Undertow

  In some ways, I was so ordinary. Waking up in bed with my Paul, my surfer boyfriend, our life filled with sandy toes and tan lines. I stocked books during the day and danced with him to Bob Marley at night.

  In other ways, I was unordinary. I'd dust off the sand and step into Stewart's limousine. Zip up my evening gown and slide into my other life. Champagne and maid service. Orgasms and my businessman.

  My life was a tide, pulling me back and forth between the two men. Soothing. Peaceful.

  Then the undertow came, pulling my lives together, my men colliding, my breath shortening, arms flaying against the current, my heart breaking in its strength.

  I should have known it would never work out.

  Contents

  Other Books by Alessandra Torre:

  Chapter 1

  3 Months Earlier

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Epilogue

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Copyright © 2014 by Alessandra Torre

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Original Title: Sex, Love, Repeat

  Edited: Madison Seidler (2013)

  Proof: JO’s Proofing, Erik Gevers

  Cover: Perfect Pear Creative

  Other Books by Alessandra Torre:

  Erotic Romance:

  Black Lies

  Love Chloe

  The Innocence Trilogy

  Romantic Suspense:

  Moonshot

  Trophy Wife

  Even Money / Double Down

  Tight

  The Deanna Madden Trilogy

  Contemporary Romance:

  Hollywood Dirt

  Love in Lingerie

  Hidden Seams

  Romantic Comedy:

  Tripping on a Halo

  Contemporary Fiction:

  The Ghostwriter

  This book is for the girl with her head down,

  and the inner strength I know she carries.

  1

  The heart is stubborn. It holds onto love despite what sense and emotion tells it. And it is often, in the battle of those three, the most brilliant of all.

  “Madison.”

  I hear my name, but I cannot open my eyes. I try, pushing and pulling with the weak muscles of my eyelids, but there is no movement. Nothing to minimize the blackness, nothing to pull me from this rabbit hole of darkness. But I can hear. I have emerged into awareness with only one sense, and I grab onto it and pull upward, trying to raise myself into life through the elements of sound alone. I hear my name, hear Paul say it, crystal clear, his voice thick with emotion. I strain for more, worried he has left, tensing and pushing every muscle I have, trying for movement, trying to reach out with my hands and grab his skin, his shirt, anything.

  Then I pause on my journey, all my efforts freezing, stalled in their worthless attempts, because a second voice has joined the first.

  Stewart.

  A voice I love—his deep, authoritative tone one that traditionally makes my breath quicken and my knees weak. But here, in this place, it makes my heart drop. His voice should never be heard in tandem with Paul’s, their presences should never be intersected, much less raised in what sounds to be an argument.

  And I know, as my mind closes off—pushes me deeper into the black hole of oblivion, my subconscious fighting tooth and nail as I am pulled down, down, down—I have failed. All of my attempts, my careful lives of separation …

  “Madison.” I hear my name one last time, but it is so faint, I cannot tell which man it comes from.

  THREE MONTHS EARLIER

  2

  TORRANCE, CA

  DANA

  I am nosy. A meddler. Mom used to say it would be my downfall. She was probably right. It certainly got me in enough trouble early in life, my matchmaking skills often falling flat, my snooping ending disastrously. As an adult, I should know better. I should keep to myself—keep my curiosity to a minimum.

  I haven’t seen Stewart in three years. Ever since we had a big blow up over Thanksgiving dinner and his inability to have time for anything but work. I now regret that fight. It was valid, and I was in the right, but it wasn’t worth the silence. Silence that stretched a week, then a month, then years, each passing holiday a reminder of my loss. I don’t know the reason for his silence. Is it stubbornness or the fact that his busy schedule has pushed thoughts of me out of his mind? I don’t know what’s worse—intentionally being snubbed or being forgotten about completely.

  On my end, it was initially stubbornness, our commonalities peaking in that one trait: pride. And since I, after all, was right, there was really no reason for me to break first—to weaken and reach out when he was the one in error. Now, it doesn’t really matter whether I was right. I just want him back. Sadly, my point has been proven even more by his silence. He doesn’t have time for me. He only has time for work. And for her, that blonde who holds his busy heart in her hands.

