Wildest Dreams (Forbidden Love, #2)

by L.J. Shen

My chest rose and fell with my erratic breaths. I wasn’t wearing a bra. He glanced down at my tits, then back up at me. “This was a mistake,” he conceded, sounding serious and regretful for the first time in, well, ever. “I’d never—” “Yeah. Me either. Gross.”

There it was again—that look. Like he was holding back from saying something. “What?” I rolled my eyes to stop them from watering. “Nothing.” His voice was strained. “I’m sorry.” “That you were born? Yeah, so am I.” I plastered the bowl to my chest, sidestepping him to go upstairs. He moved in the same direction, trying to give me space. I stepped to the other side. He did the same. I growled in frustration. “Get out of my way,” I said. I had to go upstairs and flick the bean before I exploded. “Trying to.” “Well, just stand still, and I’ll go around you,” I snapped.

Rhyland’s ego didn’t need stroking; it needed its own freaking zip code.

“Enjoy Piper,” I spat out, taking the stairs up. He snatched the hem of my shirt, pulling me to him. The pretzels flew into the air, landing on the floor. My chest slammed against his. He grabbed my hips, sneering down at me, disgusted with himself. “Fine. I lied. I do want you.” “Join the line, loser,” I huffed, determined not to thaw under his touch. “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. He clasped my jaw and tilted me against the wall as his lips collided with mine. A strangled gasp escaped me, and he swallowed it whole, opening his mouth. Our tongues touched, electricity zinging between them, and my eyes rolled over in their sockets, fluttering shut as fireworks exploded against my eyelids.

He tasted of debauchery, of decadent sin. I wanted more of it. I threaded my fingers through his hair, the sound of my heartbeat drowning out the moans and gasps we exchanged between us. All my blood rushed to my clit, to the tips of my nipples, to my toes as they curled over the cheap plywood. For the first time, I understood the term “falling in love.” This was what it felt like: plunging into something dark and delicious and unknown. Gravity abandoned me. My knees buckled. Our kiss deepened, becoming faster, more desperate, urgent to steal more, more, more before we got caught.

Most of all, I missed the part of my heart he’d taken from me the moment his lips touched mine. I knew, with depressing certainty, I was never getting it back. That I would compare every other boy to him, and every other boy would fall short, because that was just what they’d be: a boy. Rhyland was a man.

Piper was standing at the backyard door holding empty beer bottles by their necks between her fingers, wearing a white tee and a pair of black leggings, just like me. Figures. It was all the reminder I needed that Rhyland hadn’t meant to kiss me. He’d meant to kiss her. “Rhy?” Piper demanded, her saucer-size eyeballs shifting between us frantically. “What’s going on?” “You can’t tell Row.” Rhyland’s flat voice was eerily scary.

“Are you hooking up with his baby sister?” Piper’s eyes pooled with tears, and I felt bad for her—and for me—that we’d caught the attention of a mythical creature as lovely and devastating as Rhyland. “Would you keep it the fuck down?” Rhyland snarled gruffly, grabbing her by the arm and walking her over, away from me. His eyes frantically searched for Row outside. “It was a mistake.” “A mistake?” Piper and I asked in unison. I snorted. “I’ve met actual cereal boxes more decisive than you. Pick a lane, my guy.”

I took the stairs up and rounded the first corner of the stairway, staying close by. I hoped they’d stay in the kitchen. “I’ve been waiting for our hookup for ages,” Piper whined. The knowledge they hadn’t been together yet shouldn’t have filled me with relief, but oh, it did. “I feel bad for her,” Rhyland explained, as cool as a cucumber and just as phallic. I felt myself dwindling into something small enough to fit inside a pocket, becoming smaller still when he added, “I thought she was you.” Piper snorted. “I’m hotter.” “Okay, Pipe, no need to kid yourself.” He chuckled. I blushed. Rhyland was a party animal, a fun guy, but he could sometimes be cruel. “Anyway, it’s sad, you know, that she’s staying here. Taking on a waiting job. She’s not a dumb kid, just impulsive and overly emotional.” “She’s not your problem,” Piper all but mewed. “Let’s not get carried away here. I was just copping a feel, not filling in her college application.” He laughed.

