SINFUL TEMPTATION: BOOK 1
MM Romantic Suspense Serial
Excerpt
Marc blows out a breath, flexes his shaking hands—tries, desperately, not to panic.
You can do this.
It’s an affirmation he’s made at least a thousand times since coming to this decision. Everyone does it. You’re no different.
Except everyone does it a lot sooner. Because Marc is twenty-one, and this will be his first time. He swallows past a dry throat and steps farther into the club.
It’s busy, but not overwhelmingly so. He chose a midweek night on purpose. Less chance of getting swallowed by the crowds, of losing his nerve amongst the constant movement and slipping out the nearest door, heading towards another few years of not knowing.
He has to know. That’s what this is all about. He has to know how it feels, if this is truly who he is—and with his life, his restrictions, the rules that sit on his shoulders like blocks of cement…this is the only way.
Pick a bar far enough out, and go for it. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.
It’s a monumental deal, not least because he’s going against every fundamental expectation his parents have laid on him, but right now he’s existing in a place warm with denial and he’ll stay there, wrapped in chants of “You’re okay; you’re gonna be okay” for as long as necessary. Until he can find a guy here and…
Until he can find a man at this club willing to have sex with him.
His heartbeat stumbles, a hitch in his breath, and he propels himself into motion. Heads to the bar and orders the first cocktail he sees on the ginormous menu pinned to the back wall. There’s a mirror behind the wall, illuminated by ice-white strip lighting and strobes from the dance floor, the bottles lining the shelves before it glinting like rainbows. Marc stares into that mirror for a few minutes, sipping his fruity drink, and tries to come up with a plan.
Step one: find someone he likes the look of.
Step two: approach him.
Step three: ???
Step four: have sex.
He sighs and orders a second drink. It’s…not exactly forbidden for him to get drunk, although his parents heavily frown upon it—appearances, you know. Public reputations. The brand. But he figures he can handle two. He’s tall and fairly well built—surely his body can deal with it.
Then again, what does it even matter? He’s here tonight to commit one of the worst sins in his parents’ eyes, at least bad enough for them to have severe heart attacks if they had any idea. Might as well go out with a bang and get hammered as well.
No.
Intoxication won’t help him. For one, he already has no idea what to do when it comes to sex, so it’s hardly a good idea to strip away whatever coordination he possesses. And secondly—well, he wants to remember this. Whatever happens tonight, he wants to keep a crystal-clear, play-by-play recollection of it. He’ll never be able to do this again. The memory is all he’ll have to keep him warm in the long, lonely nights of his future.
When he’s married. To a woman. And expected to produce an heir.
His heart leaps into his throat, as it always does whenever he thinks of his destiny—his life’s path written in stone. He doesn’t have one single shred of choice about his future, because he’s William Malone’s son, and a Malone will never do anything less than set a pristine example of public perfection. It would be reckless, dangerous, to ever—ever—question it. He can look forward to being disowned as only the beginning of the consequences.
The only choice he has is this night. The only chance he has is this night. It’s this, or bust.
You can do this, he tells himself again, stronger this time, and finally turns around to face the club.
The music’s all generic bass and dirty guitars, the DJ up on his podium looking mostly bored. There are a few elevated cages for dancers but no one’s in them, and half the bigger lights around the outskirts of the dance floor are switched off. It’s midweek, and the club is just meandering along. Marc kind of likes it, appreciates that the place isn’t full-on—it gives him a better chance to look, and maybe it means there isn’t as much competition here tonight. That maybe he’ll have a chance with someone, even with the impediment of his own complete inexperience.
The guy—whoever he’ll be—doesn’t have to know about that, though. Fake it till you make it. Marc can pretend, and when he stumbles, when he does it wrong—as he inevitably will—he can blame the alcohol. He’ll never see the person again, so he doesn’t have to worry about long-term shame and embarrassment.
One thing’s for sure—he won’t be rocking anyone’s world tonight.
He scans the crowds, tries to see who looks single and willing. He doesn’t want any drama, doesn’t want to accidentally come between a couple, but neither does he want someone…well, sleazy. The last thing he needs is to end the night feeling dirty. He’s already muddy enough with all this rebellion.
He spots a guy leaning against the base of the DJ’s podium, beer in hand and white shirt unbuttoned midway down his chest. He’s…okay. It’s not as if Marc is in any real position to be picky, and this guy is attractive enough, he supposes. Blond, bronzed skin, a lean frame. He’s not exactly the kind of guy Marc dreams about in his darkest moments, but…
Then the guy sees him looking, and he grins, and it does something twisty to his face that leaves Marc with an unpleasant feeling in his gut. It’s not a face that gives him good vibes, and maybe it’s not what he needs to see looming over him in the shadows later, leering. He blinks and looks away, hopes he comes off as “casually gazing around” rather than “oh god, no”.