  I first saw them in the Los Angeles society pages, his hand tight around her waist, her smile bright and natural, affection in her eyes as she beamed at him. He is so rarely photographed, never having the time for the premieres or charity galas that most men of his position flock to like obedient animals. He doesn’t lunch at the Ivy or stroll through Beverly Hills. He takes the elevator down from his condo, walks four buildings west, and rides a different elevator up to his office. Work. Sleep. Repeat. At least that was his life when I knew it, when I had a small part in his heart. Maybe things are different now. Maybe he takes weekends off, has dinner dates, movie nights, and tropical vacations, and takes that ray of California blonde right along with him.

  But I doubt it. My online stalking has shown no such habits. Best I can t
ell, he is the same Stewart—she is the only change.

  I haven’t yet figured out if she’s a passing fancy or a long-term possibility, but I’ll find out. I moved here, in small part, to become a part of his life again, whether he wants me to or not. So, I’ll find out more about her. Soon, I’ll know how much of a role she plays in his life. I’ll sit back, watch, and gather information.

  He’s certainly too busy to notice me watching.

  3

  Hollywood, CA

  MADISON

  I don’t know what it is about a wealthy man that women find appealing, but I’m victim to it along with the rest. And Stewart wears wealth as well as any man I know.

  The backdrop of finery complements him. His large frame settles into expensive leather chairs; crystal chandeliers cast dramatic highlights on the beautiful lines of his face, and ocean glitters off the brilliant blue of his eyes. His Patek Philippe watch glints, the edge of it barely visible under the cuff of his dress shirts. His custom suits move easily beneath my fingers, sliding over his broad shoulders, the hard definition of trained muscles rippling under pale skin. I’ve never seen him with a tan, his hours spent indoors, his workouts done under the muted lights of his penthouse gym and directed by a blonde bombshell named Tiffany.

  Tonight, I only have to step inside, my entrance interrupting a set of pull-ups, his muscles popping as he suspends and lifts himself with easy efficiency. The additional light of the open door causes them both to turn, his eyes locking on mine with laser focus, and he drops lightly to his feet. “Tiffany,” he says between hard breaths. “That’ll be all.”

  I drop my bag as she hurries past, barely noticing the sound of her exit, my focus on Stewart, as he strides forward and grips my arms, lifting me easily and silently onto the counter, his lips pressing against mine quickly, before interrupting us with the cloth of my shirt, pulling it over my head and tossing it aside. He skips a greeting, focusing on my bare breasts, pressing me backward and taking a hungry mouth to my skin, his hands yanking and pulling on my shorts, sliding them down and off of my legs as his tongue plays a soft rhythm against my nipple.

  He moves lower, tasting me, inhaling deeply between my legs. “God, you taste so good.” He groans against my sex, his tongue dipping inside and fucking me thickly, his need pouring through his mouth and his hands, which caress my body like I am their final meal to feast on. He carries me to the bench and lays me down, his eyes dark and wild as he stares down at me, pulling down the cloth of his shorts until his cock pops free.

  “This,” he murmurs, “is going to be for me. I promise, I’ll take care of you later.”

  I smile, spreading my legs apart and stretching out on the bench. His brand of fucking is relentless, strong thrusts in which he devours my body without restraint. It is what I have come here for—it’s what I want. I need the domination, the edge of insanity that he barely holds in check. I need the madness in his eyes, the pure need that breathes through his body, the need only I can satisfy.

  And there, on the leather bench, he rides us both to exhaustion.

  I wake in his bed, two sheets between me and the down comforter, the soft voice of Estelle somewhere to my right. I roll over, blinking sleepily as her kind face comes into view.

  “Are you ready for breakfast, Ms. Madison?”

  “What time is it?” I prop myself up, holding the blanket against my bare chest.

  “It’s after ten, ma’am. Mr. Brand told me to wake you after—”

  I nod, smiling slightly. “Yes. I didn’t mean to sleep this long. What time did he leave?”

  “Six-thirty ma’am.”

  I look around for my clothes, trying to trace back the moment when they had become victim to Stewart’s hands. His office. “I asked you a year ago to stop calling me ma’am,” I mumble, a yawn slipping out of my mouth.

  “Yes, ma’am.” She frowns regretfully, before starting over. “I’m sorry. Would you care for breakfast?”

  “No, thank you. I’ve got to get going. My clothes from yesterday—”

  “Were in the office. They have been washed and are hanging in your closet.”

