Sweet Temptation Read online

  Gotta love delusional romantics.

  “I’ll never settle down, Brittany.” It’s the truth, but I say it like an unfortunate mantra.

  “You never know,” she whispers, angling toward me.

  She wants to be the one who settles me. They all do. I’ve been honest with her, just as I am with all of them. I can’t help it if she wants to fool herself.

  I turn my head, catching a glint of the night’s stars in her eyes.

  “What do you want from life, Kaidan?” she asks.

  I want to stay alive.

  I take the drink from her hand and set it down. “All I want right now, Brittany, is you.”

  Today is my birthday, and I’m prepared to use that fact as a wild card, but it’s not necessary. She is mush. Her aura is on spin cycle. I slide one hand around her waist and pull her hip to mine. I ignore her guardian angel, who has gone frantic above her. She lets out a whimpering breath and I kiss her. She molds to me, ripe to my touch. Things escalate more quickly than I expected—I thought I’d have to be the initiator, but her hands are all over me. She is clearly ignoring her guardian angel’s whispers to run, run, as fast as she can. Most people aren’t in tune with their angels, and that works to my advantage. Her hands are everywhere.

  “God, Brittany, I need you.”

  Her chest heaves as she takes in air. “Where can we go?”

  Hell yes.

  I look up to the house and focus my hearing on the upstairs bedrooms. All occupied. Shite. Then I catch a conversation in the dining room. . . .

  “I can’t find her. Derek says he saw her go off with the drummer. He said that guy’s bad news.”

  “Oh, freaking great. Just what we need. She finally breaks up with Douchebag and now she’s gonna get her heart broken by Mr. One-Night Stand.”

  Fantastic. The vigilante friend patrol. And they know their little Brittany well. They’ll be out here any moment.

  “I know it’s not ideal, but we can go to my car if you’d like.”

  She nods. I take her hand and we walk quickly around the side of the house. I’ve parked my SUV away from everyone else—you never know when you’ll need a bit of privacy.

  I click the button to unlock the doors, help her into the massive backseat, and step in behind her. We pick right up where we left off. Soon we are both in our comfort zones, naked. She suddenly hesitates.

  This is where most blokes bung it up. Many girls experience a moment of moral hesitancy when their blasted angel’s whispers faintly break through, causing them to face the reality that they just met me and this might not be the best idea.

  “I’ve only been with one guy,” she tells me, breathing hard. “We were together a long time. I don’t usually . . . you know . . . this is not like me.”

  Most fellows push, pressure, guilt, whatever. But this is where I’m golden. I nod as if I respect what she’s divulged.

  “We don’t have to, Brittany,” I say as I begin nuzzling against her, giving her a preview of my strong hips, my ability to move them. “We can stop.” I begin to pull away.

  “No!” She nearly panics, clutching me close. “Don’t stop. I just . . . I need you to know.”

  “I understand,” I whisper against her lips. “You’re a good girl.”

  She kisses me with renewed passion, as if I have seen into her soul and understand her like no one else.

  And so I keep going, and I make it worth her while. I give her plenty to tell her friends tomorrow, though it’ll likely be followed up days later with tears when she realizes I’m never going to call—that I won’t acknowledge her when she shows at my next gig. Because she’s not “the one.” I tried to warn her.

  “The one” does not exist for Kaidan Rowe.

  Only the right now. Only feeding the urges. Only my survival matters.

  I’m surprised to see a limo in the driveway when I return home—I had thought Father was staying in New York for work. Being the vice president of Pristine Publications means nonstop parties with models, actors, and various supporters of the rich and famous porn industry. I wonder for the millionth time why he chose to live in Atlanta rather than New York City, and then with a twist of my gut I’m reminded.

  Madame Marissa.

  I hear her nauseating, lazy laughter when I push my hearing into the house. I want to turn my car around, but I know Father has heard me by now. He’s always listening. He’s the one who taught me to be constantly on the lookout. He’s the one who taught me everything I know.

