Page 1 of Devious Temptation
One
Lucy Bradee is alwaysa rainbow of colors, but the one I associate her most with is red—from her gleaming, burnt copper locks to the cherry and strawberry patterns that usually adorn her 50s-style wardrobe.
And then there's the ever-present, giant ‘No’ symbol that hovers over her head whenever she’s nearby.
The girl is off-limits in every way imaginable. Not only because she’s newly eighteen and finishing her senior year of high school, but also because she’s dating my son, Rhys.
“Stare any harder, Law, and you’re going to creep the girl out. Although she’s asking for attention in that outfit,” Charlotte, my wife, chides as she sidles up next to me, grasping her glass of chardonnay like a lifeline.
Lucy’s swimsuitisearning her the attention of most of the guys on the Montpier High football team. The white one-piece hugs her body like a mini dress, securing around her neck in a halter top that accentuates her naturally full breasts. The fabric is peppered with cherries,complementing her skin and highlighting her freckles against the tan the summer has kissed her flesh with.
It’s a wonder Rhys isn’t glued to her side, asserting his claim over her, instead of throwing a football back and forth in the pool.
“Is that how the pool boy in Boca caught your attention, Char? By wearing cherries on his Speedo?” I grimace at herandthe unwanted image of them together that pops into my mind, before refocusing my attention out the windows over the farmhouse sink Charlottedemandedfor the kitchen she never cooks in.
“God, are you still droning on about that? Get over it, Lawson. No one found out. Your reputation is safe.” Her tone drips with condescending sarcasm as she leans into me, purposefully rubbing her fake double-D breasts against my arm.
I’ve never been a violent man, but sometimes I want to smack her just to see her lovely features show something other than haughty disdain for her life.
Her Caribbean blues are glazed over from her wine buzz, lids half-mast as she peers up at me suggestively, mauve-painted lips pulled wide in what she thinks is a seductive smile. “Why don’t we go up to the bedroom, and I can take care of this little problem you seem to have?” She presses her hand against my hardening length.
My eyes find Lucy again. The image out the window is what’s making my cock hard. Not my wife, who is entitled to half my net worth if I divorce her, even if she’s a cheating slut. I’m not a pervert or into girls as young as my own kids, but Lucy is a goddamn rainbow in my otherwise dreary, gray life.
Charlotte continues to rub her palm against me, sliding into my joggers to wrap around my shaft and swiping her thumb over the bead of precum along the tip. As good as it feels, I swore I’d never go there with her again. Snatching her wrist, I pull her hand out and gently shove her away.
“No thanks, hon. I’m no longer interested in your contaminated body parts.” My gaze drifts disdainfully down her body while I adjust myself.
Did I mention she got chlamydia from the pool boy?
I’ll be forever grateful for the security cameras the neighbor suggested when we bought the place.“You can never be too careful. If you know what I mean…”He had nodded toward our wives, who were cackling while drinking margaritas in their backyard.
Charlotte lets out an unladylike snort as she pushes blonde curls away from her face, dropping her carefully constructed facade as the ultimate Stepford wife. The wine in her glass sloshes over the rim and splashes to the floor. “You’ll have to give in at some point, Lawson. You’re going to get real tired of your hand soon.”
My lips pull up in a derisive smirk. “Who said anything about my hand, Char?”
Her nostrils flare, glassy eyes burning with contempt—which I find hilarious, consideringshe’sthe one who ruined our marriage. “You wouldn’t dare!”
The object of my earlier attention walks through the French doors, raspberry lips lifted into a wide, knowing smile. Her deep hazel eyes light up with delight as she piles her long hair on top of her head, securing it with a white scrunchie. “Something smells delicious! Mr. Morgan, are you making your famous cookies?”
My wife snorts again into her glass. “Please stop inflating his ego, Lucy. Everyone knows Lawson’s baking is terrible.”
With a sneer thrown my way, she stalks out of the kitchen and upstairs to our bedroom.
Lucy watches my wife disappear before turning mirthful eyes to me. “Someone sounds like she’s in for a wine-induced migraine later,” she whispers, plucking a cookie off the cooling rack and sitting on a stool.
She smells like coconut tanning lotion and something sweet and floral. It makes my pants tighten again, so I turn toward the sink to finish the dishes and hide my evident arousal at her proximity.
I feel like a fucking predator.
“Mmmm,” Lucy moans around a mouthful of cookie, firing up every single synapse in my body. “God, Mr. Morgan, these are so good. I don’t care what anyone else thinks. My mom likes them too. She wants the recipe so she can recreate them on her vlog.”
Chuckling, I shake my head and reach for the dish towel to dry off the last of the mixing bowls. “Family recipe. I’m afraid if I tell you, I’ll have to kill you. And how many times do I have to remind you? Call me Lawson. Or Law. You don’t have to call me ‘mister.’ It makes me feel old.”
Her laughter fills the kitchen, and I throw her a smirk over my shoulder as Rhys walks in.
“Babe, what are you doing? I’m all wet, and I need you to dry me off,” he says suggestively, his gaze ping-ponging between Lucy and me.
I try to ignore the urge to roll my eyes at his blatant attempt to be smooth. I love my son, but he, unfortunately,follows in his mother's footsteps and thinks the world is his oyster and that people were put on this earth to serve him.