Then someone softly clears their throat to the left of him, and he turns to look into the most beautiful face he’s ever seen.
If Marc has a league, then this guy is so far out of it that he’s little more than a speck on the horizon. He’s exquisite, and he’s smiling gently, and there’s a twinkle in his dark eyes that says he knows the effect he’s having right now.
“Hello,” he says, in a voice like a purr made of velvet. Marc can’t breathe. The guy glances to the empty cocktail glass in Marc’s hand and then back up to his face, skirting over his mouth before meeting his eyes again. “Can I buy you a drink?”
That’s how it goes, isn’t it? You go to these bars and you let physically stunning men buy you drinks, and you talk and you flirt and you go back to my place or yours?—except—“No,” says Marc. He can’t have any more to drink. “But thank you.”
The guy blinks at him, his sharp jawline tightening for a moment with something that looks almost like embarrassment. Then he hitches his smile back on, blander now, less alluring. “My apologies,” he says, then tips his head slightly, the strobe lighting catching the glossy strands of black silky hair. It takes Marc a moment to realise the guy is apologising for bothering him, and is about to leave.
“No—I mean—” Marc takes a breath, tries to relax his shoulders. “I’ve had enough to drink,” he clarifies, “but I’m happy to talk.”
The guy’s eyebrows lift just slightly. “Well all right,” he says, and slides in closer. His beaded bracelets clink on the bar as he rests his forearm along the length, close enough to Marc’s waist that if Marc leaned, just a little… “What’s your name?”
Marc swallows. He can’t stop looking at the planes of this man’s face, the elegant angles, the deep pools of his eyes. “I’m Marc.” And then, because he knows how to have a conversation, if nothing else—“And you?”
“Harley.”
Harley. He looks like a Harley, all black silk shirt and skin-tight jeans, boots with all manner of buckles and shiny bits and a belt glinting in the low light. Each cut of material clings to his body like it’s made to show off the perfection of his build, the strong lines and graceful dips and long legs and wide shoulders. And Marc realises, a shockingly humiliating second later, that he’s just blatantly scanned this man’s entire body. His cheeks burn, and Harley laughs a soft, pleasant laugh.
“You don’t do this often, do you?” he asks, not unkindly. Marc winces.
“That obvious?”
Harley makes a considering noise, then steps closer still, tucking himself right into Marc’s space. Marc can feel the warmth of him, the electric current sparking between the inches separating them. He wants to breathe in this man’s scent.
“You can look,” Harley says, his voice lower now, more intimate. His tongue sneaks out to wet his lower lip and Marc is feeling weak. “I want you to look.”
Marc doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing for fear of uttering something entirely inane. He stares into Harley’s darkly twinkling eyes until the intensity of it all becomes too much, and he looks away, down into his empty glass. “Maybe I’ll have a water,” he says, and it’s lame, so fucking lame, but it’s what he needs. His mouth’s dry, his heart thundering, the veins beneath his skin burning too hot.
Harley turns to catch the bartender’s attention. “Can I get a vodka tonic,” he says, “and an ice water for my friend here.”
They stand in silence for a few moments, waiting, until Marc suddenly blurts, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologise,” Harley says, almost as if it’s automatic. He hands Marc the glass of water and takes a delicate sip of his own drink. “But out of interest, why are you sorry?”
The water goes down like heaven; Marc chugs it with little grace, and has to resist the impulse to let out a satisfied gasp after he finishes the lot and wipes the moisture off his top lip. Harley is staring at him, a certain redness to the tops of his cheeks, his glass poised, frozen, midway to his mouth.
Marc puts his glass on the bar and continues, “I just thought I was better at this. You know…talking to people.” He’s certainly well enough trained in communicating with strangers, but it turns out there’s a whole difference between negotiating a boardroom and…well, flirting. “You can find someone else to talk to if you want. I won’t be offended.”
Harley, after a moment, swallows audibly and snaps out of whatever’s got him so frozen in captivation. “You’re doing fine,” he says, and then draws in a wobbly sounding breath. “You’re certainly keeping my interest.” Then he takes a decidedly less elegant gulp of his vodka, and it’s around this moment that realisation dawns on Marc: Harley is affected by him. Whatever Marc is doing, entirely unaware of himself—it’s working. For Harley, it’s working. Marc has appeal.
He straightens his back, feels something almost giddy spread through his chest. He smiles, and Harley, now composed, smiles back.
“So what’s your plan tonight, Marc?”