  He’s the Duke of Lust. Known to demons as Pharzuph. Known to humans as Richard Rowe. And he chose to make his home near the most sinister human bitch that ever lived—leader of the largest sex trafficking ring in the Southern states. The two of them go way back, having met in the U.K. Father even brought her and several of her older girls over to help with my carnal training when I first turned eleven.

  I’ve never hated someone as much as I hate Marissa.

  I grit my teeth and take my sweet-arse time getting out and trudging in through the giant doors.

  I want to go straight down to my room in the basement, but I’d be smacked in the skull for slighting our “guest.” So I paste a polite expression on my face and enter the heated sun porch beside the indoor pool. The room is as lush with plants as a damn jungle and smells like chlorine and tropical flowers.

  There are plenty of lounging chairs, but Marissa is sat on Father’s lap. Her guardian angel looks resolute, if not a bit worn, beside her. I actually feel bad for the spirit, especially since a peevish demon whisperer is circling it like a giant gnat.

  Marissa’s black hair reaches her hips, and her giant breasts are about to tumble out of her black scoop-neck dress, a sight that does nothing for me. Bloodred lips match her creepily long nails, and she gasps when she sees me.

  “Look at him, Richie . . . he looks more like you every time I see him.”

  Father nods, looking me over and tipping his nose up, probably to check the air around me, to be sure I’d done my job for the night. His sense of smell is astounding.

  I nod back. “Father. Marissa. I hope you’re well.”

  “It’s only two in the morning,” Father says. “Early night for you. How many’d you get?”

  Damn it. “One,” I admit. I would have stayed out if I’d known they’d be here.

  “Not much of a birthday celebration,” Marissa says. Of course she would remember my “special” day.

  Father looks from her to me. “Is it March thirty-first already?”

  Marissa laughs and swats his shoulder before looking at me again. “Seventeen looks nice on you. And you’ll only get better as you age.”

  I choose to ignore this. “Mates threw me a party last night since we had a gig tonight,” I lie.

  Marissa stands and saunters toward me on high heels. She’s in her late thirties. She’s pale as porcelain. Avoiding the sun has been good for her skin. If she weren’t so evil I’d think she was hot.

  She comes too close and looks up at me with a pout. I know what she wants. She fancies a kiss, which I never voluntarily give to her. I lean down to quickly peck her cheek, but she grabs the back of my neck with viper claws and takes my mouth with a satisfied sound. No tongue, thank God, but she takes my bottom lip between hers and suckles it. I’m certain her lipstick is all over me now.

  Father chuckles at the ridiculous display, as if Marissa is an auntie pinching my cheeks, not molesting my mouth.

  “Madame has a job for you, son,” he says from his lounging position.

  This causes Marissa to release my lip and turn for her purse. I take the opportunity to wipe my lips with the back of my hand and school my face to hide the revulsion I feel.

  “I’ve a new niece coming from Hungary in a couple months.” Marissa has taken a photo from her purse, and she crosses her arms while she explains the fate of a girl who was either stolen from or sold by her desperate family. “A valued client has requested a virgin, so she is to stay innocent.”
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br />   She hands me the picture and I blink several times, rocking back on my heels. The girl can’t be older than eleven. She hasn’t even begun developing. She’s frail and tiny with stringy blond hair and big doe eyes. Father watches me with expectancy and Marissa clicks her long nails together, a familiar sound that follows me into nightmares.

  For the first time ever my disgust overrides my fear.

  “She’s a bloody child,” I spout without thinking.

  Father sits up, his forehead pinching at my minor outburst.

  Marissa snatches the picture back, but her eyes are amused. “She is old enough.”

  Father stands and walks over now, taking the picture. “She’s not that young. And her age is not your concern.” I hear the edge of warning in his voice, a sound that feels like shards of ice. He’d kill me in a second. I have no doubt of that.

  “We’re not asking you to have sex with her,” Marissa croons. “We just don’t want her too terrified when her new owner touches her. Some buyers like that, but not this one.”

  Ugh! I don’t want to touch her at all.

