Since I was a young girl, I've always loved horror movies and crime shows. The darker the better.
About a year ago, I was watching a repeat of Criminal Minds and went to bed that night brainstorming ideas for a book. Once I finished writing Dead Butterflies, I basically just shelved it because well ... life got in the way and did a dark and ugly number on my spirit.
Fast forward a few months ... I woke up one morning and opened up the manuscript and pretty much re-wrote the whole thing and just decided I'd worked way too hard to let my personal drama keep me from publishing a story I loved and put my whole heart into writing.
Brothers Derek and Damian Kinnard ... One is cold, unforgiving, alpha AF, and a ruthless killer. The other is a self-proclaimed asshole and gay playboy. The two heirs to the Kinnard Automobile empire may be divided by opposite lifesyles, but not when loved ones become threatened.
Differences become inconsequential.
Blood becomes a hell of a lot thicker than water, and no holds are barred.
Both books are romantic suspense, crime thrillers, and are standalone reads.
Keep reading for teasers and free chapters! Better yet, GET THEM FREE IN KINDLEUNLIMITED and start reading today.
DEAD BUTTERFLIES ... https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09WNDSR22/
BUTTERFLY DREAMS ... https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0B6QJVSP7/
From the minute I started writing about Derek Kinnard, I loved his character. And when he met Kinley with all her spunk and badassness (Yes, I know that's not a real word) the two of them and their instant sparks just made the words flow. Scroll ON DOWN and read a free chapter.
North Texas knows him as Mr. Car Aficionado for his charm, good looks, and cheery television personality.
I know him as someone who triggers warnings and red flags in my head ... and makes my heart race.
He claims we're nothing but a hopeless, cruel tragedy and maybe he's right. He's done despicable things. Unforgivable, vile, evil things. But none of that seems to matter when he's touching me.
Sometimes a girl just has to say screw it and go with her heart.
Some risks are worth taking...
Some secrets are worth keeping hidden...
Dead Butterflies Playlist:
Seether … Forsaken
Five Finger Death Punch … The Bleeding
Breaking Benjamin … The Dark of You
Saul … King of Misery
A Day to Remember … Resentment
Killswitch Engage … Always
Starset … Monster
Papa Roach … The Ending
Breaking Benjamin … Dear Agony
Korn … Right Now
Bad Wolves … Heaven So Heartless
Breaking Benjamin … Hollow
10 Years … Waking Up
Godsmack … The Enemy
My Darkest Days … Come Undone
Five Finger Death Punch … Jekyll and Hyde
3 Doors Down … Let Me Go
Seether … Driven Under
Staind … Just Go
I Prevail … I Don’t Belong Here
Asking Alexandria … Alone Again
Seether … Wasteland
From Ashes to New … Wait for Me
Pop Evil … Survivor
Static-X … Bled for Days
Architects … Dead Butterflies
Five Finger Death Punch … Question Everything
Bullet For My Valentine … Tears Don’t Fall
Red … Pieces
Pop Evil … Breathe Again
Korn … Start the Healing
Twenty miles out of the city limits, the FM road leads to a secluded area surrounded by trees and not much else. I turn off the headlights and ease around to the side of the shithole of a home where I park the silver Chevy Tahoe loner vehicle between two overgrown oaks. An older model BMW M5 covered in thick dust—which I know from recent research belongs to Gallow—sits beneath the carport.
I’m so damn fired up that it feels like a dozen fists punching and twisting my insides.
Men like Gallow are rotten trash. Vermin. Shit on the soles of my shoes. They deserve every bit of their fate and all need to be eliminated. Slowly. Painfully. And this individual concerns someone close to my heart, which makes it even more necessary.
This is goddamned personal. This is for my best friend, for his great-niece, and for his family.
For my brother… my mother.
Casting a glance around the place, I’m relieved to see the old mobile home a few hundred feet down the road is still dark, still abandoned, the front door still hanging by its hinges. Nothing but hungry rats, cooing pigeons, peeling paint, and decay live inside the walls of the rundown house. Catty-corner across the street is a nicely set up manufactured home, the lights also out at this late hour. Owned by a retired couple in their late seventies, if my research was correct, this shouldn’t be an issue. They’ve probably been asleep for hours.
Warm and humid with the temperature still lingering in the upper eighties at one a.m. has me yearning for cooler weather. Sticky sweat has my shirt clinging to my back even with the air conditioning blowing out a heavy stream of cool air. Hell, even the trees must be looking for shade in this lingering heatwave. For a moment, I gaze upward at the silvery moonlight that’s shining with perfect, graceful ease and the millions of bright stars that look like falling tears. Then I step from the SUV, cover my boots, and reach for the disposable leg covers that end at the top of my thighs, giving me full access to my pockets. I follow with a fleece ski mask and lightweight nitrile gloves. That’s when I feel it. When I hear it. The slight breeze behind me. The gentle ring of his voice in my ears. The facetious tone of his words and the soul-filled gift of his laughter.
And loss. Torment. Deep, agonizing resentment and gut-clenching outrage.
Trapped in memories, I take a deep inhale of breath and make a quick phone call. “I’m here. Should be ready for you and the bus around two. I plan on spending a few extra fun-filled minutes with this fucker.”
