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CHAPTER SEVEN

VALE

I toss and turn all night, knowing Nash isn’t sleeping either.

I can smell his sweet, leather cologne. I can hear his grunts and groans of discomfort, but of course, my horny mind translates them into sex sounds, and who can sleep all hot and bothered?

Finally, once dawn spills through the windows, I sit up and grab my laptop.

The clicking sound of my keyboard rouses the beast beside my bed.

“What are you writing?”

Great. Pile another fetish onto my horny pussy cart because Nash’s deep voice sounds all raspy and sexy in the morning.

It’s annoying. It’s arousing.

“I’m not writing,” I answer. “I’m checking the status of my burial plot. With you here, I’m seeing if it can be ready early.”

He chuckles as he rises. “Find me one, too,” he says, aiming for my bathroom, “because I’d take death over your mouth any day.”

“You’d die and go to heaven in my mouth.”

I blurt it before thinking, the innuendo making him stop in the doorway, the muscles across his back, even under his black shirt, obviously tensing.

“Do you have coffee?” he growls.

“Does the Pope have holy water?”

“Then answer my prayer and make me a cup.”

“What will I get for making it?”

“The blessing to brew me more tomorrow,” he replies before slamming the door.

Asshole.

I bet that word is hidden somewhere in the ink he hides, too. But this will be a long day, so I stomp across the studio and brew us a full carafe.

While he showers, I reach for one of my little black dresses, but … I can’t.

I know it tempts Nash and suddenly, tempting him is too tempting. I like that I get under his skin, that I arouse him, even slightly. He’s a hot-blooded male. It’s too easy.

But what would be hard, devastating actually, is if I give in to temptation, too. There’d be no going back, and Alena would read it all over us, the guilt undeniable.

I’d rather die than break her heart.

So, today, I break my naughty, gothic tradition. I still whip my hair into two braids, but then I slip on a vintage, white, mod miniskirt before I button on a tight, red cashmere sweater. Loyal to my Mary Janes, I wedge them on before checking the mirror above my dresser. My tube of Midnight Merlot calls next. Carefully, I paint my lips before swiping eyeliner on, creating thin, black batwings at the corner of my eyes before adding a little mascara.

There. That’s as good as it gets, folks.

“Vale,” Nash booms from my bathroom. “Bring me my GO BAG, the black one.”

“Say, please.”

“Now!”

“I don’t speak Dickhead.”

I giggle, loving this. I may need him for protection now, but who says I can’t make him my entertainment, too?

“God. Fucking. Dammit, woman!”

He swings the door open and…

Holy towel snake and tattoos.

My jaw drops. Call a dentist. I cracked some teeth, too.

Why?

Look at him!

Nash Allen is all ink. Muscles. More ink. More muscles, then more ink with tan abs everywhere. Another huge tattoo, a skull with wings, spans the width of his Adonis belt, and I stare at it as his fist clutches his white towel that can’t hide what’s hanging huge under it.

He sees me staring right at it. I must look stupified, like a horny, mating doe in headlights, but he’s too angry.

He storms across the room, fuming, “You gotta make everything hard, don’t you?”

“Oh, do I make it hard?”

See? It’s a disease. My smartassery can’t be cured.

Ripping his bag open, he snarls, “Yeah, you make our lives hard when you’re foolish like this. You play games when we need to play smart. We need to be on time, like normal, so no one knows, and I don’t have time for this bullshit.”

“Being polite isn’t bullshit. It’s respect. Speak to me with it if you want something done.”

He pivots, holding his towel in one hand, his clean clothes fisted in the other. “What I want is to keep you alive without having to treat you like a goddamn snowflake.”

My eyes narrow. “I can handle the heat.”

“I know you can. I raised you that way, so fucking act like it.”

“You raised me?” Disgust and rage barrel through my veins. “You’re NOT my father. I never saw you that way, and I never will.”

He shakes his head, his lips tensing. “And you’re not my daughter. I never saw you that way, either. But I’ve known you too long, and I care too much. So, just shut up and do what I say.”

I charge toward him. “Telling a woman to shut up is like turning your back on a tiger because every pussy will pounce and rip your fucking head off for doing it.” I huff, “No wonder you’re single.”

I’m inches from him, able to smell my shampoo in his hair. Able to see ironically, how he has a snarling lion covering his right hulking pec and a raging tiger on his left one. They’re like us, eye to eye and fighting over his heart.

“I’m not single ,” he growls, and my gasp is audible.

It’s sudden jealousy and pain punching my heart.

I didn’t know that. I don’t want to imagine it, either. I don’t want to hear how Nash has been secretly dating someone. How some woman has his heart because mine suddenly breaks at the thought.

All this time, Alena suspected her dad went somewhere with someone. You can’t look like Nash does and not have a clowder of pussies trailing behind you. But Nash never brought women around Alena.

Or me. I’m shocked by how I feel, that I feel this for him, and it’s overwhelming. Suddenly, I realize everything I believed about him was a lie, so I stagger back, hurt.

He reads my reaction, “I mean…” He reaches like he wants to grab me, but his hands are full. “I don’t date. I don’t commit. I’m loyal to something else.”

