Page 3 of Forbidden

I straighten my back, determination renewed.

‘I’ll give you one guess.’

The words are purred, and before he can answer I step forward, my hand on his chest pushing him out of the way so that I can move past him, into the elegant hallway of his penthouse.

He’s been here almost a year, but the place still looks like a hotel suite. The same generic, fashionable, expensive décor that all our homes boast. Luxurious, tasteful, impersonal. There is no mark of Manning’s possession here. No sign of his tastes and proclivities, no indication of what he’s interested in.

The door clicks shut behind me and I turn around slowly. Manning stands with his hands on his

hips, his sleeves rolled to his elbows so it’s very easy to admire the golden tan of his skin, the beauty of his forearms. Arms that have been wrapped around my body tight, like a prison. Arms that I have traced lines over with my tongue, tasting his salty flesh. He wears the gold Rolex that was a gift for his seventeenth birthday.

I’d known him only three months then. I was already in love.

His shirt is unbuttoned at the collar. I stare at his throat and my mouth goes dry. I fantasise about running my tongue from his lips to his chin and lower, to the cleft at the base of his jaw.

I have been planning this since my agent booked this gig, since I knew I would be in the same city as him. I have planned this night and yet now that I’m here, faced with him, a kaleidoscope of butterflies dance in my belly and my knees are trembling.

‘Astra.’

It’s a heavy sigh. His frown seems locked to his face. His handsome face. All huge eyes, so dark they are almost black, framed by thick lashes, a nose that is straight and prominent, cheekbones and a jaw that are carved as if from stone, and a mouth that has been designed to pleasure and to please. His jaw is covered in stubble. Not a fashionable stubble, carefully cultivated to suit an image. This is distraction. Laziness. A five o’clock shadow on speed.

‘Well, stepbrother,’ I murmur, my voice just a husk in this huge apartment. The Eiffel Tower sparkles beyond the balcony. ‘Aren’t you going to kiss me hello?’

His eyes blink closed and I know then that I’ve got him. That he is fighting me again like he has done for years—with the exception of that one night in New York.

Victory dances along my spine. This is going to happen. And I’m going to enjoy it.

‘Is that what you want?’

He opens his eyes, spearing me, and the heat in his gaze unfurls like a whip.

No way. He doesn’t get to flip this around. He’s not asking the questions; I am.

I glide towards him, lifting a hand under the strap of my dress as I go, dropping it down my shoulder just enough to make him look there. To make him look at my skin, remember how I taste and feel.

‘You’re so fucking soft,’ he had groaned as he nuzzled my flesh, tasting every inch of me. ‘Just how I dreamed you’d be.’

And then he left. After making my body writhe with ecstasy, birthing in me a belief in heaven and God and angels and the ever-after because his possession of me had been so perfect. He’d left.

Well, tonight I’m repaying that favour. I’m going to make him feel better than he’s ever felt and then I’ll leave him.

‘Tonight’s about what you want, Manning.’

CHAPTER FOUR

IF HER STRAP DROPS another inch I’ll see the top of her breast, and suddenly I need to see it more than I can say.

I have to ask her to leave. To throw her out on that perfect arse of hers.

Proximity is danger; but do I care?

‘Is it?’ The question is gravelled and gruff, my words showing my frustration. But it’s not frustration with her so much as how wrong this is and how incapable I seem of avoiding it.

She nods slowly, the simple movement a sensual promise, her hooded eyes latched to mine. ‘Tell me what you want.’

I want her to go; I need her to stay.

I want her to not be my fucking stepsister—my dad’s adopted daughter.

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