Chapter 1
Brielle
Six Years Later
“Please, harder!”
Theo nods, and his arms come down on either side of my head.
For a moment, I think, This is it—he’s finally going to give me what I need.
Until he gently glides inside me. His mouth curves against mine, and his tongue slides in. And I can’t help thinking that he kisses the same way he fucks—like I have a handle with care sticker attached to my forehead.
I try to shift my hips, hoping to somehow find the sweet spot that will send me over the edge, but it’s nowhere to be found.
“Harder,” I beg, craving the release that I already know I’m not going to get—at least not until he’s done and I’m alone in the bathroom so I can do it myself.
“I’m trying,” he says, his face scrunching up, as if it physically pains him just to think about doing what I’m asking of him. “But I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You’re not going to hurt me,” I tell him, pushing him off me and clambering back, wishing I had never confided in him.
“Brielle,” he sighs as he edges off the bed and runs his fingers through his dirty-blond hair.
He’s still partly dressed, his shirt unbuttoned and his pants undone.
He stuffs his still-hard cock back inside.
“I’m trying, but you’re asking me to do things I’m not comfortable with.
I love you. I’m never going to hurt you. You’ve been through a lot and …”
I stumble off the bed, taking the sheet with me to cover myself up.
“I was there,” I hiss. “I was the one who was thrown onto the bed and held down while a man I despised raped me. So, don’t tell me what I’ve been through and what I need.”
I turn my back on Theo and stomp into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me.
“Brielle, please,” he says through the door as I grab my clothes and get dressed. “Come back out here so we can talk about this.”
“I don’t want to talk!” I bark. “I wanted to fuck … hard, but you ruined the mood.”
The same way he always ruins the mood.
Not that there was ever really a mood to begin with.
Especially after I made the mistake of telling him about my past.
I’d woken up from a nightmare after falling asleep at his place one night—until then, since I’d never spent the night with anyone, I hadn’t realized that when I had a nightmare, I spoke and screamed out loud.
When he asked me what was wrong, I was shaken up and vulnerable, and I told him what had happened to me six years ago.
Before my admission, our sex life hadn’t been all that good, but after he found out I had been raped and forced to have an abortion, it only got worse.
Missionary.
Slowly.
Gently.
And God forbid I attempt to suck his dick.
I once tried to get him to push my head down, and he told me I was broken.
“Brielle, I think you should see a therapist,” Theo murmurs.
And I think you should learn how to fuck a woman properly … but here we are.
Grabbing the towel closest to me, I bring it up to my face and scream into it. Even with the material muffling the sound, I’m sure he can hear my frustration out there.
“Brielle!” Theo bangs on the door. “Are you okay?”
“No!” I yell, sliding my heels onto my feet and then unlocking the door. “I’m not okay. I’m horny and unsatisfied, and I’ve had enough of you treating me like I’m a broken, fragile little thing!”
I stare at him, wishing I could feel something, anything.
He’s not wrong.
I am broken.
But I thought maybe Theo could help fix me. He’s sweet and loyal and so damn considerate. He’s everything I’m supposed to want, yet I still feel this void inside me.
“I can’t do this anymore,” I choke out. “I think you’re a great guy, but you’re not the guy for me.”
“Because I won’t hit you in bed?” he asks, a mixture of confusion and concern written all over his features.
“No.” I shake my head. “Because … because …”
“Brielle …” He steps toward me, but I take a step back. “Are you really going to sabotage everything we have when you can’t even tell me what’s wrong?”
I stare at him for several seconds, trying to put into words what’s going through my head, but nothing comes out.
Because Theodore DeSantis, the owner of DeSantis Investing—a thirty-six-year-old man who owns his own condo, has a great relationship with his parents and siblings, buys me flowers and chocolates, and takes me out on romantic dinners—is perfect.
But I’m not.
“You’re a whore …”
“… you’re now damaged goods.”
I shake myself from my thoughts, refusing to let Andrey get into my head.
He’s been dead for six years—and haunting me for just as long.
“It’s not you,” I tell Theo. “It’s me.”
I walk past him and scoop my purse off the counter.
“So, this is it?” he asks, walking me to the door.
“Yeah,” I choke out. “This is it. I just …” I groan, wishing I could find the damn words. “I’m sorry,” is what I settle on because I don’t know what else to say.