My heart is relieved, but now, I’m confused. “Like what? A secret society of men covered in arrogance and ink?”

A grin tugs at his lush lips. “Something like that.”

“So, you’re in a gang of hot gay men?”

Please say yes. Then again … please don’t. I need a fighting chance.

“I’m not gay, either.” He brushes past me. “And let’s land the plane on this convo because I need coffee and to be on time.”

If you think Mondays are notoriously bad, try suffering one with a pseudo-kidnapper who wets your panties, and a twin, trying to sober up from a one-night bender on dick and love.

Nash takes his usual place next to me at the front desk of Delta’s. It’s a huge, maple wood, antique Partner’s desk made for two, but I may as well be solo.

He ignores me, his eyes glued to the desktop screen while his mouse scrolls through transactions.

This room used to be the front parlor, and this house used to be a mansion for French settlers.

Now, it’s an exclusive adult store, and I’m its manager, over-qualified in all knowledge about sex and seriously sucking in all things math. That’s why Nash has been here for two weeks. That’s why he blends in now.

Somehow, I messed up the accounting software, and my boss, Stacey, said I could keep my job as long as I fixed it. So, I called the only accountant I knew—Nash Allen.

Little did I know that he also has deft skills in car chases, murder, kidnapping, and being a grumpy, sexy shithead in the morning.

But my twin outshines him today. Blair mopes in her fleece pajamas, slouched in an ivory wingback chair across the parlor.

Jace, our bouncer, sits on his stool by the front doors, feet away, trying to cheer her up, but she’s committed to her misery over Beau Bronson.

I’ve indulged her pity party for months, but not today. “Blair, can you go restock the male masturbators? We got a new shipment in.”

“We’re fine.” She rolls her eyes. “No one’s masturbating on a Monday morning.”

“Ahem.” Nash shifts, clearing his throat before Jace laughs, declaring, “Clearly, you don’t know men. It’s the only way to start a week. Especially with the new Autoblow machines with AI. Damn, who needs a woman?”

Is that what Nash was doing in the shower? Jerking off? Good god, that image is hot. But if so, why is he still cranky this morning?

I don’t know, but that makes two of us. “Exactly,” I answer. “We keep selling out of them, so Blair, restock.”

“Damn,” she drags to her feet, “who died and made you the boss?”

“The owner,” I snap, “who’s alive and well and will be here soon, so I want those shelves restocked.”

Blair glares, slowly clocking my new outfit. My bare, pale legs. Bright white skirt. Red, fuzzy sweater. She jeers, “You look like a tampon.”

Nash snorts, Jace roars laughing, and I fire a rubber band at her tit.

“Ouch!” she shouts, rubbing her nipple.

“Just because you broke your heart and pussy on a big, blue alien dick with a one-night stand doesn’t mean you get to make the rest of us miserable for life.”

“That was a secret, Vale!”

“All things are fair in monster cock sheaths and love, Blair!”

“You’re such a bitch.” She turns, storming toward our showroom.

“Yes, sister,” I shout after her, “and so are you. So quit feeling sorry for your fucks and fight back. It’s been months.”

Jace watches Blair stomp up the grand wooden staircase. After a moment, his face bends. “Should I go check on her?”

“She’s fine,” I answer, opening the mail. “She needs to get mad to get over that man. I swear if I could, I’d kill Beau Bronson for breaking her heart, but he’s too damn famous, and I heard the cheeseburgers suck in jail.”

Silently, I sort through junk and bills as Nash clicks on the mouse, scrutinizing every transaction I entered last year.

“What’s this?” He points to one.

“Oh.” I read it. “That’s our quarterly donation. Stacey donates thirty percent of our proceeds to a local women’s shelter.”

“Proceeds,” he asks, “or profit ?”

I hate this. I hate feeling dumb. “Proceeds,” I snap overconfidently.

“Vale,” he lowers his eyes behind those fake, nerdy glasses, “do you know the difference?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

My sigh is long, my eyes rolling back like I’m losing consciousness. I wish I could. “Fine. Lecture me, please. I know you’re dying to.”

“No, it’s my job,” he answers coldly.

I snort, “Yeah, right, Don Corleone.”

“Ahem.”

Now, Jace clears his throat, which is weird because he usually stays out of the drama. I glance at him in his dark Armani suit, sitting stoic on his stool.

Raising a suspicious brow, I turn back to Nash, who leans in, mad and grumbling, “I’m not the godfather, and I’m not your father. I’m the accountant hired by you to tell you that proceeds don’t account for cost. If a monster cock sheath costs you ten dollars to buy and you sell it for twenty, your proceeds are twenty dollars, but your profit is ten. You should be donating profits, or you will run your generous boss out of business.”

Why does he have to look so damn hot teaching me? If he’d been my math professor, I would’ve majored in it. “Why, Mr. Allen, I get so wet when you talk cock sheaths and costs.”

“ Vale .” He glowers, “Professional. Remember?”

“Mr. Allen.” I bat my lashes, pointing at my D-cups. “S ex professional. Remember?”

