Unspoken - Colours of Love E-Book

Kathryn Taylor

• Herausgeber: Lübbe
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Colours of Love Series
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 131

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2026

Beschreibung

She only wanted one unforgettable night.

When Hope impulsively gives in to a reckless attraction, she never expects to see the man again. But fate has other plans. At her sister’s wedding, the very same man suddenly stands before her - more alluring, more dangerous, and even harder to resist.

Now temptation burns hotter than ever, and she must decide: run from the fire, or surrender to it completely?

It's time to meet Grace’s younger sister! Finally, a brand-new short story that lets you dive even deeper into the Colours of Love-Universe and a welcome back with our favorites: Grace and Jonathan.

If you love the steamy scenes in E.L. James' »Fifty Shades of Grey« or Silvia Day's »Crossfire« series then COLOURS OF LOVE will thrill your desire for passion and romance.

Even as a little girl, Kathryn Taylor wanted to write. She published her first story at age 11. After a few detours in life, she found her own happily ever after. UNBOUND - COLOURS OF LOVE was her first novel.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Contents

About the Book

Title

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

About the Author

Copyright

About the Book

She only wanted one unforgettable night.

When Hope impulsively gives in to a reckless attraction, she never expects to see the man again. But fate has other plans. At her sister’s wedding, the very same man suddenly stands before her — more alluring, more dangerous, and even harder to resist.

Now temptation burns hotter than ever, and she must decide: run from the fire, or surrender to it completely?

KATHRYN TAYLOR

UNSPOKEN

A Novella

1

“Go on then, ask me!”

I lift my glass, and then I turn to the man next to me, egging him on. My eyes aren’t focusing properly, but I can still register his surprised look. Clearly, he doesn’t expect me to speak first — or even at all. Pleased with myself, I take another sip of my … What did I order again? Brandy? Whisky? No matter, the stuff burns its way down my throat, and I grimace.

“Excuse me? Are you talking to me?” His voice has a pleasant but somewhat foreign ring to it. For a moment, I try to place his accent, then I stare at him in horror.

“You’re British, aren’t you?”

He nods, and then he smiles. “Is that a crime?”

I shake my head, suddenly annoyed at myself for even starting this conversation. Dumb move — not really my style. But then, drowning my sorrows with hard liquor isn’t my style either. I squint at him again, trying to bring him into sharper focus.

“But if you’re British, then you’d better not ask,” I tell him.

“What exactly shouldn’t I ask?” he replies.

Well, Hope, it serves you right, I think, taking another sip. He’s probably not going to let it go now.

“You’re the third guy to come over since I sat down at this bar,” I explain after putting down my glass. “The other two seemed desperate to know why I’m sitting here all by myself. So, I figured you’d ask the same thing.”

It happens all the time, unfortunately — being hit on. Though the pick-up lines vary. I guess I should feel flattered. And sometimes I am. I’m not exactly a shrinking violet, and should the right guy make a move, I might just say yes. But not tonight. I’m not in the mood.

Anyway, I know that most of them just see me as the pretty, slim blonde they’d like to have a one-night stand with. Some of the guys aren’t even single — they’ve got girlfriends or even a wife they crawl back home to afterwards with their tail between their legs. I recently fell for someone like that — and not for the first time, I confess. Ben, a basketball player, tall, handsome, and apparently very into me. Luckily for me, we only went out a few times before I found out he was engaged. Clearly, I’ve got terrible taste in men, and since today is already a write-off, I should probably steer clear of any new affairs. I stare hard at this new man.

“In case you’re wondering, I’m sitting here by myself because I want to be alone. I don’t want to talk, and I don’t want anyone buying me a drink. Okay?”

“Okay,” says the man, and I groan inwardly as I suddenly realise that I may have been a bit unfair. After all, he’s just sitting here, having a drink. He probably wouldn’t have said a word if I hadn’t spoken to him first.

I feel my cheeks flushing, and not just from the alcohol. But partly. I just don’t tolerate booze well. And it’s not helping me get rid of this dull ache in my chest, either.

I really should apologise to him. But he doesn’t seem fazed at all. Quite the opposite: he’s still smiling.

“There is one thing I’d like to know though,” he says. “Why are Brits off limits?”

I don’t answer right away. Instead, I stare at him, and then I realise he’s better-looking than the other two guys who tried to hit on me. And younger. Late twenties, early thirties at most, I’d guess. Light brown hair, green eyes, and a likeable smile. Not that it matters. He’s from the wrong country, end of story.

I polish off my drink, and then I put the glass back on the bar, a bit unsteadily. “Because I don’t want anything to do with guys from England.” Tears well up in my eyes, and I quickly turn my head. “English men are bad news,” I add, but my voice is barely a whisper.