Freddie Gallow. Twenty-four. Former athlete for one of Dallas’s largest prestigious private high schools. Comes from a long history of money and the Gallow real estate fortune. Word has it that young Freddie’s family sent him packing after he fell into a lifestyle of drugs and alcohol instead of pursuing a professional career in the family business.
Filthy goddamned bastard.
He shall die young. And slowly. Savagely. Agonizingly.
In just a few scant hours, Freddie Gallow will be nothing more than a long trail of cold, wet, unrecognizable ashes and another statistic of a drug deal gone bad.
“And if this is too close to home for you, buddy, Abe and Marco can handle it. Stay out of this one if you need to.”
“Not a chance. I want to see his blood on the ground and watch his fucking flesh turn to burnt dust. I’ll sleep easier tonight knowing the job is done and this man will breathe no more.”
Sean’s response is indifferent, almost evil.
“Two o’clock, then.”
“Two o’clock,” Sean confirms.
I end the call and gather my things from the back seat of the Kinnard loner with its blacked-out windows and altered license plate and catch a faint stench of something resembling dead flesh from somewhere in the near distance. Waves of rancid, overpowering stink have bile bubbling in my throat, and I swallow hard and briskly. Then, with the quick run of a firm palm over both my front pocket and the blade behind me, I confirm both weapons are nicely secure and pull my backpack over my shoulders. With restrained, stalking steps, I near the back door and turn the knob. It’s no surprise to find it locked, yet it only takes seconds to jimmy it open.
Stale smoke radiates in the kitchen, a wave of muted light shining from the oven clock. An open pizza box rests on the counter with a housefly buzzing over a trail of crumbs. Two empty bottles of Heineken rest in the sink with a crumpled napkin lodged inside one of them.
The place reeks with a need for a deep cleaning.
A few footsteps ahead, I see the faint glow of a flat-screen television. Gallow reclines on a brown, tattered leather sofa with a round table next to the arm. Four rows of crystal-white powder are spread out in even fine lines on a hand mirror. A bottle of water rests in his lap, and he’s rubbing his forehead as if trying to ease a headache while staring up at an old western movie with John Wayne wearing an eye patch and drinking something from a small, dark bottle. With olive skin, dark eyes, and a head of thick nearly black hair that’s cut short, the guy is decent-looking, other than he’s a good thirty pounds underweight. From what I’ve seen on social media, he’d once been a real gem with the ladies.
My jaw clenches at the sight of him.
Terror sparks in the dilated, glazed eyes of Freddie Gallow as they meet mine. Dressed in a worn pair of athletic shorts that have seen better days, he jumps up off the couch, a bottle of water falling from his hand to the floor beneath him.
“What the fuck? Get out of my house or I’ll blow your goddamned head off!” Panic-stricken, Gallow reaches between the cushions of the sofa. But before he’s retrieved what I suspect is a weapon, I’m on him, reaching for his neck.
Stupid, idiotic moron.
“Wrong, motherfucker,” I hiss. “Now do exactly as I tell you. Step away from the couch and turn around and face me. Slowly. Carefully. Hands at your sides.”
Gallow grits his teeth. “Kiss my motherfucking ass,” he says, then struggles to release himself from my grip.
“Step. Away. From. The. Couch,” I reiterate, my tone low and bitter. “Unless you want me to sink my blade through your asshole.”
He does as I said and faces me, his bottom lip quivering.
I reach into the pocket of my hoodie and remove my phone, then pull up a photo. Beautiful. Young. Long shiny dark hair. Glistening white, perfectly-shaped teeth. Dressed in a cheerleading outfit with a big embroidered “L” across her chest, she looks happy, at ease, like any other content teenage girl living life and enjoying adolescence. But like all the others, she’s another young kid who ended up making one senseless move—a fatal one.
“You know this girl?” I shove the phone under his nose.
Gallow shrugs, his stare aloof. “Maybe. Maybe not. What the fuck’s it to you?”
My response is a silent but relentless deep knee in the nuts. He screams in agony and reaches for his groin.
“What the fuck?!” he seethes, the color draining from his face.
“That was for this little girl who overdosed on the shit crank you gave her, and before you open your trap, forget trying to feed me any bullshit denials. They have identified you. Took a little coaxing, for obvious reasons. But in the end, as we both know, money talks. Tomorrow, this information goes to the cops. So you, Gallow, are up shit creek with no paddle in sight. Either way, you lose. It’s either prison for a few years, being the new pretty boy and the newest bitch on the floor, or you end up a dead man by my hand. Now, should you play nice and tell me what I want to know, I may return the favor, be a little more polite, and make this a little less uncomfortable. Tell me where I can find a dealer called CD.”
Gallow heaves out a laugh and wipes an arm across his runny nose. “Go fuck yourself, narc! I’m not telling you shit! And those cunts came to me looking for a good time. They wanted to party, so we motherfucking partied. Hard. Hell, I’m just a businessperson doing his job. I only gave them what they paid for. And as for going to the pigs? Do it. It won’t change shit. My old man has more zeros on his bank account than you can probably even count. I’ll end up with another friendly slap on the hand. Maybe a few months’ probation before the DA seals my records. Just like last time. Just like the next time.”