  When it comes to girls my age and older women, I’m down for anything. But this is disgusting. Father deals with lust of all kinds—he’s into the sickest shit out there—but I cannot, I will not, physically force myself to be attracted to a child.

  “Looks like your boy’s more plain vanilla than you thought,” Marissa mutters.

  “He’ll be fine when the girl arrives, luv,” Father assures her, eyeing me. “He’ll do what needs to be done.”

  Fuuuuck. Will I? I think of the little girl’s face again, and my stomach cramps.

  No. I won’t. This is not good. I’ve crossed a lot of lines in my life to make Father happy and prove my worth, but this is different.

  Maybe the picture is old. I can only hope, because I don’t want to find out what consequences he has in store if I lose my usefulness to the demonic cause. I should have known breaking hearts wouldn’t be enough.

  “Yes.” Devil woman runs her nails down my arm. “He always does what needs to be done.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Strange Girl

  “My devil loves your angel, you can’t take that away . . .

  See if she’ll take her halo off, if only for today.”

  —“Devil’s Love Song” by Tishamingo

  I am still pissed off when I get to the club. When we parted this evening, Father’s face was tight as he reminded me it’s now May and the child will be arriving soon. In the two months since I turned seventeen and showed defiance about the young girl, Father has been pushing me. Testing me. Nothing is good enough.

  We stand backstage and Raj is adding more gel to his fauxhawk, staring in the mirror and pinching the tips of his hair. His eyes are bloodshot from the spliff he just smoked. “What’s wrong with you?” he asks.

  I shake my head and look away. I can’t exactly tell him my father’s a demon, that he expects me to do horrible things. No humans know what I really am.

  I’m still trying to scrub the image of the enslaved girl from my mind as we take the stage. It does me no good to think about her, or the hundreds of others like her who I’ve hurt already.

  Don’t feel.

  Don’t think.

  Don’t acknowledge it’s real. Just go through the motions, like always.

  I slide onto my stool and twirl the drumsticks, savoring the familiar feel of the cool, smooth wood between my fingers. Deep breaths. Time to clear my head in the only way I know how. Sitting behind the drums, I am myself. The real me. Even during sex I cannot completely let go—I am hyperaware. Music is the only way.

  I look out at the packed house. Girls screaming, jumping up and down in front of the stage. Loads of skin on show.

  This I can do.

  Starting with feather taps and working my way across the set, I rip a line of beats to warm up. Immediately the energy in the room changes, heightens. Conversations hush and heads turn toward the stage, then voices buzz back to life louder than before. A wicked beat can change the entire atmosphere in a room. Michael, feeling it too, shoots me a grin before checking his cords and mic. I feel eyes on me, heating my blood. Yeah, a good beat is sexy. Makes people wanna move their bodies . . . their hips. . . .

  Plain vanilla my arse.

  Damn it. I have to stop thinking about that.

  Michael throws his strap over a shoulder, electric guitar slung low. He picks off a few notes, eyeing Raj on bass until they both nod, satisfied with the sync.

  When we’re set, Michael motions the DJ, who tells the room to give it up for Lascivious. And they do. Nice and loud.

  I purposely don’t eye the energized crowd as Michael takes to the mic with the welcome. I have to focus. Can’t be distracted by all the chicks and their curves.

  Michael gives me the go with a flick of his chin and I raise the sticks above my head to count us in.

  “One, two, three, four!” Bam.

  First song is high energy, throwing me into a chop out and ending with muscle burn. All the shit in my life disappears and there’s only the creation of beats—beats that vibrate from soul to soul across the room, bringing flesh to life, every cell thumping in a rhythm they can barely contain. We’re on fire.

  I imagine joy is something akin to this. Just letting go.

  My forehead is already damp by the end of the first song. I push my hair aside and get set for the second song, which begins slower.

  When the room settles I start on the warm cymbal, a shushing buildup to a quiet beat. Michael always makes it to second base with the microphone when he sings this ballad bit. And then the real fun begins—dramatic silent pause and stillness, followed by a raw, all-out punishment of the drums, screamed lyrics, and a high-decibel refrain loud enough to rip the rafters from the roof.