“Mistake or not, you have to keep your mouth shut about this, Pipe,” Rhyland warned. “Row can’t find out, and history isn’t kind to people who fuck me over.” “Okay, okay,” she huffed, flustered. “I won’t say a word.” “Good girl,” he said in that derogatory way. “You keep my secret, and I’ll keep yours.” “What secret?” “That pink coke bag that disappeared from Allison’s locker senior year?” “So…are we off?” Piper asked finally.

“We’re off,” Rhyland confirmed. “This was a bad idea anyway.” “Yeah,” she said unconvincingly. “Totally.”

He felt bad for me. My life was sad to him. In one careless moment, he’d shattered years of pining and teasing and daydreaming about the what-ifs. I’d always burned for Rhyland Coltridge. Now all I wanted was to burn him down.

So I did the only thing I could do to ensure Rhyland knew I was over our so-called misunderstanding. I went to my room, put on my most sexy, cute getup, did my makeup, curled my hair, spritzed on a small pond of Libre by YSL, and took the stairs down two at a time, barreling through the backyard doors. I looked like a million bucks and felt like fifty cents, but I kept my smile intact as Rhyland, Row, and their girlfriends all hung their stunned, awestruck gazes on me. Rhyland’s expression darkened into something feral when he gulped at the sight of me. “You gonna let your sister go out of the house like that?” he growled at Row. Row shot him a puzzled look. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “I don’t own her. Wrong era, asshat.” “She looks like fucking prey,” Rhyland countered,

“Sorry, Rhyland.” I patted his shoulder with a sweet smile. Something dangerous rippled up and down my spine. “I know you want me, but I’m too much for you to handle. Not gonna happen. Take the L. Row?” I snapped my fingers. “Yeah?” “Drive me to the moorlands. I’m going to that party.” And I was going to fuck Tucker Reid and his bad poetry and his dubious intentions and my entire freaking future, all at once. After all, I was Dylan. Impulsive. Overly emotional. And a very sore loser.

DYLAN

I was grabbing my phone from the counter to call him when Kieran’s name flashed on the screen. I swiped to the right. “Hey, handsome.” “Hello, gorgeous,” he purred back in his deep, alluring tenor. “Changed your mind about marrying me yet?” “Nope, but please keep trying. My self-control has always been wanting.” I grabbed a mug and the caffè d’orzo and fixed myself a cup, pinning the phone between my ear and my shoulder. Fuck tea. I was still Dylan Casablancas. “Whatcha doing?” “Just finished physical therapy and about to hit the shower.”

“The therapist twisted my legs like I was made out of playdough,” he complained. “I’m never recovering from this injury. How ’bout you?” Lazily stirring, listening to the teaspoon clink against the delicate mug, I blew a lock of hair from my face. “Settling in at Row and Cal’s apartment. Manhattan is, um, a lot.” My laugh was self-deprecating. “Once you get used to the big city, you fall in love with the anonymity of it.”

Wow. I really needed some vitamin D. And I’m not talking sunlight.

“Besides, he’s the only soccer player in the world who is actually openly out.” I heard the snap of a waistband slapping taut skin as he put his clothes on. “So I’m afraid you’re out of luck there.” “Marcello Sarratore is gay?” I moaned. “Figures. All the good ones are.” Kieran was deep in the closet. In fact, our friendship had started because last time he came to visit our hometown of Staindrop, he’d pretended to hit on me, telling everyone who was willing to listen that he wanted me as his wife. He’d been up-front about what he was doing. He’d never led me on. But he’d pursued me relentlessly, wanting me as his beard to get rid of those pesky tabloid columnists and the persistent paparazzi. He’d offered me his kingdom, all the wealth and power he’d achieved. Gravity and I would be his family, he’d said. I could even take a lover on the side. All he wanted was for the entire world to stop asking him when he’d find a girlfriend and settle down.

“Don’t worry. I’ll come out eventually. After I retire. I’ll have my moment in the sun.” I opened my mouth to protest, then closed it. It really wasn’t any of my business. But it hurt to know a dear friend of mine, whom I adored with all my heart, didn’t get to experience love and sex and first dates and sordid texting and uncontrollable butterflies. Neither do you, you hypocrite. Kieran was afraid to take a chance, but so was I.

