The Confession

Titles by Sierra Kincade

The Body Work Trilogy

THE MASSEUSE

THE DISTRACTION

THE CONFESSION

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China

penguin.com

A Penguin Random House Company

This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

Copyright © 2015 by Sierra Kincade.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

HEAT and the Heat design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-18283-7

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Kincade, Sierra.

The confession / Sierra Kincade.—Heat trade paperback edition.

p. ; cm.— (The body work trilogy ; 3)

ISBN 978-0-425-27801-7

1. Masseurs—Fiction. 2. Billionaires—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3611.I564C66 2015

813'.6—dc23

2014035594

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Heat trade paperback edition / May 2015

Cover design by Rita Frangie.

Cover photograph of Young Sensual Lady © Mayer George / Shutterstock.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For Jason

The last year has been wild and crazy and full of excitement. It doesn't seem that long ago that Alec and Anna popped up in my mind, and now their story is (mostly) coming to an end. It's harder than I thought to say good-bye to them. They've given me some of the most memorable moments of my life. I hope somewhere they're living out their happily ever after (in bed . . . against the wall . . . on the kitchen counter).

Thank you to the team at Berkley—you rocked my socks off. Leis, you are fantastic. Jessica, I adore you (you are SO the cat's meow). Thank you to Bethany, and the super-sexy cover model who will forever give me eyebrow envy, and the wonderful marketing team for their awesome taglines and copy. Nailed it, guys.

Thank you to my agents—Joanna, Danielle, Abby, and Molly. You guys deserve Alec massages for everything you've done for me. (I'll send him right over.)

Thank you to my husband for being the kind of man who makes me believe in love, and my son for making me fierce in all the best ways. Thank you to Deanna, Katie, and Courtney for your reads, and for making me laugh every time I tried to do something brilliant, like use the word “lave.” (Yes, all references to the laving of things have been removed. No idea what I was thinking.) Thank you to Jaime and Erin for OMG just being the best cheerleaders, and my sassy and cool blogger friends for all your support. You guys. Seriously. You guys.

Huge squeezes to the wonderful Beth Kery for her read, and her mentoring emails, and the awesome quote for the front of
The Masseuse
. Beth, you are made of awesome.

Thank you to Christina Lauren for cheering me on—you were an inspiration long before we ever met. I will never forget the kindness you have shown me.

And thank you, lovely reader, for joining me on this incredible journey. I am so grateful that you gave Anna and Alec a chance.

 

Much love, Sierra

I
t begins with an offering. I set the mood—dim the lights, start the music, tantalize you with scents that pull you to a different place, a thousand miles away from the office, or the traffic, or your family. I open my door, but you're the one who strips. You're the one who whimpers and begs. You're the one who trusts.

In massage school they teach the technique of
effleurage
, how to increase blood flow to the muscles through a series of gentle touches with your fingertips or the palms of your hands. It's the foreplay of a massage. The tease. The seduction.

It's my specialty.

From there I locate the knots; it's easy enough if you know where to feel. The body tells you just what it wants, guides you to that place of tension. Fights what it needs, until with a sigh or a groan, it accepts the inevitable. Submission.

Petrissage
follows, where a deeper pressure is applied to the area. We're not playing around anymore. We're fucking. I'm working you with every trick I've got. I'm pushing you, pushing you, pushing you until you finally give me what
I
want.

Your pain.

Because that's all I have room for now.

*   *   *

My hands made soft, feathering strokes over his trapezius, afterplay from the deep-tissue work I'd just finished. I didn't remember what his name was. It didn't matter. He'd gotten what he came for, and I'd given him my best.

Which, admittedly, wasn't stellar. Not that he'd noticed.

For the first time during our fifty-minute session, I took a good look at him. The thick muscles of his shoulders were well-defined and made a gradual slope down his back, beneath the sheet hiding what I guessed was a very nice ass. His arms rested, palms unfurled, at his sides, and his dark brown hair was a little too long. It curled where his collar would have landed. He'd requested a focus on his shoulders, and therefore hadn't turned chest-up during the session.

I think he'd told me he was a baseball player or something. Minor league, maybe? It seemed to me the pros probably had their own team massage therapy staff, and this guy had shown up at the salon on a referral from one of my regulars.

In any case, he looked like he could have been a professional baseball player. And as my gaze lingered on the cut muscles of his upper arms, my mind wandered.

Look how hard I am.

The voice in my head brought a sharp ache in the deepest part of my belly. I shuddered, blinking back the wavering image before my eyes. Placing my flattened hands on each side of the client's spine, I focused on his pale skin. It was smooth and cool, like polished marble. Too pale to trigger the familiar lust heating inside me.

You want me to fuck your mouth.

