April’s Secret (Spicy Holiday Collection #3)

Chapter 1

Ben

You can almost taste the end of the day when it gets the kind of quiet it is right now. After hours, Wicked Ink is nothing but echoes of dying noise. Every sound from the day feels like it’s still hanging in the air, even after the stereo goes dead.

I grab another tray off my bench and toss the soiled towels in the bin. My hands are tight and restless, and I flex them before I get busy wiping down my station as if I’m trying to erase the whole day. The astringent burn of cleaner stings my nose.

Perfect. At least one thing tonight is sharp instead of blurry.

Corinne, my sister, sits crisscross on the front counter, scrolling her phone, fake-focused.

She’s got this way of acting like she isn’t watching, but she’s tracking my every move.

She doesn’t say anything, but I can feel her eyes when I’m not looking.

But I don’t let it get to me. If I do, she’ll dig, and I don’t have the energy for a family therapy session.

Arrow, my best friend since childhood, is laid back in his chair, boots up, hands clasped behind his bald head like he’s king of the fucking world. He’s watching me, with that slow, mean grin on his smug face.

He checks the clock on the way. “Are you taking your sweet time closing up so you can savor the loneliness, or you got a late-night booty call waiting for you?” Arrow pops his jaw, like he’s chewing on the thought. “Ben Hayes with an actual social life. Feels illegal.”

He twirls his keys on his index finger, never dropping them. Show-off. I keep my eyes on the task at hand, reassembling the last machine for tomorrow.

“Not all of us are busy learning ‘Baby Shark’ on repeat. Did you ever master the task of changing a diaper without getting pissed in the face?”

Arrow laughs. “I’ve been baptized quite a few times, actually, and it wasn’t by my son.” He glances over at Corinne.

She flips him off, not even flinching.

“Bro, seriously. That’s my sister, man.” I throw my rag at him.

Arrow grins like a psycho again.

My phone vibrates on the counter, and my stomach flips. I thumb the screen on.

9:00 p.m.

Purgatory. Don’t be late.

Every time I get a notification, my chest tightens.

Corinne’s suddenly right in front of me, catching me off-guard.

“Everything okay, Ben?”

“Yeah. Just tired.”

She makes a face. I know she doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t call me out.

If she really thought I was about to self-destruct, she’d lecture me into next week.

Arrow hauls himself up. “Are we done here? The babysitter charges by the hour. We’ve got to haul ass, or she’s going to hand me a bill bigger than our rent.”

“Go. It’s not like you’re actually helping.”

“You wound me, Hayes.” He’s already at the door, pushing it open so the night air cuts through the lingering chemical haze.

Corinne slings her purse over her shoulder. She watches me wipe down the machine handles one more time. “Seriously, Ben, text if you need anything. Doesn’t matter what.” She says it in a caring way, making my chest squeeze.

I nod back, keeping my mouth shut. For a split second, her eyes go soft. Then she’s back to normal, shoving Arrow out the door.

He spins around, points at me. “Hey, maybe you’ll get laid. Or even better, finally meet someone with no face tattoos. Oh, wait. You’re into that. Nevermind.”

Corinne rolls her eyes so hard. “Can we go? Before we have to sell a kidney to pay our sitter.”

Arrow shrugs, but he whistles as he goes, all fake giddy, until the door shuts and the bell chimes one more time.

Finally, silence.

And a slow drip of adrenaline, lined straight to my veins.

I hit the lights, one by one, until the place is nothing but weird reflections from the streetlight outside. The silence buzzed worse than my machines. It makes my skin itch. I check my phone for the tenth time. Nothing new. Just a follow-up reminder from the club with their address.

No further instructions.

I double-check the shop one last time before grabbing my jacket. I check the door three times out of habit, but also because my brain’s already a thousand miles away, thinking about what’s coming.

For a second, my reflection catches in the glass. I look like hell. All sharp bones and haunted eyes. That’s fine. I’m not going there to pretend I’m anyone else.

