Twisted

Twisted by Emma Chase




Falling in love is easy, staying in love is hard.

Dedicated to all those who have stayed in love.





Acknowledgments


To the best agent a writer could ever ask for, Amy Tannenbaum, and to the whole Jane Rotrosen Agency team—I can’t thank you enough for your wonderful guidance and encouragement; to my fantastic editor Micki Nuding and everyone at Gallery Books, including Kristin and Jules for their excitement and dedication. Thank you to the amazing Enn Bocci, for knowing just what to say at the right time and for always swinging for the fences. Endless appreciation to each of my online friends and to all the bloggers whose enthusiasm helped so many discover and fall in love with Drew Evans and Kate Brooks.

To my readers, for understanding and enjoying and having as much fun reading about these characters as I do writing them.

And I’m so very grateful for my brilliant husband and two beautiful children—thank you for your patience, love, and support, and for giving me a reason to smile every single day.





Prologue


Women walk a fine line.

Prude.

Slut.

Bitch.

Doormat.

Defining who you are to the outside world is a constant balancing act. It’s exhausting. But for some women there is an occasional out. An excuse that lets them say what’s really on their minds, allows them to forgive even if they know they shouldn’t, and pushes them to indulge all those nasty little fantasies—without the scarlet consequences.

Alcohol.

It can give the courage to talk dirty and the permission to go home with the bartender.

It’s the alibi. The cover story.

It wasn’t really you—you were possessed by Captain Morgan and the Grey Goose.

Unfortunately, I have a very high tolerance for alcohol.

Sucks to be me.

In all our years together, Billy was never able to drink me under the table. Not once. Maybe it’s because I started drinking at a young age. Maybe I was just born that way.

Regardless, it takes a lot to get me buzzed and even more to get me drunk.

That’s why, back in the day, I preferred pot.

Much more efficient.

Yep, you heard me right. Kate Brooks—pothead extraordinaire. Me and the Grateful Dead? We could’ve been bestest friends. Weed courage is what made me brave enough to get my tattoo.

But, sadly, those days are over. As I started business school, I realized the consequences of getting caught with a controlled substance were just too high.

So now I stick to legally sanctioned drugs only. Mostly wine.

Drew and I drink it nightly, just to unwind. And once a week we have kind of a date night—a special night. We cook together. Drew is a big fan of the fajitas. We drink and talk and drink some more.

Tonight we drank a bit more than usual. So, even though I’m not wasted in the literal sense, my limbs feel loose. Relaxed. Just like my inhibitions.

Have I got your attention? Excellent.

Open a window, ladies and gents—it’s about to get hot in here.



We’re in bed.

I’m on my back. And Drew is between my legs.

Well—his face is, anyway.

“I love your *.”

I moan, and he reinforces his words with actions. He’s big on actions.

Wet, worshipful actions.

“I could f*cking live down here.”

He picks up his pace, and before you can say “Slap me with a riding crop,” I’m pulling on his hair and screaming his name.

Moments later, Drew smirks proudly and crawls up my body. My limbs are lazy from the wine—and the orgasm, of course. All around, there’s a pleasant haze, a mist of numbness, making everything seem dreamlike.



And then we’re kissing. And heat spreads throughout my body like an electrical current, bringing me back.

Making me feel how real this is.

I rip my mouth from his and whisper—the alcohol making me brave—“Drew . . . Drew, I want to try something.”

That gets his attention. “What do you want to try?” His tongue glides over my nipple.

I smile and bite my lip. “Something new.”

He raises his head. His lids are adorably heavy. “I like new.”

I chuckle and push him off me, then stand up and make my way toward the dresser—bumping into the nightstand as I go.

“Excuse me.”

I open the top drawer and pull out two pairs of handcuffs. Delores got them for her post-wedding bachelorette party, but she already had a pair.

Don’t ask.

I swing one around my finger. My sexy strut back to the bed is almost ruined as I stumble on my four-inch heels, and I giggle.

Drew rises up on his knees. He looks hungry, like a starving lion eyeing up a juicy steak that’s just out of reach.

He moves to take the cuffs from me, but I push him away.

“On your back, big boy.”

I know what he’s thinking. Can’t you almost hear him?

“Mmm . . . Kate wants to run the show? Interesting.”

He backs up and brings his wrists to the posts of the headboard. I circle his wrists and lock the half moons in place.

Click.

Click.

He gives each one a tug, testing it out, as I rest on my heels beside him, my eyes smoothing over the rippling naked perfection that is Drew Evans.