I withdrew my hands quickly, as if the coolness had burned me. My breath came in one hard rasp. The weight that had settled in my chest for the past two and a half months seemed to liquefy, sliding down through my breasts, making my nipples tighten and tingle.

The man moved. Just a slight adjustment, but it snapped my focus back in place. I returned my oiled hands to his slick back, moving lower, to where his waist tapered. I could feel another man's body now. Feel my nails digging into his back as he growled in my ear.

Push back and fuck yourself on my dick.

Okay, moving back up now. Up and up and up, until I reached his neck. Gently, I stretched his muscles and tipped his head from side to side. His hair brushed against the back of my knuckles.

I closed my eyes.

I could feel him inside of me. The fullness only he could give me. My hands around his neck, fingers spearing through his hair. He was rocking against me, touching places deep inside that felt so good I thought I might die if he stopped. His mouth drifted to my collarbone, his rough stubble scraping my sensitive skin.

I love you so much it fucking hurts.

The man groaned, and I was thrust back into the present—into the massage room at Rave with the scent of cinnamon to sharpen my senses.

I was pulling his hair.

Pulling it, like I did when Alec made me come.

Realizing my mistake, I released him slowly, then gave him another few pulls just to make sure the move looked deliberate. I checked the small clock on the counter by the oils. Thank God it was the end of the session.

“How do you feel?”

I didn't care; I needed to get the hell out.

“Fucking awesome.” His voice was muffled through the headrest.

“Take your time getting up. I'll get you some water and meet you outside the door when you're dressed.”

He grunted a response. Maybe he said something else, I don't know. I was out of there, door shut behind me, before I could take another breath.

In less than a minute I was in the bathroom. It smelled like the lobby—fresh with the natural products we used in all our services—and had a stack of rolled towels on a wooden tray beside the sink.

I turned to face the wall and pressed my cheek against the cool tile. I was feverish. Sick. I had to be sick. That's why the perspiration had dewed across my forehead, why my whole body felt like it was on fire.

Touch yourself.

No.

I squeezed my eyes shut. My heart pounded against my ribs like a jackhammer. One hand flattened against the tiles, as I fought off the feel of him behind me, shoving me roughly against the wall. Pulling up this flimsy skirt I wore and tearing off my panties. He wouldn't be gentle. Not after all this time.

Feel how deep I am.

The throb between my legs was insistent now. He'd see I didn't need much warming up; I was already hot and slick for him. His fingers would slide right in to the knuckle. I pressed one open hand against my right breast, trying to still the need, but it only served to increase the pressure.

Let go, baby.

“Stop,” I said aloud. I pushed off the wall, gulping down air. Facing the mirror, I turned on the cold water and splashed my face. It stung; every inch of my body was burning.

“Stop it, Anna.” I stared at my reflection. The wet mascara dripped down my cheeks. Good thing it was the only makeup I'd put on this morning. It had been a while since I'd worn much more than that.

Alec and I were over. I hadn't seen him since I'd said good-bye to him the night Trevor Marshall, aka William MacAfee, had tried to throw me off a bridge. Apart from the time I'd come home to find my things from his apartment on my front stoop, he'd attempted zero contact.

But it wasn't like he'd disappeared. I heard his name on the news reports on the radio. I saw his face on television and in the papers. Alec Flynn. Maxim Stein's body man. Key witness in the biggest white-collar trial since Bernie Madoff.

Alec Flynn. The man that I loved.

Used to
love. I didn't love him anymore. I refused to. He'd endangered my life, and the lives of the people I cared about. If Alec and I had never been together, I wouldn't have been kidnapped, carjacked, or nearly tossed off a bridge. My best friend, Amy, never would have been targeted to use against us, and her daughter, Paisley, never would have been in danger.

Alec Flynn was trouble, and I had moved on.

Which is why it really pissed me off to look in the mirror and see a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

I was thinner than I'd ever been. My cheekbones were more severe, and I now wore a size six, something that would have at one time warranted a celebratory parade. I wasn't trying to lose weight—food was bland. My life was bland. I went through the motions from the time I woke up until the time I closed my eyes at night.

And punctuating that blandness were times like these. Times where I could still see him, or hear him saying my name. Times when I imagined us sitting together on my couch eating pizza. When I could almost feel him making love to me.

And times when I wondered what August felt like in Colorado. Or Alaska. Or fucking Greenland, because they surely needed masseuses there just like anywhere else.

I told myself those times would fade.

I was still waiting for that to happen.

Breathe.

I was at work. I had to get my client. Alec was off-limits. I'd promised myself I would be there for Amy and Paisley after learning they'd been abused by Amy's ex, and Alec had compromised that. Not by choice, but they'd been hurt because of us all the same. It would never happen again.