“Are you sure?” he asks, his patient hazel eyes meeting mine. “Because we’ve done this a few times …”
What he means is, I’ve ended our relationship a few times.
Because it’s always the same thing.
I get bored.
And then I start fights.
I ask for things in the bedroom I know he’s not comfortable giving me.
And when he refuses, I push him away.
“I’m sure,” I tell him, leaning in and kissing his cheek. “I’m done.”
Some women might think I’m doing this for his attention. But I know Theo, and he’s not going to chase after or fight for me. He won’t beg me to reconsider because he’s a good guy and he just wants me to be happy.
And I really wish I could be happy with him.
But I’m not.
“Goodbye, Theo,” I say and then head down the hall.
I’m not even to the elevator before I’m texting my friend Nicole and telling her to get ready because I’m picking her up so we can grab a drink. After what went down with Theo, I need a strong shot … or two.
“I still say we should’ve gone to the country club.”
Nicole eyes the bar in disgust and then grabs a napkin in a feeble attempt to clean the area. Unfortunately, there aren’t enough napkins—or bleach—to save this place. But points to her for trying.
“We always go there.” I slide onto the barstool, praying STDs can’t be contracted by touch. “And it’s always the same asshats frequenting the bar.”
Their hats might be Gucci fedoras, but that’s beside the point.
When my heels attempt to leave the ground, they momentarily resist due to the stickiness on the wood floor. I cringe, and Nicole catches it.
“Nope, I can’t do it.” She stands. “There has to be a place that’s cleaner than here.”
“Yeah, and my brothers own them all.”
And while they don’t care what I do, the last thing I want is for word to get back to them that I’m at a bar, looking for a hookup.
Years ago, neither of them would’ve judged, but now that they’ve both found love, they can’t seem to understand why everyone else in the world hasn’t.
I’m happy for them—I am.
Dominick has Peyton and my three adorable nephews. And Matteo has Daniella and a baby girl on the way. And they’re all so damn happy that they want everyone around them to be happy.
But what they don’t understand is that I want to be happy.
I want what they have.
But I’m broken.
“Brielle, please,” Nicole pleads, her green eyes begging me to get her out of this place. “You know I adore you, and I’m your loyal wingwoman, but this place is …”
She shivers rather than finishing her sentence, and I glance around, taking the place in.
It’s a tiki bar on the water in South Harbor Point.
I’m sure, at some point, it was beautiful, but now, it’s run-down, and it needs a good cleaning—or to be torched—and even the salty air is tainted by the burned smell of fish.
“Fine,” I grumble.
She releases a breath of relief. “Thank you, thank you. First drink is on me.”
I roll my eyes.
While the gesture is sweet, we both come from money, so neither of us needs anyone to buy us a drink.
Nicole’s father is the mayor of Harbor Point and comes from old money. And my family pretty much runs the city—between all the hotels, restaurants, and clubs they own. Even the main port that handles almost all the import and export in South Florida is owned and run by my brothers.
“You’re finding somewhere to go,” I tell her, immediately regretting it because I already know where she’s going to insist we go.
“Gladly,” she says as we exit out of the side door. “Besides, if my father knew I was here, I’d never hear the end of it.”
I don’t know much about her father, aside from the fact that my brothers hate him.
When they found out I had befriended Nicole—after chatting with her a few times when I frequented her coffee shop, Lattes and Words—they warned me to stay away from her.
But we clicked, and since I refuse to let anyone ever tell me what to do again, I told them that while I appreciated their warning, I wouldn’t be heeding it.
And I’m glad I didn’t because Nicole has become a close friend and, as she pointed out, the perfect wingwoman.
Our families might not get along, but since neither of us has anything to do with our families’ businesses, we’ve decided their animosity isn’t our problem.
We slide into my cherry-red Porsche Boxster—she’s a few years old, and she doesn’t have all the latest technology, but she’s my baby, my late college graduation gift to myself—and Nicole hooks up her phone to my dash so I can see where we’re going as I pull out of the parking lot.
“North Harbor Point Country Club,” I read across the screen.
Of course …
“Look, unless we want to drive out of this city, the hot spots are limited. The country club is clean, safe, and has good drinks.”
“It’s also where every corporate bigwig with an even bigger ego frequents.”
“I take it, this means you broke up with Theodore … again.”
“I don’t want to talk about it. What I want is to find someone who won’t treat me like a porcelain doll, and the country club is going to be filled with a dozen Theodores.”