Brody (The Wilde Heirs #4)

Chapter 1

Melody

“Ha. No. Not a fucking chance in hell.” I roll my eyes, staring at the amazing view from the back deck of my cottage. The mountains in the distance look spectacular as the sun sets. My phone is on speaker, sitting on the railing, leaving my hands free to hold my mug of herbal tea.

“Melody, it’s a book club. You love books. You write books, for heaven’s sake. You have to come,” Arianna persists.

I smirk. “Those are facts. I do love books, and I do write books. What I don’t need or want is a man, and you’re trying to set me up with one of those Wilde heirs. I bet I can guess which one, too.”

Arianna sighs. “None of the Wildes will be at book club. It’s for women only.”

After taking another sip of my tea, I glance down at my phone. “And let me guess. These women will be your new sisters-in-law. Claire and Reagan?”

“Not just them. Emilia will be there, too.”

“Arianna, Emilia is also a Wilde.”

“Yes, but she’s a woman. She’s no threat… Unless, of course you’re into women. Are you?” Arianna asks.

I laugh. “No. I’m not into women.”

“Oh, I invited Kinsley, too.”

“The town doctor?”

“Yes. We all know her. Well, except for Emilia. Those two haven’t met yet.”

I chuckle again. “You’ve all met Kinsley because every one of you is pregnant or trying to get pregnant. That shit might be catching. I don’t want it.”

“You can’t catch pregnancy,” she argues as if I legitimately thought so.

It would be nice to get out of the house. I don’t do so very often. Most of the time, I’m kind of a hermit. I should get better acquainted with some women my age. I’ve met everyone at some point or another at the library or bakery or even at Kinsley’s office. But I don’t know any of them very well.

Because, again, I’m a hermit. That’s why I moved to Wilde. Small town. Peaceful. No one bothers me. No one knows me. For the last three years, I’ve been renting this cottage on the outskirts of town. I love it here.

I did not come here to find a man. I came here to lie low and stay out of the public eye. I’m perfectly fine growing old alone and being known as the cat lady. Though I don’t have a cat.

“You’re thinking about it!” Arianna exclaims, sounding way too chipper.

I groan. “Where is this book club meeting?”

“At the library.”

“You promise? I’m not going up to the mansion.”

“I swear. We’re meeting here. Saturday afternoon. Three o’clock.”

“You won’t change the location on me at the last second and suddenly say that Dallas, or one of the other bossy men you all have married, insists on you meeting at the mansion? Because if you do, I’ll bail out.”

“Nope. We’re holding it here at the library. I’ve already gotten permi—”

I laugh. “Permission? You got permission from your husband to have book club on Saturday afternoon? That’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it?

And I bet he told you to hold it at three because you have a curfew or something, and you’re not allowed to be out after dark. ” I’m joking, but also… I’m not.

Judging by her intake of breath, I nailed it. I set my empty mug on the railing and lean my elbows on it, hanging my head between my arms. Why on Earth would I agree to this?

“You’ll come?” Arianna pushes.

I inhale deeply, knowing I’m going to regret this.

“Fine. See you Saturday.” I end the call before she can continue to harp on this subject.

I said yes. Probably the worst decision of my life.

But maybe I can attend book club with these women without getting sucked into their lifestyle of bossy husbands hellbent on breeding their brides.

I’m no fool. I know what happens to women who visit the Wilde mansion. They never leave. They get married to one of the giant heirs and have his babies—and all of that happens in like a week.

I’ve met the latest single Wilde to arrive. His name is Brody. He was in the library one day when I came in. I fled the house of books so fast that my tires squealed as I peeled out of the parking lot.

The worst part is that it was too late. I’d already gotten a good look at Brody. Six-three. Short brown hair. Nicely trimmed beard. Deep brown eyes. Broad. Tanned from working outside. Yeah, I noticed him. Who wouldn’t?

I’m aware he owns a construction company in San Antonio, Texas. Apparently, he’s here for a few months to help with the many renovation projects that need attention in this town. Everyone knows everyone’s business in Wilde. It’s not like I snooped around to find out what his intentions are.

It doesn’t matter that his tight black T-shirt did nothing to hide his drool-worthy six-pack. The man infuriated me. For one thing, he’s cocky. For another thing, he reprimanded me. Me.

I don’t even know him, and he had the audacity to suggest that I needed to be disciplined for cussing.

Well, fuck him.

I don’t need a keeper, nor do I need anyone to tell me what I can and can’t say. I’m a grown woman. Twenty-eight years old. I’ll fucking cuss if I fucking want to.

After grabbing my phone and mug, I head inside and lock the back door.

I feel totally safe here. Most of the time.

Except when my imagination gets the better of me and dreams up noises that don’t exist. There’s a very low crime rate in Wilde.

The only thing exciting that’s happened in years was when Smith Winston tried to kidnap Claire.