Besides, if he'd really wanted me, he would have fought for me.

I scrubbed the mascara from beneath my eyes, and emerged into the hallway. My client was leaning against the wall outside of the room wearing the black tracksuit he'd arrived in, and as the door closed behind me, his gaze lifted.

His smile was dazzling, I'm sure.

“Your water,” I said, touching my forehead. “I'm so sorry. Let me get that for you.”

“It's all right,” he said, pushing off the wall. He was big enough to block my path. Tall—at least a head above me—and broad. Like a baseball player. Like Alec.

Not like Alec. Not everything in this whole goddamn world circled back to Alec Flynn.

“Well, make sure you keep up the fluids today,” I said. “Your body releases a lot of toxins during massage.”

He smirked, and my gaze lowered to his mouth. Nice lips. Some freckles on his nose. Friendly eyes. He was younger than me, but cute. All-American cute.

“Anna, right?”

I took a not-so-subtle step back, which he didn't seem to notice.

“That's right.”

“What are you doing tonight? We should go get”—he smirked again—“
fluids
.”

“Wow.” I grinned to offset my tone. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Naw.” He pulled his phone from his pocket, obviously expecting to get my number. “First time. How'd it go?”

“Really smooth.” I tried to angle us toward the exit. “And it's a sweet offer, but I'm busy tonight.”

“How about tomorrow? We're on a home stand until Friday.”

“I . . .”
should say yes. I should go out with him.
There was nothing holding me back except the huge lump in my throat.

I went for the lie. The truth was too unbelievable. What was I going to say?
Those guns you're packing aren't even close to big enough to carry my baggage.

“I'm sort of seeing someone right now.”

I watched my tip go up in smoke as the hand holding his phone lowered to his side.

“That doesn't sound too serious.” He leaned forward, as if we weren't the only ones in the hallway. I breathed in a cologne, something spicy that blended with the cinnamon oil he'd chosen for the massage. “Like I said, I'm gone on Friday.”

I laughed. I couldn't help it.

“Now
that
,” I said, “was
really
smooth.”

He slouched as I led him to the door. He'd actually expected that proposition to work. And maybe it would have, if I wasn't swearing off men for the rest of eternity.

Before he left, I placed my hand on his biceps, but though it was firm and I liked hard muscles, it didn't do a thing for my pulse.

“Thanks for the offer . . .”
Name?
I couldn't remember. “Now's just not a good time.”

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but the next moment Amy swept in through the door, wearing a black smock accented at every available location by silver hair clips. Her platinum blond hair was down today, falling in a severe line just below her chin, and her bangs were swept across her forehead. She took one look at the baseball player and waggled her eyebrows at me.

“Hi, there,” he said to her, with that same twinkle in his eyes.

I snorted. He didn't waste any time.

After escorting him back to the front desk, I returned to the massage room to clean up. Amy was already there, sniffing the sheets.

“Oh my God, he even smells good,” she said.

“So you go out with him,” I said. “He's leaving town Friday.” I gave her an exaggerated wink.

We both knew she wouldn't. She was secretly holding out for Mike, Alec's best friend.

“He actually said that?” She laughed. “At least he's honest.”

She helped me strip the table and toss the crumpled sheets into a pile on the floor.

“You could totally hit that, you know,” she said.

“
Hit that
? What are we, sixteen-year-old boys?”

She giggled. “I'm just sayin'. He's hot. You're hot. He's not looking for serious. You're . . .”

An all-too-familiar silence settled between us.

“Definitely not looking for serious,” I finished quietly. “Or anything, for that matter.”

She picked up the pile of sheets while I wiped down the counter and replaced the bottles of lotion and oils.

“Maybe something casual is just what you need.” She didn't look up.

My jaw clenched, and I forced it to relax. Once, casual was all I did. No one got too close—romantic or otherwise. Now the idea seemed incomprehensible. Alec Flynn had made everything in my life dead serious.

I smiled, because the last thing I wanted was for Amy to feel guilty over my breakup. Not after everything she'd been through.

“I have everything I need. You and Paisley and my new, favorite roommate.”

After Alec and I had broken up, I'd finally told my dad everything that had happened with Trevor and his hit man, Reznik, on the Sunshine Skyway Bridge. He'd listened quietly, expressing only minimal concern. I thought I'd dodged a bullet until he showed up on my doorstep the next morning, complete with his Great Dane, Mug, and no plans of ever letting me leave his sight again.

Amy chuckled. “He might as well just get a place here.”

“But how would he keep tabs on me twenty-four/seven that way?”

“True.” She sighed. “I guess you'll just have to get a bigger house and live out your days as a spinster dog lady.”