Tonight, the wind is brutal…cold and mean. Corrine’s car is already gone, the parking lot empty except for the faint stink of exhaust. I roll my shoulders, pop my neck. I should be ready for this. I’ve done weirder things, had darker nights. But this feels different for some reason.

I climb into my truck, crank the engine, and sit there for a minute, hands locked on the wheel like I’m gripping a lifeline.

One more deep breath.

You can do this. It’s just another night.

But I know I’m lying.

I pull away, killing the headlights for a split second, savoring the dark.

Next stop, Heaven. Or whatever fucked up version of it they are selling.

I’m used to Arrow always being the loudest thing in the room, but compared to what I’m feeling right now, he’s nothing but white noise.

I watch the city blur past my windshield, every red light a bruise on the night.

The closer I get to the club, the more anxious I feel.

It’s not excitement, exactly. But this burn of anticipation, a panic I can’t shake.

I have the window cracked, letting the cold rip through me. The air is sharp enough to wake the dead, but I don’t feel it. I keep checking the time, trying to ignore the little voice in my head that's telling me that I need to go ahead and back out at the last second.

Not happening.

There’s a reason I got that call. There’s a reason I’m here.

As strange as it is, I can’t help but feel that tonight is important. That it matters.

By the time I reach the block where Purgatory sits, I’m all nerves and nothing else. It’s a regular street, dead, quiet, nothing flashy.

I park around the corner.

No one needs proof I was here.

I kill the engine, sit with my hands on my thighs, flexing, stretching, wishing I could tattoo the anxiety out of my veins. I check my phone…8:58.

Walking up is worse than waiting. I concentrate on the sound of my boots hitting the pavement, the crunch of old leaves.

The streetlights are washed out and flickering, trying to decide if this part of town deserves to be seen.

At the door, security’s in black suits, earpieces, eyes like razors. No one blinks.

I step up and one of them opens the door, all efficient, no questions. Warmth hits me in the face the minute I’m through, thick with the scent of expensive cologne, smoke, and a hint of something sweet.

Once inside, it’s like flipping a switch.

The club’s nothing like the street outside.

It’s all velvet, dark colors. I trail my fingers over a banister as I pass, catching the grooves in the wood, polished so thick it’s almost slick.

The sounds around me are low and hushed. But right now none of it matters.

The lady at the front desk slides a folded slip across the marble. The paper is thick, smooth. I stare at it for a second, pulse jackhammering in my throat.

She’s watching, but not really. She gestures towards the stairs, then looks away, already handling the next VIP.

I open the note, barely able to breathe for a second.

Please, just make me feel wanted.

That’s it. One line. No rules, no safe word, nothing but a need and want.

I shove the note in my pocket with shaking hands. There’s a weird feeling in it…relief and terror. Whoever’s waiting doesn’t want a show. She just needs to feel chosen. Well, I can definitely do that. Shit, maybe that’s the only thing I can do right.

I stop at the bottom of the grand staircase, heart in my throat. The soft light from the lounge casts shadows through the railings, turning everything gold and dark.

Upstairs, someone’s waiting for me. Wants me. Well, maybe not me, exactly, but the illusion of someone who can make her feel like she matters.

I steady my breathing and try to focus on that.

Tonight, I won’t let her down.

I grip the banister hard enough that the edge bites into my palm, but I don’t let go. Every step up I take, the more I feel the buzz of adrenaline smother the fear in my chest. My shoes barely make a sound on the plush carpet.

Once I get where I’m going, I pause in front of the door, For a second, I stand there and stare at the handle. My chest is so tight I think I might break a rib. The note’s still in my pocket, a reminder.

Make her feel wanted.

I turn the knob and step inside.

Holy shit. It’s like stepping out onto a cloud.

Everything is white. The carpet is thick and soft. The curtains float around the windows, glowing in the soft light. Even the bed glows, silk sheets that turn her naked body into a living breathing angel.