  “Perfect. Thank you. Do you mind asking the valet to bring up my car?”

  “Certainly. I’ll be close by if you need me.” She smiles brightly before backing into the hall and closing the suite’s doors.

  I yawn again, blinking the sleep from my eyes, and roll out of the bed. I walk into the granite-filled bathroom and turn on the steam shower.

  4

  Venice Beach, CA

  I step from the bedroom a half hour later, jeans and a tank top on, my wet hair twisted into a bun. I swing by the kitchen on my way out, waving goodbye to Estelle and snagging a red apple and bottled water from the fridge.

  I hop on Santa Monica Boulevard and move through lanes of traffic with ease, my car knowing the route as well as my soul, my thoughts wandering as I drive. The Audi was a gift from Stewart for my twenty-ninth birthday and was probably picked out by his assistant. Regardless of who chose the vehicle, I love it. White exterior, blood red leather inside, it is sleek, sexy, and just begs every degenerate in my neighborhood to steal it. I’m shocked it’s survived the last five months.

  It’s fourteen miles between Stewart’s home and mine, but it might as well be different countries. Stewart lives in the skyscraper world of downtown Hollywood, rarely leaving the blocks of the city unless jetting off for work. He works a hundred hours a week, sleeps six hours a night, and fucks the hell out of me the rest of the time. His needs are minimum: food, sleep, and sex. I take care of one of those. Estelle and his bed take care of the rest.

  I get off on Lincoln Boulevard, the traffic lessening as frustrated drivers continue their trek along the freeway, anxious to continue their painful life. For a moment, I wish I’d put down the car’s top, needing to feel the wind in my hair and hear the sound of the surf. Leaving Stewart’s, I sometimes need a strong breeze to release the intensity he carries with him.

  I pull off the road and turn down our street. Pressing the garage release button, I enter the dark space that is my spot and kill the ignition. I step out in the shadows, the overhead burnt out, Paul promising for the last five months to get around to it.

  The steps are worn concrete, this townhome complex built before developers realized they shouldn’t build shit housing this close to the beach. Property values in this area have hit ridiculous figures, and a six-figure income will still put you in the projects, dodging street beggars and used needles. We don’t make six-figures. Paul brings in anywhere from fifty to sixty thousand surfing. I bring in far less than that, running a bookstore that operates out of a bar on Venice Beach. By California standards, it’s practically poverty, but we don’t need much. For Paul and I, we never have. We’re lucky to have this place, my stepfather blessing us with a rent payment low enough to both piss our neighbors off and ensure that we can still cover food and utilities.

  Paul and I met two years ago, at the Santa Monica pier, when we were side by side in the singles line for the rollercoaster. We had all of six minutes in line, the shuffle moving quickly, singles getting split up among the empty seats in a bored and orderly fashion.

  He flashed a smile at me, and that was really all it took. Broad shoulders, tan skin that peeled a bit on his nose, and blue eyes that looked like a fucking turquoise magic marker. He was in board shorts, a T-shirt, and flip flops with muscular, track-free arms and no hint of tattoos. It was like God plucked an Abercrombie & Fitch model from the sky and injected him with testosterone and sexuality. I smiled back.

  We spent those six minutes talking, our words spilling out between laughs and chemistry. I instantly liked him, had one of those at-peace realizations that he was a good guy. The type so good that women run over him, the type so good that he is often stuck in the friend-zone. But this guy? With his gorgeous looks and the I-will-fuck-you-in-this-line-right-now vibe? No woman was stupid enough to best friend this man. I wanted him, right there in tha
t line, my panties sticking to me in the best way possible beneath my short cotton skirt.

  We reached the front, our moment of separation, but were seated together, two of us in one bench, a ridiculous, never-should-happen moment, and I took the minute before liftoff to reach over and tug the back of his head toward me. His wide smile told me I wasn’t crazy, that he wanted this every bit as much as I did. And I knew, in the moment our lips met, seeming to instantly know every part of the other’s soul, that I would fuck him. I needed him inside me, needed his hands to grip my waist, his shirt to move off that beautiful chest and my bare breasts to replace it. I needed every inch of him against and inside of me. The rollercoaster bar jerked down, and we separated with a laugh.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “Just prepare for screams.” I grinned.