It’s on the tip of Marc’s tongue to deny a plan, to pretend he doesn’t know. But if he’s gonna have any chance of getting what he wants tonight then he needs to make his shot open and clear. “Honestly?” he asks, and Harley nods, his eyebrow quirking. “I came here to hook up with someone.” It’s the kind of phrase he thought would never pass his lips, and the thrill of it makes his stomach swoop. Hook up. He feels older, suddenly. More worldly.
The corner of Harley’s mouth lifts in something akin to a smirk. “I figured that much,” he purrs, before swigging down the last of his drink and placing his glass on the bar. It leaves his hands free, and he reaches one out to brush the back of his knuckles, ever so gently, against the loose material of Marc’s shirt at his waist. “Anyone catch your eye?”
It’s fishing. A ploy for flattery. Harley knows, of course—Marc isn’t hiding anything here, especially not after that almost-touch against his waist, stealing his breath and making his skin warm. “You don’t need me to answer that.”
“Hmm,” Harley says, low and quick. He tips forward slightly into Marc’s space, his arm pressing against Marc’s for a hot second. “Are you flirting with me, Marc?”
He’s trying to? “Um,” he says, and Harley flashes him a dazzling grin.
“You’re pretty when you blush.”
And…now he’s blushing even more, heat spreading to make his ears warm and the back of his neck tingle. He has a brief, wild moment of wondering what Harley would do if he suddenly leaned forward and touched him. “I don’t really know what I’m doing,” he admits, but it’s no surprise to anyone. He’s already said as much. He gathers up all the wisps of courage drifting in the corners of his body and tries for something bold: “Maybe you could teach me something.”
Harley’s eyes sparkle. After a moment of consideration, he says, “Touch me,” and Marc’s entire stomach somersaults.
“What?”
“Just here,” Harley says, pulling his sleeve up a little to expose a larger spread of skin at his wrist, decorated with beads. “Trace your fingers over it…just gently…”
Marc swallows, takes a breath, rests his arm along the bar top so he’s close to Harley’s. Swallows his urge to punk out and lifts his hand, touches the tips of his fingers to the smooth skin at the back of Harley’s hand and then up, hesitantly, over his wrist. Just the ghost of a touch, enough for him to feel it spread through his blood. He notices a freckle on the knob of bone at Harley’s wrist and for one inexplicable second, he’s fascinated by it.
“Now say something to me while you’re doing it,” Harley instructs, his voice dipping lower, thicker. “Look me in the eye. The touch should be a distraction, a tease…not the focus.”
Marc’s next breath is stuttered. He looks into Harley’s eyes as instructed and almost stumbles over his own tongue, heartbeat thundering in his throat. “I, uh…” He traces his fingers back and forth over Harley’s wrist, a slow, sweet brush of skin against skin. “I don’t know what to say.”
Harley’s throat rolls with a swallow, the patch of skin visible at the base of his throat going a sinful red. “It doesn’t matter what it is,” he murmurs, turning his wrist over so Marc can drift fingers over his pulse point. “Compliment me on something. Keep eye contact.”
The eye contact is easy—intense, but easy, because Marc doesn’t really know how to look away. He wets his lips, tries to find some strength in his voice. His words come out croaked regardless. “You…you’re way too attractive for me.”
Harley smiles, soft and gentle, and shifts his hand so he can trace his fingers across Marc’s palm. “A compliment doesn’t mean putting yourself down,” he says. “And that’s not true, anyway. Let me show you.” He steps forward, so crowded into Marc’s space that their chests are a hairsbreadth away from touching. “I saw you when you first came in,” he murmurs, laying a hand on Marc’s chest, over his racing heart. “Watched you from across the room. But I couldn’t come over right away,” he says, voice dropping impossibly lower. His hand moves, a tantalising glide across Marc’s chest, until he’s got the top shirt button between his fingers, teasing… “I could barely remember how to breathe. Could hardly even think…” He pops the shirt button open, slides the very tips of his fingers beneath the material, and Marc—he’s pretty much fucking gone.
“You’re, uh…” His voice is strained, his whole body burning up. “You’re very good at that,” he manages, and Harley looks like he wants to smirk, but doesn’t.
“How’re you feeling?”
“Hot,” he admits without hesitation, still feeling the brand of Harley’s touch on the bare skin of his chest
Harley pauses. And then, with an obvious stutter to his confidence, an endearing chip in his armour: “You want to stay here and learn some more?” he asks. “Or…?”
There’s dark challenge in his eyes, cutting deep with excitement. Anticipation.
Marc almost freezes. All of a sudden, the enormity of his decision plunges through his chest like a freight train. But he holds it down, lets it wash away on a wave of want. He’s come this far. “You live close by?”
Harley really does smirk this time, wickedly pleased.