Bittersweet Lies (Bittersweet-Series Book 1) Read online

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Mel Hope is the name for erotica and romance novels brimming with complicated relationships and emotionally charged stories.

  With my debut, Secret Dreams – Dangerous Passion, published mid-2016, I fulfilled one of my biggest dreams.

  Do you share my fondness for bad boys, raw sex scenes, and happy endings?

  Do you prefer a direct writing style with clear language?

  Do you have no problem with protagonists who curse and, at times, act inappropriately?

  If so, I welcome you to my world!

  Have fun reading …

  Yours, Mel

  BITTERSWEET LIES

  by Mel Hope

  First edition September 2018

  Copyright © Mel Hope

  http://www.Facebook.com/MelHopeAutorin

  All rights reserved!

  Plot and characters are fictitious; any resemblance to living persons and organizations is unintentional and purely coincidental. Brand names and trademarks used in this book are the property of their rightful owners.

  Reproduction, even only a part, requires the author’s prior written consent. This also includes the use or reproduction by electronic, digital, and photographic methods, as well as digital storage and dissemination.

  Cover © Mel Hope

  Editing/German version © R. R.

  Editing/English version: Buchuebersetzer.webs.com

  Proofreading/German version © A. H.

  Proofreading/English version/Buchuebersetzer.webs.com

  English translation/Buchuebersetzer.webs.com

  Sets and eBook © Mel Hope

  Imprint:

  Melanie Suffner

  Valckenburghstr. 11

  28201 Bremen

  Email: [email protected]

  http://www.Mel-hope.de

  SHORT DESCRIPTION

  Every lie casts a dark shadow on your soul ...

  BROOKE

  If he believes he can hurt me with his condescending way, then we have drifted farther apart than I thought.

  BLAKE

  She can deny wanting me as much as she wants, in the end she will be mine.

  I won’t let her get away a second time …

  LIAM

  There’s something special about Brooke that excites me – I just don’t yet know what.

  FORWORD

  Dear reader,

  My protagonists express themselves candidly and curse, as well as make one or more irrational decisions.

  But, shall I let you in on something?

  They are allowed.

  Are you wondering why?

  Because I created them. And let’s be honest: nobody’s perfect.

  In the story, songs are named and lyrics described, yet they have nothing to do with the original text.

  If this foreword is already not to your liking, now would be the right time to put the book aside.

  Should you be into bad boys, rough sex scenes, and complicated relationships, then I wish you good reading!

  Yours, Mel

  INDEX

  SHORT DESCRIPTION

  FORWORD

  NOTE OF THANKS

  Uncertain about what to do, I stand rooted in place in front of his damn door.

  I keep looking back and forth between the dark wood and the book I desperately hold.

  “How typical of you,” I quietly hiss and, annoyed, feel like rolling my eyes but resist the urge.

  My mother would be proud of me. She finds such unflattering gesture unbecoming of a well-bred lady.

  For years, I yielded to her will and unreasonably high opinions. Back then, I was still naive enough to believe it would earn me her respect. Nowadays, I realize I was never nor would I ever be good enough. At least not from her perspective.

  Not wasting another thought on my mother or the situation, I knock.

  No reply.

  All remains quiet. And here I could have sworn he was in his room.

  Now what?

  Come back later? Knock again? Storm in? Or just place the book in front of his door?

  I have to admit, the latter sounds quite tempting to my ears, although it would mean I’m too much of a coward to confront him in person. Which, of course, I’m not.

  No way. It would only provide him with more ammunition and I am not willing to give him that satisfaction.

  So, I knock again, this time with more force, actually almost aggressively.

  No response.

  I expected some complacent remark, but nothing at all?

  Heavens, why do I sound so disappointed?

  One could think I longed for his arrogant way, though I’m definitely not a masochist.

  In one final, totally stupid attempt, I lean forward and press my ear against his door. It’s amazing how low I have sunk …

  Dammit. If someone catches me in this quite telling pose, my life is ruined. THIS is unexplainable. At least not without coming across like some crazy stalker.

  So, I make the most of it … and listen.

  Is it just my imagination or do I actually hear a deep bass beat?

  Straining, I listen intently, even hold my damn breath, and conclude my hearing is just fine.

  So, Mr. White is not in the mood for me?

  Well, what did I expect? That we would become friends?

  No, I’m not that naïve.

  Because last night – for the first time since I’ve been here – I was under the impression we were actually warming up to each other.

  Fuck it!

  “I apologize for barging in like this, but I just want to return your bo–” I say as I open the door energetically. But the scene before me makes the rest stick in my throat.

  Holy moly …

  Bare skin.

  Lots of bare skin.

  Mesmerized, I stare at his tanned, slightly sweaty back with complex black ink motifs. The centerpiece is a beautiful sun surrounded by pointy teeth.

  Unintentionally, my curious gaze wanders downward and lingers on the also naked and shapely butt, which …

  “Fuck!” The curse slips from my lips when I finally realize in whose room I’m in and what is transpiring before my eyes.

