Sinfully Yours (The Forbidden Attraction #9)

1. Ava

1

AVA

T here's a kind of magic in the air at weddings. It clings to the late summer breeze, weaves between twinkling fairy lights, settles in the clinking of champagne glasses and the low hum of a string quartet. It's in the way people lean closer, caught in the illusion that for one perfect night, love is effortless and inevitable.

That's possibly how I should be feeling as well. After all, my eldest brother just married the love of his life beneath an archway of white roses, with a vineyard stretching endlessly behind them like something out of a Nicholas Sparks novel.

It was beautiful, and I may have teared up once or twice—not that I'd ever admit it to Dean. But now, standing in the reception hall, suffocated by the sheer weight of my brothers' expectations, all I feel is trapped.

"Come on, Ava, he's a good guy."

Ryan, slightly younger than Dean, leans insufferably against the cocktail table, arms crossed over his broad chest, green eyes twinkling with barely restrained amusement.

His tie is long gone, his sleeves rolled up to reveal the kind of forearms that make women in romance novels weak in the knees—at least according to his last girlfriend, who gushed about them in what I assume was meant to be a private Instagram post.

I shoot him a withering glare. "So is my dentist, but you don't see me rushing to make out with him."

Dean, standing beside him, is considerably less relaxed. He's still in full Responsible Eldest Brother mode—tie perfectly knotted, suit crisp, brow furrowed in what I call his Dad Face. A face he's perfected ever since our actual dad passed away, leaving him to step into the role of unofficial patriarch and official pain in my ass.

And then there's Nate, the youngest Bennett brother after me. He's watching this whole exchange like it's the best entertainment of the evening, sipping his drink with a lazy smirk, his baseball cap swapped for perfectly mussed brown hair.

If Ryan is the charming, reckless one and Dean is the overbearing leader, Nate is the wildcard—the one who stays just enough on the sidelines to get away with everything.

I, meanwhile, am their collective problem. The baby of the family, the only girl, the one they still treat like I might crack under the weight of adult responsibilities despite the fact that I am a functioning, employed, tax-paying human being.

And tonight, my greatest crime is not being interested in Andrew Wallace, their latest offering to the sacrificial altar of my love life.

"Andrew is successful." Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, shooting Ryan a please be serious look before turning back to me. "He owns multiple properties. He's mature?—"

"He's boring," I deadpan, plucking a flute of champagne from a passing tray. "And last time we spoke, he explained compound interest to me like I was a particularly slow child. Hard pass."

Dean sighs, the kind of sigh that says I can't believe I'm wasting my wedding night on this conversation. But he brought this upon himself. He and Ryan have been determined to shove me into the arms of some well-meaning, financially stable man ever since I turned twenty-four and officially entered what they consider spinster territory.

"Just talk to him," Dean pleads, as if Andrew's very survival depends upon my conversational skills.

Before I can tell them exactly where they can shove their matchmaking attempts, I spot my escape—a group of women calling Emily, my new sister-in-law, onto the dance floor.

"This has been fun," I lie, setting my untouched champagne on the table. "Really, it has. But I need to go celebrate our dear Emily before she realizes she's legally stuck with this family and bolts."

Ryan smirks. "You mean you're running away before Andrew finds you."

I don't dignify that with a response. Instead, I turn on my heel and make my way across the reception hall, my dress swishing around my legs. Killer dress, in fact.

That's what Emily called it when I stepped out of the bridal suite earlier, and I have to admit, she wasn't wrong. Deep indigo satin, a little daring, it’s perfectly tailored to my curves. It’s the kind of dress that makes me feel powerful, untouchable.

Or at least it should… until I spot him.

Liam Carter, Dean's best friend, is laughing with a group of Dean's college friends near the open bar, looking every bit as devastating as I remember. A tailored navy suit clings to his broad shoulders, his crisp white shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at tanned skin beneath it.

Dark brown hair, slightly tousled, the beginnings of silver dusting his temples in a way that only makes him more unfairly attractive. And then there's his smile—that damn lopsided grin, lazy and confident, like he's always in on some private joke.

I don't realize I've stopped walking until he glances my way, his gaze catching mine across the room.

For a second—just one unbearable, stomach-flipping second—his expression changes. The amusement fades, replaced by something heavier. His blue eyes trace over me, lingering in a way that sends a slow, simmering heat curling low in my stomach.

And then it's gone. He blinks, his mask slipping back into place, and turns away, laughing at something one of the guys said.