The man places a hand on my arm. It feels warm on my skin, and I turn back to face him.

“What did we do to you?” he asks. He’s no longer kidding around.

“Oh, just forget it!” I dig into my bag for my wallet, pull out a twenty-dollar bill and slap it far too loudly onto the bar. The bartender, who’s chatting with someone at the other end, looks up in surprise.

“Keep the change,” I call over, and then I get ready to leave.

This evening really hasn’t worked out. I was supposed to meet my colleague, Charlene. We haven’t known each other long — I’ve only been working in New York a few weeks — but we get on well, and we’d arranged to grab a drink, like people do on a Friday night after work. But she cancelled at the last minute as she had to head to New Jersey to see her mom, who’s sick. I don’t think it was an excuse; she looked really upset when she told me. Still, I feel as if I’ve been left in the lurch. I really would have liked someone to talk to tonight.

That’s why I am drinking alone at the “Irish Stranger”, a pub not far from my apartment, fending off pushy guys. Or … well … just guys in general, I think, catching another look at this new man. He has been a gentleman up to now. If anything, I was the one who was coming on to him. And he is annoyingly good-looking …

I quickly slide off my stool, trying to make my escape before I get any more foolish ideas. But, after just a few steps, I wobble so badly in my heels that I nearly lose my balance — and I only remain upright because he jumps up and reaches out to steady me. No idea how he managed to do that so quickly — he must have noticed that I wasn’t exactly sure on my feet. At any rate, now I’m leaning against him, with his arm around my back. He’s not much taller than me, which doesn’t surprise me. After all, I’m five-foot-nine, and the added height from my heels doesn’t help. But he’s strong — he holds me up easily — and I can feel the tension in his muscles through the thin fabric of his shirt. Our faces are suddenly very close, and, for a split second, I lose myself in those gorgeous green eyes.

“I think you’d better sit back down,” he says, but instead of returning me to my barstool, he steers me to the only empty table nearby. It’s tucked into a little alcove, surrounded by a cushioned bench.

He helps me onto the bench, and then he slides in beside me. Very close beside me. Or maybe I’m just leaning in? Either way, we’re suddenly side by side, and I slump against him again, feel his arm going around me once more. My head now rests on his shoulder, and — surprisingly — it feels pretty good.

“You smell nice,” I murmur with a sigh, and I hear him chuckle softly. I just about manage to pull away, and then I look up at him. “What’s your name, anyway?”

Suddenly I need to know. Because it feels as if we’ll be sitting here a while, especially since walking’s currently not an option.

He smiles. “Henry,” he says. “Henry Stainthorpe.”

“I’m Hope,” I announce, a little breathless, my gaze lingering on his lips.

“I think you’ve had too much to drink, Hope,” he observes.

“That’s true, Mr …” Oh heck, what was his last name again? I’ve already forgotten his complicated-sounding name. But his first name I really like. “Henry,” I say dreamily, giving him a smile. Then I remember he thinks I’ve had too much to drink, and I suddenly care very much what he thinks of me. “This isn’t normal for me,” I blurt out. “The drinking, I mean. I don’t usually get myself this tipsy.”

“And what’s different about tonight?”

He tucks a stray lock of my hair behind my ear, and when his fingers brush my skin, a pleasant shiver runs through me.

“Don’t you want to tell me what’s wrong?”

I sigh and rest my head on his shoulder again.

“My sister’s marrying an Englishman in a few weeks,” I confide, thinking of my phone call with Grace earlier today.

She was gushing with excitement. She’d called me to tell me they’ve finally set a date for the wedding. It’s going to be just before Christmas, and they’ll tie the knot at Lockwood Manor, Jonathan’s family estate.

“And you’re not thrilled about it?” Henry asks.

“Of course I am!” I counter. “I only want her to be happy.”

Henry gently strokes my arm. “What then? You don’t like her fiancé?”

“Of course I do — I mean … I don’t really know him.” I confess. “We’ve never actually met. But apparently he really loves my sister.”

“So, what’s the issue then?”

“It’s that she’s going to stay in England forever,” I groan, feeling tears rise again. “I won’t be able to just drop by any more. And that’s never going to change. And I just … I miss her so much.”

Maybe I’m just beginning to realise how much.

When she was still studying in Chicago, I could see her whenever I fancied. But then she took this internship at Huntington Ventures, an investment company in London. It was only supposed to be three months, but then Grace fell for her boss, Jonathan Huntington, and she stayed on.

Well, it wasn’t that simple. It took a while before the two of them worked everything out. But now she lives with him in his chic London penthouse and works with him at his company. He could probably retire already — he’s made a fortune with Huntington Ventures. And he’s a damned aristocrat, too — his dad’s the Earl of Lockwood. But it’s not his fortune that matters to Grace — she’s simply head over heels in love. And it seems mutual. This should make me happy, as her little sister, because Grace has told me how happy she is with him. But instead of rejoicing for her, I’m sad. And, if I’m being totally honest, I’m also a little jealous of her.