She’d barely met Ryder Wilde at the time, and that man made certain Smith Winston would never set a hand on Claire again.

Ryder swooped in, moved her into the mansion, married her, and got her pregnant in like ten minutes.

I turn off all but one lamp near the front door, check the locks, leave the porch light on, set the alarm, and head for my bedroom.

This cottage is my oasis. I fell in love with it the moment I saw it. It’s quaint. It came fully furnished—which is a bonus because I don’t own much. I’ve added frilly white bedding and matching curtains, but the furniture is a mismatch of decades-old pieces. Ornate. Girly. Perfect for me.

It has two bedrooms. I use the second one as my office, and I spend most of my waking hours in there writing, editing, or managing my social media accounts.

I have only shared my pen name with one person in Wilde—Thomas McAndrews, my lawyer—and I intend to keep it that way. I enjoy the anonymity. Even though most people know I’m an author, that’s about the only detail they have.

After getting ready for bed, I turn out the bedroom lights and climb under the covers.

That’s when my imagination goes a bit haywire.

This happens every night. No matter how tired I am or what I do to try to wear myself out so I can drop into dreamland, I have not fallen asleep easily since the day I met Brody Wilde.

Damn him.

Granted, the man has no idea he occupies my mind late at night. But I’m still mad at him for doing so. If he hadn’t come into the library that day and reprimanded me…

I start breathing heavily at the memory. The way his hand felt when he shook mine—his grip firm, unwilling to let me go. His chuckle as he tried to get me to give him my name.

But the way he spoke to me…

“Sounds to me like you’re in desperate need of a man; otherwise, who’s going to control that potty mouth of yours?”

“A pretty little thing like you should not be using such naughty words.”

Like every night, I’m consumed once again. My panties are damp. I’m not sure why I bother wearing them anymore. I should just climb into bed naked because every damn night I end up slipping them off to make it easier to touch myself.

I should have slapped him. How dare he speak to me like that. Like he has any authority over me. Not a chance. Never.

And now my panties are soaked. Again.

I sigh in frustration as I give up the fight, shrug out of both my tank top and panties, and yank open my nightstand drawer to grab one of my favorite vibrators.

Palming the one that will both reach deep inside me as well as stimulate my clit, I let the weight of it calm my racing heart. It’s become a nightly ritual I have going on here. A battle between my sanity and my physical needs. As soon as I give in to the temptation, I relax a bit.

With my legs spread, I bring the vibrator between them. It’s pitiful, but I don’t need lube. I used to, but since I met Brody and added his image to my now-nightly masturbation sessions, I don’t need it. I’m so wet that the phallic end slides right into me.

As soon as I turn it on low and press the tip against my clit I moan. Fuck, that feels good. So much better than before I met my muse.

Before Brody, I would read erotic romance at night if I wanted to orgasm. I used the fictitious scenarios as fodder. And it worked. I’d get all hot and bothered reading and then close my eyes and pretend I was one of the characters in my books.

Not anymore. Now, I have a real-life human I use to get off. I don’t even need to embellish him. The little time I spent with Brody was enough to provide me with material to masturbate to for years.

“Do you think if you say your name out loud, I’ll cast a spell on you?”

I can hear his deep timbre in my head as I press the stimulator harder against my clit. He’d been teasing me, but I had thought exactly that. So I fled the library without giving him anything.

I’m not an idiot. I’m certain he knows my name by now. All he had to do was ask Arianna or Dallas. They were both standing right there, witnesses to my madness. I’m sure he had my full name before I was even in my car. My address, too, if he asked for it.

And yet, I haven’t seen the man since. I tell myself that’s for the best. He did a lot of damage to my emotional stability as a single cat lady in just a few seconds. If I were to run into him again, I’d probably start wandering around town, dazed and drooling.

I’d die if he knew the effect he had on me or how much I think about his rock-hard body, his voice, and the crooked smile he gave me. His eyes had been dancing with mirth, too.

There is no reason to believe Brody Wilde is interested in me. Just because he knocked me off my feet doesn’t mean he’s thought about me for a single moment since. I’m sure I’m safe. If he’d truly wanted to see me again, he could have shown up at my door any day. He has not.

So, why does that disappoint me?

Angling the shaft inside me to rub against the front of my channel, I slide closer to euphoria. My moans fill the room. My blood has rushed to my pussy.

All I need to reach orgasm is to let my mind go there. The place I feel like Brody promised.

Over his knees with my skirt pushed up and my panties pulled down. Spanking me for my insolence and naughty words.

As soon as the fantasy version of Brody starts swatting my bottom, I cry out, my orgasm so powerful that when it’s over, I’m wrung out and completely limp as I float back to Earth.

Panting, I stare at the ceiling and promise myself I’ll stop doing this. I must. If I don’t, I’ll lose my sanity.

Tomorrow. I’ll stop fantasizing about Brody Wilde tomorrow.