  This is The Zone. The place where I can truly breathe.

  My body takes over, and hit after hit falls just right until the crash of the cymbals. I whirl the drumsticks over my head with a flourish, then tuck them under my arm.

  Damn, what a rush. I feel good. Focused. Until my stupid hair catches in my eyes and I can’t blink it away. I swat it aside. We have a minute before the next song while Michael bullshits with the fans a bit, keeping them worked up.

  Two girls in front shout my name. Mother Nature has blessed them both with perfect tits, and they, in turn, bless us all by wearing tiny shirts. Such kindness deserves a grin. Maybe they’ll make it backstage later. I shift on the stool as I imagine it.

  Argh. Stay focused.

  The third song begins. Raj picks the tune on his bass line, and then I come in strong, willing myself to get lost in the intricate details. When it ends I quiet the tinging cymbals between my fingers. With a tilt of my head I flick the hair from my eyes and grab my water bottle from the floor.

  I scan the crowd, attempting not to check out the gorgeous cleavage display for the time being, hoping to avoid the faces of a few girls who’ve been stalking me. But my scanning skids to a halt at the sight of a fresh-faced blonde staring right at me. She’s a complete doll with a wild mane of long hair and a spicy red aura. But the bit I notice next sends an iced razor down my spine.

  Bloody hell . . . is that a badge on her chest? I stare in disbelief at the small, round supernatural burst of light emanating from the core of her torso. It isn’t black like most badges—it’s a dark yellow swirled with white. I’m suddenly stiff and on guard, imagining the knife in the ankle of my left boot. I search around the strange girl, looking for a possible guardian angel, but she has none.

  Shit. A bloody fucking Neph is at my gig. Sent by my father, no doubt.

  SHIT!

  I try to swallow but can’t, so I force down a few gulps of water. For half a moment I forget where the fuck I am. Then Michael is giving me the go for the next song. I drop the bottle to the floor and pull the sticks from under my arm.

  I’ve lost all focus. I don’t know how I stay on beat. I glance over to keep an eye on th
e Neph, but she’s gone, pushing her way through the crowd. What is she up to? It takes every ounce of self-control not to abandon the band and follow her. She goes into the loo, but it’s likely a ruse. I thought I knew every Neph close to my age, but I’ve never seen her. I’d remember that face. That hair.

  I silently curse the song for being so long, but at least it’s our last before the next band comes on. I shove my auditory senses over the massive crowd and straight into the girls’ loo. I listen, trying to make sense of the silly conversation while thrashing out the backbone of the song.

  “I heard that guy Kaidan has gonorrhea.”

  I miss a beat and my bandmates shoot me questioning glares. I can’t remember the last time I’ve dicked up a song, but I’m too concentrated on the bathroom drama.

  Gonorrhea?

  Clearly the Neph is trying to keep the other girls from coming backstage to meet me. Fewer obstacles in her way as she attempts to find me and . . . do what? Kill me? Test me somehow for Father and the other Dukes?

  And now what is she going on about? She’s taking back what she’d said about me and apologizing? What the . . . ? This doesn’t make a bit of sense.

  Finally the blasted song is wrapping up and I can put an end to this rubbish.

  The blond Neph heads back into the club just as we’re rushed off the platform. I keep my hearing tight around the girl as I walk backstage. She meets up with some guy called Jay. Their conversation sounds ordinary. She’s a good actress, but she can’t fool me.

  Anna. He calls her Anna.

  Jay is taking “Anna” backstage. Perfect. I feel the weight of my knife in my boot as Michael, Raj, and Bennett high-five down the hall and bump shoulders next to me.

  Time to play, little Neph.

  Ah, cripe. Three local models are waiting for me backstage. I forgot I’d invited them. My mind is too preoccupied to fully appreciate the females encircling me as I sense the Anna girl walking in with two human boys.