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Make Me
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Table of Contents
~ Acclaim for Alyssa Turner ~
Look for these titles from Alyssa Turner
Copyright Warning
~ Dedication ~
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
~ About the Author ~
~ Also by Alyssa Turner ~
More Romance from Etopia Press
~ Acclaim for Alyssa Turner ~
For Polished
“Alyssa Turner masterfully wove emotion and red-hot m/m/f ménage together in Polished! The book kept me turning pages and thinking about it once I'd finished. I loved Rory, Spencer, and Jack. Polished is steamy, sexy, and highly recommended!”
—Shoshanna Evers, New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author
“Ms. Turner once again delivers an explosive, sexy, passionate page turner. She is one of the best in the business at delivering scorching hot sex, a lot of emotion and mixing it all around a beautiful love story”
—Guilty Pleasures Book Reviews
For By Surprise
“Ms. Turner enchants her audience with an easy flowing and energetic writing style… By Surprise is a short sizzler capable of enveloping you in the warmth and wonderment of love. …[A] short, provocative, tantalizing narrative…”
—Night Owl Reviews
“I just could not put it down. It was a sweet loving story. ... I could relate to them. If someone would have told me that this story happened in real life, I would not have been surprised... most probably jealous but not surprised.”
—Mary’s Ménage Whispers
For Double Take
“Turner’s two heroes are hot. They are each a force to be reckoned with… If you love dystopian reads, seeing the hero/es struggle between their mission and their woman, then pick this book up. It has heat, it has steam, and it has substance.”
—Bitten by Books, Recommended October 2012
Look for these titles from Alyssa Turner
Now Available
Drawing Diego
By Surprise
Double Take
“Thrills and Chills” Halloween Heat V
Polished
Make Me
Available in Print
By Surprise
(Part of the Surprised by Seduction Collection)
“Thrills and Chills” Halloween Heat V Ménage
Polished
Double Take
Make Me
Make Me
Alyssa Turner
Copyright Warning
EBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/).
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Published By
Etopia Press
1643 Warwick Ave., #124
Warwick, RI 02889
http://www.etopia-press.net
Make Me
Copyright © 2014 by Alyssa Turner
ISBN: 978-1-940223-98-8
Edited by Julian Smith
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Etopia Press electronic publication: May 2014
~ Dedication ~
For my honey. You make me better.
Make me want you.
Make me a believer.
Make me face my fears.
Make me forget my nightmares.
Make me wonder how I could ever live without you.
Prologue
“Your father and I are leaving for the governor’s fundraiser in fifteen minutes. I can’t imagine what was so important that it couldn’t wait until tomorrow.”
Kyle stood up straight, but his parents’ bedroom looked a bit slanted. He could still taste the tequila on his tongue. A little liquid courage never hurt, and this was going to be harder than flying into open fire over Fallujah. But he had to do it. He owed Manny something more than chicken-shit excuses.
“Mom…Dad, I’ve got something to tell you.” Kyle watched as his mother stopped applying her lipstick and his father looked up from his book.
“Well you’d better make it quick. Contrary to popular belief, it’s not fashionable for the guest of honor to be late. It’s just rude.” Olivia caught sight of him in the mirror. “Good grief, Kyle. You look like hell,” she said, the lipstick frozen in her long fingers. “What have you been up to this evening?”
Kyle raked his hand through his hair and scratched his two-day stubble. Yeah, he probably did look like a dump truck had spat him onto the curb. Multiple sorrows needed multiple shots of tequila. Though newfound drinking buddies never stuck around past happy hour, and easy propositions were a piss-poor consolation prize when his heart was with someone else. So it seemed for Kyle an empty bed was the perfect chaser for an empty heart. But not an empty glass. Never that. Not lately.
He swallowed and watched his parents’ expressions become more impatient. This had all gone a lot easier in his imagination.
“I’m gay.” There, he’d said it.
Olivia gasped with disbelief and let loose a harsh chuckle. “Gay? Since when?” Then with a measure of generosity, she made a halfhearted attempt to soften her response. “I mean, this is quite a surprise. There were so many girlfriends before you shipped out.”
Kyle figured the halfhearted sentiment fit. After all, he was only telling them half the story himself. “There was no one special. I just thought you should know.”