  The bubble of fascination I found myself in a few seconds ago bursts as unexpectedly as it came, leaving me gasping for air.

  The thunderous deep beats coming from the speakers wash over me and together with the dim lighting, rob me of my orientation.

  How could I have not heard the music?

  I feel intoxicated. Intoxicated by the testosterone-saturated air and the smell of sex.

  The uninhibited, uniquely female moaning, which steadily grows louder, draws my attention back to the scene in front of me.

  The black haired woman kneels in an obvious pose on the bed, her round ass stuck up expectantly in the air, busily bracing against the aggressive thrusts.

  I want to look away, want to avert my gaze and storm out of the room. But I can’t.

  Instead, I continue staring at the bed and feel like a perverted voyeur who is watching something forbidden.

  Something forbiddingly hot.

  Then my gaze returns to him and time seems to stand still.

  The slightly tousled dark hair awakens in me the desire to bury my hands in it and let those incredibly shiny and soft strands slide through my fingers.

  He throws his head back in ecstasy as his hands tightly grip the petite waist before him to help counteract his hard, demanding thrusts.

  I swallow.

  Simply everything about him is indescribably sexy.

  A dark aura surrounds him; he exudes power and dominance, an intoxicating combination no femal
e can withstand. Not even me.

  My breath, now resembling a gasp, matches the beat of his thrusts.

  I feel hot. So infinitely hot.

  It would be so easy to just rip my clothes off, stroll over to the bed, and claim his touches for myself.

  His experienced hands caress my naked skin and leave behind small invisible patterns that only I can see.

  His teeth tease and rob me of my mind as he claims my body as his possession.

  His mouth – his incredibly beautiful mouth – smiles only at me. At me and not some other woman.

  What the hell am I thinking?

  While he has his fun, I stand in his room like a moron, watching him play his sex games.

  The book! I’m here because of the damn book, not to boost to his ego. Honestly, I could kick my own ass for my idiotic behavior!

  Before I’m discovered, I put said book as carefully as possible on the dresser next to me. That my escape won’t be as easy as expected, ending in a medium-sized disaster, I should have seen coming.

  The book from hell – I’m only in this embarrassing situation because of the stupid book – does not stay on the dresser. No, it ends up – the book from hell! – hitting the ground with full force.

  How is that possible?

  Well, I’d like to know too.

  I risk one final timid glance at the bed in the hope that the – now quite obtrusive – female moaning has drowned out my little gaffe. However, as I meet the pair of dark blue piercing eyes that blatantly stare at me, my heart stops for a split second.

  The moment his intense gaze meets mine, my mouth promptly dries up, so I tentatively lick my chapped lips with the tip of my tongue.

  I imagine his eyes darkening a bit. But a split second later, his beguiling mouth turns into an irresistible smile, immediately sending my pulse sky-rocketing.

  He knows I was watching.

  And he also knows I liked it.

  And yet my body does not move an inch from the spot.

  The intense blue gaze, one I cannot resist – no matter how much I try – is still only focused on me and a few seconds later, he reaches climax.

  That he looks at me, not her, even though he is inside her, excites and disgusts me alike.

  Soon after, as he places a tender kiss on her shoulder without taking his eyes off me, I finally manage to overcome my shock and storm out of the room.

  Today is my big day.

  Well, at least the first of many.

  Because from today on I gain a little independence.

  Not a lot, but for a start, it’ll suffice.

  “Brooke? Have you finished packing your things?” the authoritarian voice of my mother comes from the doorway.

  “I’m almost done,” I answer cheerfully, ignoring the underlying accusation that always seems to resonate when she speaks to me.

  “You know the car will be here in half an hour and–” she nags as she storms into the room and stares at me, stunned.

  I discreetly look down, but cannot figure out why she looks so shocked because I look like … me.

  The tight dark blue stovepipe jeans fit perfect and cling like a second skin to my legs and butt. My feet are barefoot – I hate socks! – I also cannot find anything objectionable with my plain black top.

  I tied up my long blonde hair in a casual top knot so they wouldn’t fall constantly in my eyes during packing.

  “You’re almost done? Did you even glance in the mirror, young lady?” she wants to know, trying not to sound hysterical.

  I can tell by her suspiciously flared nostrils and lower lip that begins to tremble minimally. Two clear signs she is pulling herself together.

  “I w–” and she cut me off.

  “You’re being picked up in less than 30 minutes and you don’t even think it’s necessary to put on something decent, let alone spruce up that hideous bird’s nest on your head!” Meanwhile, she is no longer making an effort to control her anger.

  “Mother, please calm down,” I say as calmly as possible, appealing to her common sense.

  “How am I supposed to calm down when it’s obvious my daughter uses every available opportunity to embarrass me?” she scolds, glaring at me reproachfully.

  It is not always like this between us.

  When I was a kid, we were heart and soul.