“Tell me all about your past few days.” “Hmm. Let’s see. My car died for the millionth time, Grav is mad at me for taking her away from her granny and Marty, and, oh, apparently Rhyland Coltridge and I are in some kind of a fake engagement deal.” “Impossible,” Kieran said confidently. “I’ve already asked for your hand in fake marriage, and you declined. I’m richer, handsomer, and you actually tolerate me. Why would you say yes to his proposal?” “First of all, to deflate that continent-size ego of yours…” I snorted, eyes fixed on the TV. “Second, because he needs to impress a traditional cowboy business investor, and I need a helping hand here and some money while I figure out my next steps.” I sipped my drink. “Speaking of, I do recognize a pattern here. Why do I get so many fake marriage proposals, never real ones?” “What does it matter? You’re not ready for a relationship,” Kieran observed matter-of-factly. “Would you be? Tucker ruined men for me.” “You need some closure with him,” Kieran said. “Ha.” I shook my head. “I’d have to find him first.”

“Sure is. But this is strictly business. You know I don’t catch feelings.”

“And the dick?” Kieran asked bluntly. “Will you be catching it?” “Catching, stroking, licking…” I ran the tip of my finger over the rim of my cup, my head swimming with daydreams. “Why not? We’re both single and emotionally damaged enough not to get attached. No drawbacks.”

“Row is not the boss of me.” “Don’t do anything stupid,” Kieran warned. But therein lay the problem. I’d spent the past four years trying so hard not to make mistakes, not to do anything foolish after accidentally tangling my destiny with Tucker’s, that I hardly did anything at all. Maybe moving to New York marked the beginning of a new me. Or, more likely, the old me. The me who took chances. The me who was bold and curious and creative and fun.

The doorbell rang, along with the phone app, to signal someone was outside. “Look, I gotta go.” I pushed off the kitchen island. “Someone’s coming.” “That someone better not be you,” Kieran tutted. “Last time you came, it ended in an unwanted pregnancy, a runaway groom, and a small-town scandal.” “You’re being a prude.” “No. I’m being a bitter old hag,” Kieran corrected primly. “If I’m not getting some, neither should you. We need to start a Hot Sexless People club. We’ll be the founding members. We’ll have bingo nights—”

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

Me. Catching feelings. For Rhyland Coltridge. Hell would become a ski resort first.

DYLAN

“Sorry, I didn’t order this.” I pasted on an apologetic smile. “Didn’t order what?” The delivery guy tilted his head sideways. “A package of red flags.” I gestured toward my upstairs neighbor. Rhyland barked out a laugh, clearly delighted to be the bane of my existence. He tucked his phone into his pocket and strolled inside—not before plucking the package from the clearly bemused delivery man and slamming the door shut with his foot. I followed him, narrowing my eyes at the nape of his neck in the hope he’d catch fire. “Actually, I have something to give you too,” Rhyland announced, placing the Amazon box on the island. “Not interested in your chlamydia, but thanks.” “Lies.” His nonchalant grin stretched wider, revealing perfect white teeth. “You can’t wait for me to give you chlamydia and any other STIs I picked up along the way.”

“In other news, your car’s driving like it’s brand-new.”

“Among other things.” The bastard took a sip of my drink without asking, scowling at the mug. “That’s some weak-ass coffee. Anyway, I also changed the brakes, the oil filter, the alternator, the battery, and the water pumps.” I blinked in shock. “Did you keep anything at all? The Little Trees air freshener on my rearview mirror?” “Changed that one too.” He glided like a swan over water toward the fridge, flinging it open and peering inside. “No offense, but it smelled like the underside of toenails after you cut them.” “You’re depraved,” I announced with a scowl. He shrugged. “And you’re still interested.”