“Hmm. I suppose New York isn’t a bad place for a senator with a gay son.” Olivia smiled, and Kyle took it as her own way of saying she accepted the news. He’d learned well over the years how to decipher her slicing wit. She sighed, then with a frustrated flip of her hand, she continued. “But what about the article we secured for you? New York’s most eligible bachelor can’t be gay. It’s ludicrous.”
Kyle shook his head. Typical Olivia. He shrugged, looking past her to the twinkling lights of the Chrysler Building some twenty blocks downtown. “Well, he is…I am. So sorry to burst anyone’s bubble. That whole PR stunt was your idea anyway, not mine.”
Olivia resumed putting on her lipstick. She caught his gaze in the mirror once again with the corner of her eye. “Just promise to be discreet. You’re not seeing anyone right now, are you?”
But maybe he had a chance of correcting that now. He had to try to make things right. First, come out to his parents, then if Manny took him back, he’d figure out a way to tell them the rest. It had to work, because being without him just wasn’t something he planned on doing anymore.
“Gavin, what do you have to say about all of this?” Olivia asked his father.
Gavin closed his book with a loud pop. “As usual, Olivia, you’ve said it all.”
Chapter One
Rebecca Sinclair wondered if anything was more aggravating than ruining a pair of gorgeous designer shoes in the rain. Maybe the fact that said shoes would have been just fine if somebody’s audacious red Camaro hadn’t occupied the assigned parking space in her Manhattan apartment’s underground garage? The space was clearly marked: Reserved. Who does that?
She’d turned her ten-year-old Jetta around with a harsh tug on the steering wheel, its nearly bald tires wheezing out a screeching echo in the cavernous lot. She’d cursed, and cursed again. Finding a space to park would be murder. Murder on her new-to-her Louboutins. So what if they’d been an unbelievable secondhand score? She loved them to pieces—not so much in pieces. Some shoes are made for walking; some are not.
She could have called the building’s management company, but they would take an hour at least to get the parking situation sorted out. Rebecca had one thing on her mind for that evening, and it wasn’t waiting around on a tow truck to come and vacate the intruder from her space. After more than a month away on site at the Library of Congress, supervising the acquisition of the largest private collection of original Broadway scripts she’d ever seen, the only thing left on her agenda was to veg out on her new suede sofa.
Trudging through the grimy puddles of the Upper West Side, she gritted her teeth and tried not to look at the way her powder-pink, gladiator-style platform heels were quickly turning the color of soot. A driving tropical wind whipped down the avenue. It was insanely hot and muggy for mid-September. Her umbrella snapped suddenly out of her control and tangled in her strawberry-blond curls for a few mocking seconds before she wrangled it back into place.
“Friggin’ red Camaro,” she grumbled. It had to be a guy’s car, some self-important jerk who thought the world owed him something—like her parking space.
Three blocks to her apartment building and Rebecca was certain the steam hovering above the sidewalk came right from her ears. She secured her shoulder bag and pressed on. Behind her, the rattle of luggage wheels grating on concrete hummed beneath the rhythmic swish of passing vehicles. Through the rain, a rush of motion flashed in her peripheral vision. Skin. Glistening, caramel skin swept by on a bicycle. She took in the sight—carved male flanks of hard-working muscle, all shiny and wet.
“Yum.” The word escaped her lips in a moment of distraction. She followed him with squinting eyes as his shirtless silhouette cut through the sheets of rain. Her gaze trailed him all the way to the end of the block, where he turned right and headed down the same one-way street where her apartment building was located. That tasty image lingered in her mind until a taxicab crowded the curb at an ungodly speed and sent a whole bunch of yuck flying over her ankles. “Son of a bitch!”
Home. She needed to be nestled safe and sound in her small but stylish one-bedroom apartment, with the slate-blue porcelain lamps she’d picked up at the flea market and the thick shag rug that was as good as any foot massager when she ran her toes through it. A whole month at an extended-stay motel and Rebecca craved the comforts of her own stuff. It wasn’t much, but it was hers. For the pretty penny she scraped up in rent to the elderly woman from whom she sublet it, she certainly wished she spent more time there.
She turned right at the corner, noting that he had turned there as well, but the bicycle, along with the rider, were completely out of sight. She could, however, see the brassy gleam of her apartment building’s canopy overhang and the doorman stationed at the entrance. Rent in a swanky place like that would have been impossible on her salary were it not for the deal of a lease she’d scored. Even at half the normal asking price, making her rent was a stretch. As a librarian, Rebecca only brought home riches in the form of culture and knowledge. If only you could eat a book.
