Sydney Stories 1
A rock star hiding a vicious crime.
A billionaire’s son fighting for his own identity.
Kemp Lansey and Charles Durant, once stepbrothers. One, now a famous singer. The other, a renowned photographer.
Reunited after eight years, Kemp tells himself that it’s just sex—fierce, damned near bloodletting sex.
Sex and a mutual understanding.
Kemp doesn’t want Charles’ millions.
Charles doesn’t want Kemp’s fame and glory.
Kemp tells himself he can have their new relationship, as long as Charles never finds out Kemp is guarding someone else’s secrets—secrets that drove them apart all those years ago. Secrets that could tear apart the life of someone Kemp loves. Secrets that could end their relationship.
Kemp walked away once. He should walk away again.
All he has to do is hide the truth from Charles.
Because Charles can’t know. Can he?
No, no point in arguing the issue right now. Not when they hadn’t seen each other in almost a fortnight and the goddamn craving in Kemp’s bones for skin against skin was clawing at every nerve ending. He felt the knot of his brows and glanced around the room for the one item Charles was never separated from. Sure enough, Charles’ camera bag was sitting on the coffee table by the sofa. He went over and picked it up, swung it by the strap.
As he’d expected, Charles’ wide gaze shot to him. “Kemp—”
“Don’t worry, I won’t break it.” Kemp strolled over to him, a slink in every barefoot step. He held the bag out, suspended from his fingers. “I want you to do your thing, Chaz. Snap a few shots. Immortalise me.”
Charles looked amused, an eyebrow lifting. “Immortalise you?”
Kemp gave him a lascivious wink. “Those shots of me from your show are still going to be around when I’m a hundred. Thank Christ.” He laughed. “I like the idea of being able to look back at them and think, hey, I was passable once. That’s immortality.”
Charles’ eyes darkened. “You’re more than passable.”
Kemp shook his head, gaze sliding over Charles’ face, the bared, leanly muscular broad golden shoulders and chest, Charles wearing nothing more now than the fresh khaki chinos he’d changed into after the drive and a hot shower before dinner. “You’re the gorgeous one, Chaz. You look like a bloody billboard model. I’ll bet you’ve dealt with a lot of people telling you that you’re on the wrong side of the camera.”
That beautifully cut, sexy mouth tightened. “Early on, perhaps. But people can be idiots.”
Typical Charles. Just occasionally the autocrat slipped through. Kemp burst out laughing, but his fingers still went to the knot at his hip and he loosened the towel, letting it slip to the floor. Charles’ suddenly fierce blue gaze slid over his damp, naked body as Kemp crawled over the mattress, settling back against the brass bars of the bedhead and winding his arms up around them before gripping the cool metal bars with his fingers.
…Charles shifted on the bed as if those chinos had grown too tight, and Kemp felt his smile grow evil.
“I want photographic evidence, Charles. However you want me, whichever way you want me,” he drawled, incapable of keeping the rough, hot edge out of his voice. “One rule only—these images are only for us. You and me. No gallery, no show. Ever. So go as dark and filthy as you want. When I posed for you at the video shoot that day, we both knew those images would probably be public, and sure as fuck, they were. But these, for us alone… no limits. Just go for it.”
“Dear god—” It was a hoarse whisper.
“You won’t get many offers like this. And I trust you. I know you’ll keep the images private.”
The powerful line of Charles’ throat moved as he swallowed. “Yes. I would.”
Kemp licked his suddenly dry lips. Fucking hell, this was turning him on so bloody hard—way harder than some crazy spur-of-the-moment suggestion should.
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BD Roca grew up in Brisbane, Australia and still misses the scent of frangipani and living in funky old Queensland houses. When not writing, she enjoys yoga, and the occasional glass of pinot, although not in combination. She can be reached at email@example.com