“Hey, kid, I got you something.” “Oh, I love somethings!” She clapped excitedly. “What is it?” He produced a stuffie of a white sheep with a pink tutu, face, and ears. Grav wiggled out of my hands, rushing toward the stuffie and hugging it to her chest. “Aw, I love it!” “Does that mean you’re going to get rid of Mr. Mushroom?” he enquired. “No!” she said cheerfully. “I love Mr. Mushroom.” “I’m sure Mommy does too.” I swatted his shoulder, grateful for the chance to touch him. No doubt I needed to stock up on good vibrators and some Jade West books to spice up my life. I mean, I propositioned the man within my first twenty minutes in New York. After he humiliated me when I was eighteen. “And there’s something else.” Rhyland reached for his briefcase again, producing a small puzzle. “It’s a twenty-piece puzzle of your face. Do you like it?” “Yes!” Grav pumped the air with her fist.

“Do you always keep photos of other people’s children lying around in case you need to make a puzzle out of them?” “I got it off your Instagram.” Rhyland gave me an amused, unbothered look. “And if it makes you feel any better, my online assistant made it into a puzzle, not me.” “Online because people can’t stand you in person?” I batted my eyelashes. “Online because I tend to fuck any woman I spend more than a couple hours a week with.”

“What do you want?” I snarled. “We need to look legit. Marshall wants to spend time together, get to know me.” He made quotation marks with his fingers before splaying his hands on the breakfast nook between us, and I noticed, despite his impeccable suit, that his hands were rough and tanned, worn out from physical work. “We both know what happens once people start getting to know the real me.” “You’re insufferable.” I nodded. Finally, something we could agree on. “Yeah, but you aren’t. So I figured I’ll bring you along to make me look good. You’ll need to work hard at appearing unappalled by me. Friend me on social media. Like my shit. Post pictures of me. Maybe gush a little at my thirst traps.”

“And this needs to happen today?” Not that my schedule was packed with anything other than watching Grey’s Anatomy and pretending to look for a job. “Yeah,” he confirmed. “And make it convincing.” I rolled my eyes. “I could strangle someone right now.” “Hey, don’t kill the messenger.” “Well, don’t stand so fucking close, then.”

“Get ready to be smothered with eggplant and droplet emojis.” I snatched my coffee cup from the kitchen island, placing it in the sink. “I’ll play along, but I’ll be the most unhinged teammate you’ve ever had.” “Remember, your paycheck depends on it,” he hedged me. “I’m the kind of man who’s fun to fuck and dangerous to fuck over. Remember that.” “I agreed to this deal on the basis it was carte blanche. I ain’t changing my colors for you.” “It’s just social media. Relax.” “I am relaxed,” I countered, yelling. He shook his head, amused. “You need to touch more grass.” “And you need to stop smoking it.” “I actually stopped three months ago, back when I retired,” he said brightly.

“What does an engaged woman look like? Should I start wearing modest dresses and a fancy hat and only touch people when I wear my velvet gloves? Be your little trophy wife?” “You’re not a trophy wife, sweetheart. More like a punishment fiancée.” He smirked. “I promise I’ll live up to the title.” “Just a heads-up—this is not the best way to go about it if you want to ride my dick.” “I said sex was on the table. I didn’t say I’d make any special effort to have it,” I clarified.

I whipped my head around to find the oval dining table. Was he imagining… Of course he was. The horndog. “My eyes are up here.” I snapped my fingers in front of his face. “Yes, I know.” He rolled his tongue over his upper teeth. “They’ve been fucking me with greedy looks since I walked in here.” Carnage. There was going to be carnage if he didn’t walk out of here in the next two minutes. “Thanks for the task, the car, and the nausea-inducing conversation. Anything else keeping you here?” I asked. “Yeah.” He reached for the third time into the briefcase, yanking out a small box and flinging it into my hands. “Open it.”

My heart rattled in my chest. The last time I was given an engagement ring, I ended up throwing it into the ocean. I’d considered pawning it for all of five seconds before deciding I didn’t want anyone’s love story to be tainted by the shitty piece of jewelry that represented the death of my own fairy tale. The box opened with a crisp click, and in front of me was cushioned the most beautiful engagement ring I’d ever seen in my entire life—movies, pictures, and reality combined. It wasn’t just any ring, though. It was the ring that had caught my eye and snatched my soul in a magazine when I was fourteen. I’d cut it out of the Vogue issue and hung it on my Big Fairy-Tale Wedding pinboard. I still had that pinboard somewhere in the attic, laden with clippings of the perfect wedding dress, the perfect bouquet, the perfect flower arrangement…

“W-what made you go for this one?” My voice was gauzy, bodiless in the space between us. “I remembered the engagement ring Tucker gave you.” Rhyland’s voice skimmed over my skin like the briefest touch of rough knuckles. Goose bumps erupted everywhere. “Then I remembered Tucker was a first-class moron, so I figured the safest route was to go with the opposite of everything he chose for you. Instead of a cushion, I went for an oval shape. I got you a thin band instead of a thick one. A Harry Winston instead of Costco.”