I exhale, my pulse hammering against my ribs.

Nope. Not doing this.

Liam Carter is off-limits. Always has been, always will be. I square my shoulders and make my way toward the bar, my throat suddenly dry.

On reaching the bar, I order something strong enough to erase the last five minutes from my memory.

The bartender slides me a whiskey sour, the glass cool against my fingertips, condensation slipping down in lazy rivulets. I lift it to my lips, and the scents of caramelized oak and bright citrus fill my senses.

The first sip spreads through me like liquid gold—rich and laced with velvety warmth, sharpened by the tart bite of lemon and softened by a whisper of sugar. It rolls over my tongue, golden and smoky, leaving behind a decadent warmth—just what I need right now.

It's fine. I saw Liam, he looked at me, I imagined the whole lingering-stare thing, and now I'm moving on with my evening. No big deal.

Except, of course, before I can fully recover, Emily materializes at my side in a swirl of silk and jasmine-scented perfume, eyes twinkling like she knows every single thought that just ran through my head.

"Ooh, you look dangerous tonight," she purrs, stealing my drink and taking a sip before I can protest. "Honestly, if I weren't already married to your brother, I'd be worried about my own self-control."

I roll my eyes but can't help grinning. "Not the goal, but thank you."

Emily tilts her head, assessing me with the kind of knowing smirk that only a woman who has survived the Bennett Brother Gauntlet can pull off. She leans in conspiratorially. "So, how many times has Dean tried to sell you off to Andrew tonight?"

I groan. "At least four. I think he's ready to start throwing in bonus incentives, like a family discount or a free year of my terrible baking."

Emily snickers. "That poor man. He has no idea what he's up against." Her voice drops as she nudges me playfully. "But on the bright side, someone else has been watching you all night, and it's definitely not Andrew."

I arch a brow. "Oh?"

She sips from my glass again, eyes flicking somewhere over my shoulder before landing back on me with a knowing glint. "Mm-hmm. Tall, dark, and broody, standing by the bar looking like he's trying very hard not to look."

My stomach tightens. "Liam?"

Emily hums in agreement. "I'd say it's nothing, but every time you're in the same orbit, he gets this whole ‘I'm-in-control-but-also-secretly-in-crisis' thing going on."

I scoff, shaking my head. "That's just his face."

She laughs. "Sure, keep telling yourself that." Then, with a little wink, she hands my drink back and sashays onto the dance floor, leaving me standing there flustered and slightly off-kilter.

I take another sip and square my shoulders, determined to rejoin the reception, enjoy myself, and—above all—avoid my brothers' latest attempt to auction me off. But just as I turn, fate decides to be spectacularly unhelpful.

Because standing directly in my path, holding two glasses of wine and beaming like a golden retriever in a suit, is Andrew.

"Ava! There you are." He thrusts one of the glasses at me before I can escape. "I was just telling your brothers that we haven't had a chance to catch up properly."

Damn it, Dean.

I take the wine out of politeness, but I already know I won't drink it. "Oh! Right. Well, you know weddings. So much happening, so little time."

Andrew doesn't pick up on the please let me leave undertone. Instead, he launches into what I can only assume is his TED Talk on real estate acquisitions, complete with market trends, zoning laws, and interest rates that are simply fascinating if you think about it.

I do not think about it.

I think about escape routes. I think about Emily laughing at me from across the dance floor. I think about whether God is punishing me for that time I accidentally shoplifted a lip balm in middle school.

And then—like an actual miracle—I feel a warm, steady hand slide around my waist.

"Babe."

The voice is smooth, lazy, completely self-assured. And attached to the one man who absolutely should not be touching me.

I freeze. So does Andrew.

And just like that, Liam Carter is standing beside me, casual as anything, arm wrapped around my waist like it belongs there. He's looking at me, not Andrew, but there's amusement dancing in his eyes, and—God help me—a damn smirk playing on his lips.

"Sorry I took so long," he murmurs, like this is a thing we do all the time, like he knows my body intimately instead of just… knowing my brothers and tormenting me for fun.

I don't have the mental bandwidth to process any of this, so I do what any rational woman in my position would do. I go completely still and let my brain short-circuit.

Andrew blinks. "Oh." A pause, then a slightly forced smile. "I… didn't realize you two were?—"

Liam tilts his head, tightening his hold on me just slightly. "Together?"

I can actually hear the laugh in his voice.

