Yellow (The Safeword Series, #2)

Yellow (The Safeword Series: Book Two)

Ava Claire

Copyright © 2015 Ava Claire

Cover by RBA Designs

The Safeword Series

Red (The Safeword Series: Book One)

Yellow (The Safeword Series: Book Two)

Green (The Safeword Series: Book Three)

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E-book License Edition Notes

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Copyright Page

Chapter One: Desmond

Chapter Two: Sophia

Chapter Three: Desmond

Chapter Four: Sophia

Chapter Five: Desmond

About The Author

“S
o...who is she?”

Every other question my sister had asked over the past half hour had garnered grunts, nods, and shrugs.

How was Hush?

Fine, I’d grunted, declining to share that ‘fine’ didn’t begin to illustrate just how fucking amazing Hush was.

Not Hush.

Her.

Sophia.

‘Sin’.

The woman with the eyes that I couldn’t escape and the moans that had been playing on repeat all through the night, sighing into morning.

Are you ready for your interview with Tell-tale Mag?

A nod sufficed. Usually, I’d grimace at any mention of schmoozing. The public relations side of being a celebrity was my least favorite part of the job. While the celebrity was what transformed me from restauranteur and renown chef to household name, there were days when I wondered what it was all for. No one remembered how my dishes inspired and my restaurants revitalized communities, bringing in revenue and new jobs. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, I was that douchebag judge from those cooking shows.

You know Kara is gonna be pissed when she finally graces us with her presence?

That got a shrug. Kara Mills was an executive producer on
America’s Chef
. All the things I’d once found endearing - her tenacious personality, the brusque, Brooklyn tenor of her voice that reminded me of home, and her intensity - were now things that made her unbearable to be around.

But Mallory’s last question stopped me dead in my tracks. Who is she? The answer was something I was still grappling with myself. Sophia was, in a word, temptation. She was the exact opposite of what I was searching for when I created Hush. I wanted sex; dirty, kinky, no strings attached sex. Flesh and moans, nothing complicated, nothing more than escape. But in her, there were all kinds of strings I wanted to untie and untangle. Who was she beneath the mask? What was it about submission that spoke to her? For the first time since-

I doused the name with gasoline and set it on fire before it had a chance to ripple through my head. I picked up my coffee and forced all emotion, all everything, to the back of my mind. I focused on the robust bitterness of the caffeinated liquid, struggling to ignore the fact that I damn near burned my tongue off.

I finally answered my sister’s question. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Even slightly obscured by my shades, Mallory’s incredulity came through loud and clear. “Dude, I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“Pretty close,” I kidded, swiping the S.Pellegrino. I threw back several gulps, trying to wash the coffee from my tongue. The bite of it danced in my mouth like Pop Rocks. I kept drinking, pretending I didn’t notice the annoyance all over Mallory’s face. She’d hated it when I treated her like my little sister when we were thirteen, putting the fear of God in any friend of mine that looked at her with hunger in their eyes. She was just as annoyed at twenty-two by the reminder that she was, and always would be, my little sister.

“Whatever,” she huffed, bringing her mimosa to her lips. My attempts at deflecting fell short because after she took a sip, her smug little smile was back and in full effect. “You’re so transparent it’s almost funny. Cute, even.” She lifted her glass like she was toasting herself for catching me in a lie. “Exhibit one: you’re always full of complaints when Kara sets up these morning pow wows. Exhibit two: you weren’t a pain in the ass when we got the menu, asking the waiter a round of questions that are way above the call of duty-”

“This place charges $29 for a cheese omelette,” I cut in, not even caring that I was missing the point. Mal and I had come a long way; raised by a mother who worked three jobs so we could have a shot at something better. Something more. No matter how much my net worth grew, I never lost my urge to hold people accountable for service and quality. If they had the balls to charge a ridiculous amount of money for the same shit I could get at iHop for a fraction of the price, I would call them on it. “If this place boasts fresh and free range ingredients with the bill to boot, you better believe I’m going to ask the waiter some questions.”

“That aside,” Mallory continued, agitation edging her voice at the interruption. “You just chugged that coffee like it was a shot of vodka, and you don’t even like coffee.”

I pushed my shades to the bridge of my nose, not debating that fact. “This place forces their fair trade crap down our throats whether we want it or not. I didn’t want it to go to waste.”

“Riiight.”

We were on the patio, the sun streaming down on me like a spotlight and I was the lone person on stage. Mallory was front and center, ignoring the brightness and my obvious discomfort. She pulled off her sunglasses altogether, like she wanted an even better look at me. Or maybe she wanted me to see that whatever lie I was selling, she wasn’t buying. “Even if I wanted to believe that something isn’t up, there’s one key piece you’re forgetting.”

“What’s that?”

“You haven’t denied that there’s someone. At all.” She held up her hands innocently when I let out a groan. “Hey! I’m not complaining. Heck, I want to shake her hand. She turned my butthole brother into a decent, almost agreeable human being.”

“If you weren’t my sister, I’d be flipping you off right now.”

“Good.” She stuck out her tongue at me. “I’d hate to rat you out to Mom.”

As soon as her final word dropped, so did Mallory’s smile. I knew what was coming before she even said it. I couldn’t stop the rush of bitterness that shot to my throat like bile. It was directed at the woman who raised us; the woman who forced my sister to step into the role of mediator. “She asked about you yesterday, Des.”

Now, I wish I had that shot of vodka. Big, bad, Desmond O’Connell, and this was the one thing that brought me to my knees - disappointing the people I cared about the most. “I’m going to see her this week.”

