn’t think of that. Good call.”

Vanessa resumes clearing while I haul ass down the hall to prowl around her bedroom.

It’s obvious the intruder got in through the sliding glass door.

It’s old, like the rest of the place. The latch on the door is so rickety, the intruder probably wiggled it loose and slid right in. I’ll fix that tomorrow.

But that doesn’t explain how the dirtbag managed to disengage her alarm.

There are about a dozen phone calls I could make to start getting answers, but I shouldn’t incite panic and jeopardize the larger mission.

It would be premature, and I’m equipped to handle this situation.

Vanessa’s father knows that or he wouldn’t have put me in St. Augustine to watch his daughter. I need to see what develops.

But for safety’s sake, I’m going to assume the threat is credible—not random—and instigated by a professional.

Fuck.

I don’t have the equipment needed to truly sweep the house free from cameras, bugs, or other crap meant to surveil Vanessa, but I’ve been doing this for years. I can almost guess where anyone with half a brain would hide such devices.

A few minutes later, I’m satisfied. I didn’t find anything, so I assume that if her intruder intended to spy on her, he got interrupted and fled. But she’s a job to him, so he’ll be back.

I’ll be waiting.

After making sure her windows are locked, I manage to find a discarded metal curtain rod at the back of her closet.

I would rather have had a broom to break its handle, but I only saw a cordless hand vacuum.

At least the rod fits into the track of her sliding glass door.

Not a perfect solution, but it will work for a night.

I’ll MacGyver something more secure and permanent tomorrow.

A sixth sense has me staring at her bed again with its towering wrought iron headboard.

The sloppy way it’s made and the little bump in the middle niggles at me.

Quickly, I toss aside the blue and gray throw pillows and yank down the white comforter.

In the middle of the flat sheet lies her missing kitchen knife and the pink shreds of some lacy fabric.

I fit the pieces back together and realize he sliced up a pair of soft shorts and a matching tank top.

Her pajamas.