“Do I need to take a lunch break?” Jace interrupts us, and again, it’s weird.

Usually, he’s the sweet, silent, sexy mountain of muscle who sits by the door, not a meddling co-worker who gets all up in my hot mafia man business.

“We’re fine,” Nash clips, then cuts Jace a look I’ve never seen.

They were strangers until I introduced them two weeks ago. But now? They’re speaking a secret language I can’t translate.

“Just making sure.” Jace spins the ring on his pinky before the bell rings. He checks the camera screen, then buzzes a customer in.

“Hi.” A tall, blond man fidgets in the foyer. It’s obvious he’s new here. “I, uh. I heard about you guys and thought I’d come by.”

Usually, Blair helps our customers, but she’s upstairs, pining over NFL penis, so I jump to my feet.

“Sure.” I stride across the room, extending my hand for a shake. “I’m Vale. I’m the manager. What can I help you with?”

The handsome man’s cheeks blush instantly. Funny how sex toys do that to some. It’s sweet, and I love my job. Giving advice, especially about sex, is my calling because I’m searching for help, too. I recognize the Peter Millar golf jersey he’s wearing. “You play?” I ask, putting him at ease.

“Yeah,” he answers, surprised. “You?”

“Used to.”

His grin grows. “Why’d you stop?”

“My dad.” His brows twist, confused, so I explain, “He’s Duncan Monroe, and being his daughter in the sport made it go from fun to infuriating. I stopped competing in college.”

“Duncan Monroe, the PGA Master, is your dad?”

“He’s my dad and many others’.”

I’m not joking. My dad’s famous for his philandering, too. He’s been married a hundred times, had a million girlfriends, too, and has a gazillion kids. That’s an exaggeration but not by much, and Blair and I get the honor of being his first fuck-ups.

“So, the game is in your blood?” The guy admires, offering, “Maybe you’ll play again someday.”

“Maybe.” I shrug. “But how can I help you today?”

Again, he blushes, but now we’ve bonded. He can tell me, “I want to buy a vibrator.”

“For your girlfriend?”

He’s not wearing a ring.

“No,” the blush reaches his ears, “for a future girlfriend. I kind of want to be prepared. I read how they help, how many women can’t, um, orgasm without them.”

“You read right.” I teach, “About seventy-five percent of women never reach orgasm from intercourse alone.”

“So,” he shuffles awkwardly, “what do you recommend?”

Tenderly, I smile. “I recommend a man like you because any woman would be lucky to have you.” I gesture toward the stairs. “I’ll show you some options that will surely satisfy her, trust me. I know.”

He leads the way before I glance back and…

Who let the angel of death into the store? Nash is glaring at me. It’s predatory. It’s seething. It’s warning me like I’m about to cheat when I’m just doing my job.

Oh, I get it, rolling my eyes at him.

He can be all morally grey and murder for a good cause, but I can’t sell sex toys and satisfaction?

Whatever.

Thirty minutes later, I’ve sold Mr. Gorgeous Golfer a lipstick vibrator, a Satisfyer clit sucker, a vibrating cock ring, lots of lube, and a Deep Throat Pocket Pal for his lonely nights or eager partners. He leaves happy and horny as I turn to Nash.

Murder swims in his brown eyes. He opens his mouth to deliver more judgment than the Supreme Court, but I’m not here for it. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That.” I waggle my finger at his flared nostrils.

“What?”

“That.” I poke his scruffy, cleft chin. “Don’t scowl at me like I stole some saint’s virginity. He wanted sex toys, so I sold him sex toys.”

Nash leans over, seething so Jace can’t hear, “He wanted you .”

“Don’t speak so past tense.” I raise a brow. “He NameDropped me, so we may have a future.”

Confusion mixes with rage across his handsome face.

I’m about to explain the iPhone tech to him when Stacey, Delta’s owner, trudges through the door. Ford, one of her husbands, enters behind her with his hand caressing the small of her back. It’s a constant, sweet gesture between them, but today, they look distressed.

“Hey.” I break from Nash’s interrogation, focusing on my real boss. “Everything okay?”

“No,” she sighs as Ford barks, “Yes!”

Stacey turns to him, pleading to his eyes, “Babe, it’s not okay. You’re worried and angry, just like me, but I need to talk about it. I can’t hold every emotion in like you do.”

“This is private,” Ford grumbles.

“This is family.” Stacey gestures to me and Jace.

So, Nash stands. He may be an asshole to me, but with others, his manners are impeccable. “I’ll give you all a moment,” he says. “I’ll go to the deli and grab everyone lunch.”

“Thank you,” Stacey sighs.

“Thanks.” Ford nods at him, but Nash isn’t out the front door before Stacey bursts into a flood of tears and words.

“It’s Hannah,” she cries.

That’s Ford’s daughter and her stepdaughter, and I fear the worst. “Is she okay?”

“Yes,” Stacey rushes, “I mean, no. She’s being bribed. Someone is threatening to expose a relationship she had with a coach, which will ruin her chances with the WNBA draft, and she’s devastated. We all are.”

Brushing by Jace, Nash mumbles something to him. Jace nods.

And my suspicions skyrocket.