Ronald smiled at her, his characteristically kind eyes dipping with a nod. “Good evening, Ms. Sinclair.”
“Hi, Ronald,” she said with heavy sigh, relieved finally to be out of the rain. “Remember you’re supposed to call me Rebecca.” She raised her finger at the stout, middle-aged man with the sharp-as-knives creases in his gray trousers. “You promised.” Ronald was the only friendly face to greet her at the end of each day; they could at least be on a first name basis.
His round face ignited in a blush. “Rebecca, then.”
Rebecca nodded with a smile. “It’s good to be home.”
She shook out her umbrella, careful not to get Ronald wet, and entered as he held the large glass door. The marble lobby looked the same as it had when she’d left a little over a month ago. As her ruined heels clacked against the glossy floor, she noticed a fresh bouquet of gladiolus and orchids sat proudly on the mahogany table in the center. The Veritage building was a perfect execution of vintage glamour. Home. There was just no better word.
Rebecca reached the elevator and mashed the button. A glance at the display told her the car had last stopped on her floor. Just fifteen more until her chariot arrived to whisk her off to her sanctuary. She shifted in her sodden footwear and ran a hand though her bird’s nest of a hairdo. Thanks to the unyielding humidity it had been subjected to on that hellish stroll, she must have looked like a vision from The Walking Dead.
And now she suddenly needed to pee in the worst way. Thinking back to the third grande iced coffee she’d thrown back on her way from the airport, Rebecca wished she’d had the foresight to make a stop in the ladies’ room. But of course she hadn’t planned on the twenty-minute walk from the only garage that wasn’t already full. She started to do the potty dance, mostly because she was the only one in the elevator. And for added effect she began to hum, because humming made the dancing not quite so weird.
The elevator dinged, and she was on her way to sweet relief. Hobbling down the corridor, Rebecca frantically dug in her purse for her keys. The humming had turned into short puffs of breathy desperation as she shoved the key into the lock.
Nothing happened. The lock wouldn’t budge. Desperate, she pulled the key out and looked at it quizzically. It had been thirty-five days since she’d left for Washington, DC, but she couldn’t imagine being mistaken about the key for her own door. Shaking her head, she inserted it again and turned it with a little jiggle of her wrist. Again, nothing.
“Oohhhh!” she whined, louder than she might have wanted. “Come on!”
Gritting her teeth together, she crossed her ankles and shoved the heel of her palm against her pelvis. With a shaky hand, she tried once more. When it didn’t give, she slammed her fist against the wooden paneled door in anguish.
“Yeah, hold on,” a low voice called from behind it.
She jumped back, startled, checking the numbered plaque in the center of the door. Was she going crazy too? This was in fact her apartment, in her building, with her doormat on the—
She looked down. The harlequin motif she expected to see was not there.
“Who is it?” the voice said.
“What?” she asked, flabbergasted. “Who the hell are you?”
The light illuminating the peephole shadowed and then brightened. She heard the lock tumble in its chamber, and the door opened.
Rebecca’s mouth dropped. He was still wet. That was the first thing she noticed about the guy she’d eye-fucked on his bike. The second was how all that wetness clinging to his smooth skin reminded her that she had to pee. She squeezed her knees together and tried to form a sentence.
“What are you
doing in my apartment?” she asked and shifted her weight to her left side and then back to the right.
He frowned, cocking his head sideways as he appraised her. The magazine he held fell to his side. “Um…do you want to use the bathroom?”
Rebecca wanted to scream. “No…oh damn, yes.” She sprinted past him and the bicycle resting against the wall, knowing exactly where to find the bathroom.
She kicked the door closed and practically tore off her panties. “Ah.”
Blessed relief flooded through her as one emergency eased. Her gaze caught the familiar wallpaper of navy and cream stripes hung above the classic white tiles. On the shelf next to the sink, men’s shaving cream replaced the antique bottles of perfume she’d displayed there. Gone was the pink fluffy robe she kept on the hook behind the door and her vintage-inspired scale. Maybe she wasn’t too sad to see the scale go, but the rest of it had her head spinning.
She pressed her lips together while making quick work of washing her hands. Shaking them dry, she marched toward the shirtless intruder. She opened her mouth to speak, but he beat her to it.
Make Me
Polished