She’s on her side, knees curled up a little, hands fisted in the sheet like she’s afraid it’ll fly away. The blindfold’s pure white, tied neat at the back of her head, golden hair spilling out across the pillow like something out of a dream.

She’s fucking gorgeous.

I can’t stop staring at the strip of bare skin running from her shoulder to her ass, freckles and all. The sheet barely hides anything, and what it covers just makes me want to pull it off slow and make her wait for it.

Her chest rises and falls, a little quicker than normal, making her breathing shaky under the weight of my gaze. I think she senses something, but I don’t think she knows I’m in the room yet. She’s there, exposed, hoping someone will decide she’s enough.

Seeing her there, exposed and raw, waiting for someone to decide is she’s enough, makes whatever nerves I brought up those stairs melt into raw heat.

I want her.

The need settles deep, way down in the parts I usually keep locked up. Even my hands feel different. They're itchy, desperate to touch, to explore.

And I plan on doing just that.

I step forward, staying quiet, my eyes locked in. Her arms are crossed over her chest, but she’s not hiding. She wants to be seen like this, on display, waiting.

God, she’s perfect.

All smooth skin, a flush creeping down her neck. I let myself imagine how she’ll sound when I finally run my hands up her sides, grip those hips, spread her out under me until she begs for me to take her.

She wants to feel wanted?

I’m going to fucking ruin her for anyone else.

My cock is already so fucking hard, and I haven’t even laid one finger on her.

There’s no pretending on my part. No acting.

What I’m feeling at this moment is pure hunger, loud and unfiltered.

My pulse hammers in my ears, and the only thing I want more is to make sure that she never doubts what I’m about to do to her is real.

I take another step forward. The floor muffles everything. I’m so close to where she is, I could reach out and trail my fingers up her thigh. Brush her hair back, just to watch her shiver under my touch. I could tell her exactly what I see, and how much it’s fucking killing me not to touch.

But I don’t. I want to wait. Give her a second longer, let the anticipation grow.

She shifts.

By now, I’m sure she feels me watching. Good. I want her to.

She hasn’t said a word, doesn’t need to. Her body language is loud and clear.

I sit on the edge of the bed. I want her to sense the weight of me, the promise of what’s coming. The sheet slips lower, showing off more skin. I suck in a breath. Her ass is perfect, tight, the kind of thing you want to mark.

I take in the delicate line of her jaw, the way her lips part with every breath. If she asks for anything tonight, I’ll give whatever she wants. If she asks for nothing, I’ll give it anyway.

I gently caress her ankle, and her whole body jumps. Then slowly melts. Next, I run my hand up her calf, savoring every inch. The sound she makes is barely a whimper, but it goes straight to my cock.

This is real.

I want her more than I’ve wanted anything…maybe ever.

She’s only mine for the night, and I’m not wasting another second.

I lean in to breathe her in. She smells like vanilla, nerves, and something that’s impossible to name.

“You’re beautiful,” I whisper, every word like sandpaper in my throat.

She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move. Except for her chest, rising faster now.

I reach up, brushing a strand of hair off her bare shoulder, letting my fingertips lightly brush her skin. If she shivers, I catch it. If she squirms, I follow.

I peel the sheet back. Just enough to see the swell of her hip, the curve of her waist. Her skin’s so delicate and pale it glows. She’s flawless, except for a few little marks that make her real.

My hands are steady now. They know what to do, even when the rest of me is losing it.

I want her. Bad.

And for once, I don’t have to lie about it. I want to make her feel wanted, owned, and ruined. Exactly what she asked for.

When I run my thumb along her hip, I swear she bites her lip.

Fuck me. I could do this all night. And I just might.

“You want me to touch you?” My voice is low, dangerous.

She nods.

And that’s all I need.

I lay a palm flush to her skin, feeling the heat, the tension, the goosebumps chasing my touch. She arches, pushing against me, and I almost lose it.

There’s going to be no pretending tonight. Every raw, desperate impulse is waiting for the go-ahead, ready to indulge.

I’m definitely in Heaven. And I’m about to make a believer out of her.