“You said that last week,” Mallory pointed out. Not in petulance, or like she was scolding me, even if I deserved it. Her tone was matter-of-fact, stating the pitiful truth.

I still hadn’t forgiven my mother, or myself, for that night. The night that changed me. The accident was nearly three years ago now. The call that destroyed everything I thought I knew about my mother, about myself, was just as devastating as it had been back then.

“She’s been sober since the accident,” Mallory offered gently.  “Caity’s parents forgave her-”

“I did meet someone.” I silenced my sister, knowing the risk. Admitting I was in a good mood, a good mood that was quickly becoming a distant memory with the ghosts from the past being forced down my throat, was preferable to another conversation about second chances and forgiveness. Usually, Mal backed off when I got testy, but lately, she would whip out some unsolicited reflection on how I had to let go and process my grief. “If you’d like to talk about that and make me super uncomfortable, bring it.” I glared at her over the rim of my shades, making myself crystal damn clear. “I’m not talking about Mom.”

Mallory was the spitting image of our mother, all fair skin, red hair, and stubbornness. To be fair, I was pretty stubborn myself. It must be an O’Connell thing.

We squared off. Her cheeks were inflamed, lips pursed like she was fighting the urge to cuss me out, hit me upside the head, or both. I knew she’d do neither, considering we were surrounded by witnesses and the trigger happy paparazzi. They hovered behind the invisible line the star studded restaurant had drawn so their customers could eat in peace.

I wasn’t a praying man, but I found myself hoping that just once we could skip our usual song and dance; Mal would get all teary and tell me she was just trying to help, we’d both feel guilty, then we’d leave the conversation open ended, like some obvious thing on each other’s face that the other person pretended wasn’t there.

She bit her lip and pulled her shades over her eyes. After she downed her mimosa with the same ferocity that I’d devoured my coffee, she scrubbed her face of the past and flashed me a toothy grin. “Tell me about this lucky lady.”

I returned the favor, lowering my arms and relaxing. “Her name is Sin.”

It was a good thing she wasn’t still drinking because she would have spewed mimosa all over the place. “What?!”

“I met her at Hush,” I elaborated, preparing for the inevitable eye roll.

“Ugh, I didn’t ask if you got
laid
, Des!” She pretended she was plugging her ears and squeezed her eyes shut. “I could care less about your sexual exploits. Don’t want to see them, hear about them, just...no. I mean, do you want to hear about
my
sex life?”

I took a shuddering bite of my croissant, swallowing before I answered. “Considering I nearly murdered the best boy for looking at your ass, I think you know the answer to that question.” I looked into green eyes that were identical to my own and smiled. No smirk, no half smile, a full on grin. “And not that it’s any of your business, but we haven’t-” I slammed to a stop mid sentence, my smile faltering. The word ‘sex’ suddenly felt vulgar. And more than that, I felt this need to defend Sophia. To defend what we had, which was utterly ridiculous. If I hadn’t been reeling from my attraction to her, I
would
have had sex with her. Hell, sex was probably exactly what we needed to do so I could get her out of my system before either one of us did something crazy like fall in you-know-what.

“Her name is Sin. And you met her at a sex club.” Mallory was speaking slowly, like she was waiting for some vital, missing piece of information.

“Her real name is Sophia.” I scooted the knot of my tie up a few inches. Tightening the lid on my emotions. They would do me no good here. Or anywhere. “And yes, we met at Hush, which is a sex club, but...” I trailed off, not finishing my sentence again. I knew I was blushing before Mallory unhelpfully pointed it out.

“Oh my gosh! You like her!” Mallory’s high pitched excitement carried, drawing a handful of unamused eyes in our direction.

I dabbed my mouth with my napkin, aiming at invisible crumbs. Mostly, I was trying to pretend she didn’t catch me redhanded. Or, just red in general if the heat that was invading my face was any indication. I was guilty of doing the very thing I’d turned to the world of kink to avoid.

“Don’t be juvenile, Mal. I said I met someone, not that we’re dating.”

“Well, you’re not fucking-”

“Language!” I admonished her.

“Oh God, you sound just like-”

The word 'Mom' died on her tongue and the sparkle faded to sparks of glitter, like some great wind had gusted through and upended everything. Our eyes locked and I knew that whether or not I was ready to discuss that night, ready to face the past, was irrelevant. Caity wasn't the only thing we lost that night. We lost the comfort of denial; the naive belief that it was normal that our mother downed a bottle of sangria with dinner. That she wasn't an alcoholic because those people couldn't function and she was active in church and always smiling, laughing, the life of the party.

She was still here, a shadow of her former self...but we lost her too.

Mallory combed her fingers through her live wire strands, tugging the red locks over her shoulder. I think both of us were glad that we could hide behind our shades.

“So, if she's not one of your, what do you call them?”

“Submissive,” I answered, trying to not sound annoyed that she was pretending she didn't know that word. Or what I did. She was my assistant, my sister, and to be honest, my best friend. There was nothing secret between us—including her disdain for my choices in the bedroom.

“Right.” She skated her fingertips along the stem of her wineglass. “If she's not
that
, and you're not dating, what is she?”

A few seconds ago, I relished the opportunity to talk about something, anything, other than the past. To be honest, I thought the mention of Sophia would be met with the usual eye roll and 'Des will be Des' ambivalence. But when I looked at my sister, I could see that her question was a genuine one, and she was searching for a genuine answer.