“You love it, don’t you?” His voice dropped seductively, fluttering in my stomach like a delicate bird, and every cell in my brain revolted, reminding me I didn’t do butterflies or crushes or men.

“I still need to see if it fits.” “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.”

For a second, I had this crazy thought that maybe he harbored this great, agonizing love for me, the same way Row had been secretly in love with Cal. But Rhyland’s mouth twisted into a sour smile. “Oh, sweetheart.” He shook his head as if I were a lost cause. “Nothing wholesome and sweet like that. I wanted to fuck you is all. I want to fuck most things that move. I’m no Prince Charming. The only scenario in which I’d have a redeeming bone in my body is if I got in a car accident and my body melted into someone else’s.”

“Oh.” He snapped his fingers, pointing at me. “By the way, I’ll pass on the bumping uglies offer. Flattered but no longer interested.” “I’ll try to move on from the disappointment,” I bit out sarcastically, sliding onto a stool at the kitchen island. Stupid, stupid, stupid. “Also, the ring is a rental, so don’t get attached.” “I pity the woman dumb enough to form an attachment to anything you gave her.”

Rhyland underestimated me. So did the rest of my family. Well, they had another thing coming. I was going to make it in New York. Not just for me. For Gravity too.

RHYLAND

“You, my friend, are fucked. And not in the way that makes you want a cigarette and a stiff drink afterward.” Tate Blackthorn—billionaire pseudo mobster, corporate shark, and a royal pain in the ass—sat across from me at the Grand Regent’s rooftop bar. He tossed my business plan across the low concrete table between us, sitting back and taking a drag of his cigar.

“Why? What’s wrong with it?” I demanded, thumbing through the pages. I’d written the business plan myself. The first time I’d put my business management degree to use since I graduated. “Nothing. I’d give it a B-plus, and I’ve never graded a business plan higher than a C.” His aloof, frigid eyes found mine across the thick smoke of his cigar. “But it’s useless. Bruce Marshall won’t work with you. Asshat acts as if he’s running a mom-and-pop shop in bumfuck Montana, not a company as big as Google.”

“It was a good deal for everyone involved,” Tate said stoically, withdrawing his hand from between the woman’s thighs just as she began to pant, the sadist. “Then he found out I’m thrice divorced.” “Thrice? Je-sus, man. You’re in your early thirties.” “When you know, you know.” “You obviously didn’t know since none of the marriages lasted.” I tucked my business plan back inside my briefcase. But the truth was I couldn’t picture Tate committing to anything as altruistic as marriage. There was probably a bigger picture to all this. “Anyway, Marshall doesn’t know how single I am.” “He’ll figure it out once he invites you and your wife over for dinner and you show up with a half-deflated sex doll,” Tate assured me, reaching for his whiskey and knocking it back in one go. “He thinks Dylan Casablancas is my fiancée.” Tate choked on his whiskey, coughing into his fist. “He what?” “Long story.” I took a pull of my beer. “He walked in on what he thought was a lovers’ quarrel but was actually Dylan trying to stab me for helping her with her prehistoric car.” “I forgot the little train wreck moved to New York,” he snarled. “That’s exactly what this city needs. More wannabes.”

“She actually agreed to help me by pretending to be my fiancée for a little while.” “Row’s gonna love that,” Tate muttered sarcastically into the fresh glass of whiskey that had been placed directly where the empty one was seconds ago. There was a little note with the waitress’s number underneath the tumbler, crumpled and damp. “What does she get out of the arrangement?” My dick, if she has her way. “I’m paying her week to week while she job-hunts.” “In what currency are you paying her, exactly? Potatoes?”