Who’d have thought Gracie would be the first to find true love? I’ve always been the one who’s had luck in dating, maybe because I stand out more. But I haven’t had any luck in love: none of my relationships have lasted. Grace, on the other hand, has landed the jackpot with Jonathan. Ever since they’ve been together, he’s apparently doted on her. Whenever I talk to her, she’s telling me about everything he does for her, and how attentive he is. And how she’d do anything for him, too. They just found each other and are happy together. So, it only makes sense that they’re getting married. And that means I’ll have to accept that my sister and I will soon be separated by an entire damned ocean.

I glance at Henry, and then I shrug. “Why did she have to go and fall for a Brit?” Tears sting again, and I blink them away. “There are tons of really nice American guys!”

“Maybe we’re just incredibly likeable.” Henry grins so disarmingly that I can’t stay miserable.

Now I’m feeling the full effect of the alcohol. My cheeks are burning, and I feel kind of loose. Which is bad, because now I’m wondering if Henry Stain-whatever is a good kisser. It could be the perfect distraction …

“You shouldn’t look at me like that, Hope.” He’s still smiling, but his eyes look darker now.

I swallow. A shiver runs deliciously down my spine.

“Why not?” I lean in a little closer, our faces now just inches apart. “Maybe I’m kind of curious to find out if it’s true.”

He leans in, too, and our noses almost touch.

“If what’s true?”

“If Brits really are likeable. Um …” I gulp. “I’d have to test it out.”

My heart’s pounding much faster now, and the thought of just surrendering to the desire that’s building in me from head to toe is awfully tempting. It promises exactly the kind of oblivion I desperately need. So, I lean in a bit more and try to kiss him. But just before our lips meet, he pulls away and stands up.

“Stay put,” he orders, and then he heads to the bar, pays, and is back before I can react at all.

“Come on.” He helps me up, hooks my arm through his, and steadies me as we head outside. “Where do you live?” he asks once we’re out on the sidewalk.

I think of my tiny flat. Just one room with a kitchenette and a shared bathroom in the hall that always smells of mould a bit. It’s all I can afford right now, and unfortunately, it’s neither presentable nor particularly comfortable. And anyway — I have no idea if Henry even wants to come home with me. He did dodge my kiss. What if he’s just planning to drop me off and leave? That thought upsets me so much that I shake my head vigorously.

“I don’t want to go home,” I say firmly.

Henry tucks another strand of hair behind my ear. “And then what? What do I do with you now, Hope?”

“Couldn’t I stay with you?” I don’t even know why I say it. I’m never this direct — not with someone I just met. But I’ve never been this drunk either. And besides … I like this guy, I like Henry. He smells nice. And I could really imagine spending the night with him. Why not? Doesn’t have to be true love every time. Sometimes you just need a bit of fun and distraction.

Henry’s about to say something, but I press a finger to his lips.

“Please take me with you.” I let my hand fall, and before he can protest — or say anything at all — I kiss him.

It’s just a brief kiss. But even that touch of our lips sends a fizzy shiver through me.

“Hope.” Henry’s voice sounds stern as I pull back — but I’m not ready to stop. With a sigh, I kiss him again.

Henry stands completely still at first. But then he wraps his arms around me and pulls me close, returning my kiss with a passion that utterly overwhelms me. He presses against me, asking for more, and I part my lips, moaning softly with excitement as our tongues meet. And then there’s nothing else — just this searing rush of desire that wipes out every other thought in my foggy brain. Everything around me is spinning, and I’m no longer sure if I’m standing on solid ground. All I know is I don’t want to stop kissing Henry.

But then, suddenly, it’s over. My head is resting on his shoulder again. His breathing is rapid, and I can feel his chest rise and fall just as quickly as mine.

I’m still so dazed by what just happened, so much so that I can’t string together a single coherent thought. Henry seems to be doing better — within moments, he’s managed to hail a taxi. He helps me into the back seat, gives the driver an address, then he wraps his arm around me again and pulls me close.

“Kiss me again,” I whisper, curling into him, but he doesn’t oblige.

“That wouldn’t be a good idea,” I hear him murmur, his voice rough. Still, I feel so warm in his arms that I let out a contented sigh and simply bask in his closeness. I don’t care where we’re headed, and by the time we arrive, I’m so sleepy I can only make out bright lights and the vague outline of a large hotel lobby as we walk through it, me leaning on Henry the whole way. He says something, but I can’t make out his words — I just catch my name every now and then.

At some point I feel something soft under me, and I realise I’m lying on a bed.