Andrew looks between us, clearly recalculating everything. I should correct this. I should say something. But my mouth refuses to cooperate, and Liam, fully aware of my temporary paralysis, chooses violence.

He turns to me, eyes warm, voice teasing. "You okay, sweetheart?"

Oh, he's enjoying this.

And that is what finally jump-starts my system.

I glare up at him, careful to keep my smile in place. "Perfect," I say through clenched teeth.

Liam's smirk deepens.

Andrew exhales a laugh, nodding politely. "Well, that's… great! I guess your brothers will be relieved to hear you're off the market."

I almost choke. Oh, my brothers will be relieved, all right. Relieved of Liam's pulse once they hear about this.

Liam chuckles, giving my waist one last squeeze before finally letting me go. "Good seeing you, man."

Andrew nods, takes the hint, and departs, leaving me alone with my traitor of a fake boyfriend.

I round on him. "What?—"

"You're welcome," he drawls, already walking away.

I swear to God, one of these days, I'm going to kill him.

But not before I figure out why the way he just touched me still lingers on my skin.

It takes me a bit to compose myself, but when I'm finally stable enough, I join everyone on the dance floor. I dance with Emily, with my aunts, with Nate, who dramatically dips me halfway through a song and nearly drops us both. I even dance with Ryan, who pretends not to notice when I steal his drink mid-spin.

I do not dance with Liam.

But I feel him.

Every glance, every brush of awareness. It's like there's a current running beneath my skin, a quiet, insistent whisper that builds each time I catch him watching me from across the room. And I do catch him. Again and again.

He's careful. Strategic. But I know when a man is looking at me.

And the way Liam Carter looks at me tonight? It's different.

It's risky.

By the time the reception winds down, my pulse is an erratic, restless thing, and I know I need air. Space. An escape. But before I can slip away, a warm hand wraps around my wrist.

I freeze.

Then I look up to see Liam's gaze fixed on my mouth. His fingers tighten just slightly. "Come with me."

It's not a request.

My brain is already forming a response—something sharp, something dismissive—but my body betrays me. My feet move. I follow.

We weave through the crowd, past the glowing lanterns and the last few drunken couples swaying lazily on the dance floor. The vineyard stretches out ahead of us, dark and sprawling, the grapevines silhouetted beneath a sliver of moonlight.

Liam doesn't stop until we're tucked into the shadows, hidden from view. Only then does he release me, exhaling like he's been holding something back all night.

I huff out a breath, looking up at him, at the sharp line of his jaw, at the barely restrained frustration in his ocean-blue eyes. "What do you want from me, Liam?"

"I want you to stop letting your brothers decide your life for you." His voice is quiet. "I want you to stop pretending you don't hate it."

I flinch. Because of course, he's right.

And I do hate it. The constant meddling, the way my brothers—whom I love—still see me as something fragile, something to be handled rather than respected.

But it's easier to let them believe they know what's best for me than to fight them on it. Because fighting means proving I can stand on my own, and proving means risking failure.

So I do what I always do—I deflect.

"Thanks for the unsolicited life advice," I say breezily. "Now, if we're done with the emotionally enlightening portion of the evening, I'd like to get back to my?—"

"You drive me crazy."

My breath catches. "Excuse me?"

Liam exhales harshly, dragging a hand down his face. "Every damn time I see you, Ava. You drive me crazy."

What in the sinful, slow-burn hell is this?

I should say something. Should make a joke. Should step back. But I don't.

Because Liam is still looking at me like that, like he knows me. Like he sees me.

And then, before I can second-guess it, before I can even breathe, he kisses me.

It's not tentative. It's not careful.

It's desperate.

Liam's hands slide into my hair, fingers tangling as he tilts my head and takes. His mouth is hot and demanding, all raw heat and tension.

I gasp against him, my hands fisting in the fabric of his suit jacket, and God, he tastes like whiskey and something richer, something darker. The kind of thing I could get drunk on.

The vineyard fades. The wedding. My brothers.

It's just us.

Just this.

And I don't want him to stop.

Not now. Not ever.

But then, Liam does stop.

Abruptly, like the kiss burned him.

He pulls back, chest rising and falling, eyes stormy and conflicted.

I reach for him, still breathless, still reeling. "Liam?—"

"This was a mistake."

His voice is hoarse. Final.

And before I can say another word—before I can even process what just happened—he turns and walks away.

Leaving me standing there, heart racing, mind spinning, wondering what the hell just happened.