  I know, hard to believe, but true. However, since my father left her … us, almost 10 years ago, she has completely changed. My mom hasn’t been around for a long time, what’s left is this here.

  Deep down, I know she blames me for everything, even if she never said so to my face. The reproachful looks she gives me when she thinks I’m not looking betrays her.

  In the beginning, I made an effort to try to make her happy, but over the years, I realized it was in vain. And so, at some point, it became a habit for me to simply adapt.

  Not so much because I wanted to please her, but rather it was easier that way for me to cope with her.

  I didn’t want to provide her with more ammunition to fuel her hatred, so I opted for the cowardly way and kept my mouth shut.

  “I will not embarrass you,” I respond as calmly as before and continue placing the remaining items in my suitcase. It took me years to acquire this trait.

  “I will inform Emilia about this problem this instant so she can take care of it,” she continues to lament unimpressed and hurriedly leaves my room.

  Emilia is our housekeeper and by problem she means me. To be more precise, my – in her eyes – catastrophic appearance.

  “Typical,” I sigh slightly annoyed.

  How could I believe even for a single moment that she wouldn’t make a scene on my last day?

  Because she is my mother and will miss me?

  Yeah, sure!

  All she cares about is her reputation and status. Come to think of it, me moving out is quite beneficial for her. Now her wayward daughter is finally no longer her problem.

  Without thinking any further about my current situation and risk ruining my day, I pack the rest of my stuff when there is a knock on the door.

  “I’m really not spared anything,” I grumble, ill-tempered and slightly amused.

  “Time’s running out, Miss Nightengale,” Emilia declares as she sweeps through my room like a whirlwind, preparing everything for my makeover.

  “I’m sure you want to make a good impression on your first day, right?” she continues to chat – not waiting for an answer – and with a friendly smile on her lips and subtle gesture in the direction of the chair, lures me to my fate.

  Ten minutes later, a completely new being stares at me from the mirror. My long blonde hair falls in angelic ringlets over my back and my formerly weary face now looks even and fresh.

  I don’t know how she manages it every time, but I like this lively natural look.

  “Thanks, Emilia,” I mumble and breathe a little kiss on her cheek.

  “I will miss you, Brooke,” she says wistfully and pulls me into her chubby arms. She only calls me Miss Nightengale when my mother is near; we abandoned all formalities years ago.

  “I’ll miss you too,” I sniff sadly and reluctantly pulled out of her embrace.

  “My ride will be here in a few minutes, I should start slowly carrying my stuff down before Mother has another attack,” I respond smiling and wink at her.

  “What would you say to a different outfit?” she asks cautiously. But she immediately drops the subject when she sees my scowl.

  “I thought as much,” she giggles.

  “Brooke!” my mother’s voice thunders from below. “Do I have to personally bring you down here?” she threatens.

  “I’m coming!” I exclaim in a good mood looking at Emilia, who smiles at me encouragingly.

  “It’s about time,” she complains as we arrive completely packed in the foyer.

  “You were supposed to only worry about her appearance, not waste my valuable time,” she adds with a reproving glance in Emilia’s direction.


  “Forgive me, Mrs. Nightengale.” She actually apologizes to her even though she is not to blame.

  When she notices I am about to jump to her defense, she shakes her head and her mouth forms a silent no.

  “And why are you still running around in those terrible rags?” she addresses me again, eyeing me critically from head to toe.

  “Well, at least your hair and face now look quite acceptable.”

  Calm down. A few more minutes and you’re free at last.

  “These are not rags. This is what young women in this day and age wear,” I explain, although I know it is senseless to discuss my fashion style with my mother.

  In contrast to me, her dark brown hair is always stylish, her face immaculately painted, and her outfit from the current collection coordinated. All are exclusive, high-quality designer items, but naturally, that goes without saying.

  As she is about to reply, the doorbell rings. Later, I definitely have to thank Shane for his perfect timing.

  Glaring sullenly in my direction, my mother with her head held high, marches to the front door.

  “Shane, how nice to see you,” she welcomes my savior and pecks him on the left, then right cheek, as society expects.

  “The pleasure is all mine, Meredith,” he whispers charmingly as he gently lifts her hand to his lips. The delicate blush that creeps shortly afterward onto her pale cheeks, shows the gesture has not failed to achieve its effect. He simply knows how to wrap her around his little finger.

  “And as I can see your charming daughter is all ready to go,” he says to me, grinning broadly.

  “I can hardly wait,” I reply – and telling by the less enthusiastic expression of my mother – a bit too happily.

  A few minutes later, my stuff is stowed in the car. Nothing stands in the way of my new life; at least that’s what I try to tell myself.

  “I’ll call once we have arrived,” I say and for the sake of decency, blow a little kiss against her cheek.

  However, before I have a chance to say goodbye to Emilia, she holds me back by my upper arm.

  “Make one wrong step and I will see to it your ridiculous bubble bursts. I hope I’ve made myself clear enough,” she whispers icily in my ear and abruptly lets go of me.