Wildest Dreams (Forbidden Love, #2)

by L.J. Shen

To every girl who was ever made to feel less-than for her choices. You are magic. Burn the patriarchy.

Rhyland Coltridge being my brother’s best friend. A man-whore. A cocky bastard who knew he was God’s best creation to date. A debauched, selfish piece of work clad in a Prada suit. Too bad that piece of work was a masterpiece.

Rhyland flashed a predatory canine smile that made my bones freeze a little. He wasn’t pretty-boy sexy. He was half-Viking, half-Hozier sexy.

“Is there a reason why the child is holding a penis?” He flicked his gaze to Gravity, who was hugging Mr. Mushroom on the suitcase while she watched her show intently. The child. He talked about her as if she were a problem in need of fixing. “It’s not a penis. It’s Mr. Mushroom,” I corrected haughtily.

The man looked as out of place in New York as a Disney princess in a BDSM club, with his Western hat and embellished shirt, cowboy boots, and worn-out denim.

I bit down my lower lip to stop myself from laughing. Rhyland put the “heat” in “heathen.”

“Wouldn’t you like to be temporarily engaged to a man in finance—who is six foot five, with blue eyes?” I coaxed. She peered behind my shoulder nonchalantly. “Sure. Where is he?” Exasperating. “It’s me.” I stubbed my thumb into my chest. She snorted. “You’re six three on a good day, dude.

“So am I, though.” Dylan licked her lips nervously, fingers twisting together. “Sex is going to be the only upside to this deal.” “What’d you say?” I yawned to pop my ears. I must’ve been hallucinating. I really needed to tamp down that not-so-casual coke habit. “I said, sex is on the table.” Silence. “Or anywhere else you’d like to have it, to be honest. I’m not picky.” My. Jaw. Was. On. The. Goddamn. Floor.

“My grasp on the English language has loosened in the past five seconds. Do you mean to tell me you want to, uh, fuck?” She stared me square in the eye, calm if a little flushed. “I mean, the relationship will be fake, but the orgasms had better be real. If I have to put up with you, I want to at least have a little fun. We’re both grown-ups. I haven’t had any action in a while. You’re deplorable but undeniably hot. And I mean, you can’t be that bad in bed, with all the experience you’ve amassed…” This woman was lethal to my ego. “As long as it’s with full consent…”

I always knew I gave fuckboy vibes, but creeper?

“First of all, I’m not being a prude. I’m checking for signs of a head injury.” But the truth was she had me rattled there for a second. The idea of burying myself between those long, lean legs had me undone. “Second, there’s no shame in sex work, and mine happens to be done by the book. With an ironclad contract. Third, I’ve been retired for three months now.”

Karma, you filthy little animal.

Not initiating sex with her was one thing. I could do that, even if it shaved off a few years of my life and a good amount of my sanity. But if she threw herself at me? I was only human—and a terribly immoral one at that.

Fuck my life.

“I want you like I’ve never wanted anything in my fucking life.” His voice was thick and dark. “I know I’m a pig, but I can’t stop fantasizing about fucking you.” “Show me,” I dared him, my voice barely trembling.

The doorbell rang again. I didn’t remember ordering a stage-five clinger.

Sylvia Plath had it right. We do desire the things that end up destroying us.

“It fits,” Rhyland reassured me. “How do you know?” “Because I’ve spent half my fucking lifetime studying every curve and measurement of your body.”

Violence was sex’s ugly cousin, the Sweet’N Low to its pure, untainted sugar.

Dylan: Cosmos is such a terrible nickname. I get that you have to do this because of the fake engagement, but can’t you find something cuter? Rhyland: Such as? Dylan: Kitten? Baby? Sweetie pie? Rhyland: You’re not a kitten and you are not a baby (thank fuck). I’ve also met limes sweeter than you.

“Don’t yuck someone else’s yum.”

Rhyland slid two huge slices onto plates and poured himself a cup of “grown-up juice” (read: beer) and apple juice for Grav. “What does grown-up juice taste like?” Gravity piped up. “Emotional numbness.” “Will I like the taste of emonamiss?” she squeaked. “We all do, honey.”

Goddamn boomers and their inability to decipher tone. I was close to losing my patience with the guy.

“What’d she get out of the bargain?” Her pussy licked at least twice a day. Period days included.

“Sorrow helps one grow,”

“Carry on.” I nodded. “I call you Cosmos, but not because of the sky.” Rhy brushed his knuckles along my cheekbones, tucking a stray lock back in place. “I call you that because of the flower. It is beautiful and resilient, a fighter for its species. It braves all weather and often reseeds itself without help. I call you Cosmos because you’re everything this seemingly gentle flower is—adaptable and tough while being graceful and mesmerizing at the same time. You are living proof anyone can blossom if they choose to, shitty circumstances be damned.” “This is what you came here to say?” I bit down a smile. “That you named me after a flower?” “After the best flower,” he corrected.