I almost laugh in his face, tempted to tell him that Daddy can’t help with this one and Mama’s tit is all fucking dried up. When I reach behind me for my backpack, my knee cramps up, the old skateboard accident rearing its ugly head at the worst possible time. I damn near stumble to the ground and the side of my ski mask rises on one side just enough to expose me.
A smirk covers the fucker’s face. “Well, fuck me! How about that? I knew you sounded familiar,” he says in a tone laced with spite that has me wanting to pull the goddamned tongue from his mouth, cut it off with my blade, and feed it to him. “You’re the pretty millionaire that all the ladies drool over. Ain’t you got enough money in your pockets already? The car business not paying out like you thought it would, squealer?”
I jerk the mask down my face then reach in my backpack for a role of Gorilla in case the need arises, along with a full syringe, which I roll between my gloved fingers in front of his eyes. “Ever hear of a strychnine cocktail, fucktard?” I lean over against his ear. “Only takes ten to twenty minutes before the spasms begin. Another few before every muscle in your body will convulse until your backbone arches continually. The convulsions then lead to what’s called lactic acidosis, which in layman’s terms means hyperthermia or overheating. Next, Gallow, comes the breakdown of skeletal muscle, postictal depression, and paralysis of the pathway that controls breathing. And then there’s the best part yet, the cherry on top. Sweet, painful asphyxiation and slow, agonizing death. Ever wonder how long you can hold your breath underwater? I’ve heard that most folks last about two minutes.”
“You’ll fucking pay for this.”
“That’s doubtful. But hey, let’s you and I take our time, shall we? First things first.” I reach for the mirror and shove it underneath his nose. “Let’s motherfucking party. Hard. All of it, fuckface. Snort it nice and deep. You’re going to need it.”
Gallow trembles as a glisten of cold sweat breaks out over his eyes. “No, man. I don’t want it right now. I—I don’t need it.”
I set the mirror to the side, almost tempted to plunge my blade into his kidney and watch him bleed out. “Trust me. You need it.” My knee connects with the worthless vermin’s nuts again, much harder than before. His agonizing sob makes me grin. Clutching his groin in misery—sweet, painful misery—he doubles over, trying to catch his breath and keep from puking.
“Fuck you, dude! My family will ruin you.”
His words only worsen the fire inside me. With a huff of a laugh, I reach for his cock, then twist and squeeze. “There’s only one person here who’s going to end up ruined, you dumb bastard. And that, Gallow, is you. And by your own shit dope, along with the added gift of my special cocktail made just for you.” I smirk, then squeeze again. He screams in pain. “Your choice, dude, though you sound more like a little bitch-ass pussy when you scream. Now, I can stay here all motherfucking night and drag this party out for as long as you like, or you can do what I said and snort the fucking blow.”
“You’re gonna fucking kill me over some dumb slut who was too ignorant to know when to stop? Fuck, man. I’m no babysitter. I can’t prevent the stupid mistakes kids make. I’m just like any other man. Trying to pay the bills. Trying to survive. P—please don’t do this.” His eyes go upward like he’s seconds from passing out, and I land a savage palm across his face then pull the cordless, half-inch driver-drill from my pack
“Tell me where I can find CD or give me his full name. Then maybe I’ll refrain from using this nice little jewel and perhaps even let you keep most of your teeth. And your tongue. Possibly even your nuts.”
“I can’t do it, man. I can’t rat somebody out that way. Just kill me,” he says with his bottom lip quivering. “I—I don’t give a fucking shit anymore.”
“So be it. We’ll play it your way. Take a few seconds first. Make your peace with Jesus.” I toss the drill aside and instead reach for the needle-nose plyers in my backpack and press them against his lip. “Last chance, Gallow. Names! Now! Before my patience runs fucking out. And I can promise, you don’t want that.” A gush of red coats his teeth after I squeeze the plyers over his central incisor, and he glowers at me when I show him the bloody tooth. He spits a clump of blood mixed with shards of fibrous ligament at my feet, and I lift a hard knee into his groin again. He howls in misery while a trickle of snot mixed with blood runs from his nose.
Beautiful. Perfect. Right on target.
Cocaine can trigger loss of smell, nosebleeds, and general inflammation to the nasal septum. Gallow is congested, primarily on his right side, and probably doesn’t even realize his nose is bleeding.
With an annoyed huff, I reach for the mirror and shove it back under his runny nose. “Snort it, fuckface. All of it. Every. White. Morsel. Or I’ll remove each of your teeth slowly and painfully via this pretty little drill beside me. Then I’ll be the gentleman that I am and let you cut your tongue from your mouth before I feed it to you in pieces.”
“Okay! Fuck!” he sobs with terror in his eyes. “Do anything you want. Slice my goddamn neck open. Pull my fucking teeth. Inject me with your poison. Just stop kicking me in the nuts!”
Twisting, incessant rage boils inside me like billowing fire. They’re all the same, these small-scale dope pushers. Sorry as sorry comes. Money-hungry motherfucking cowards who rely on young kids to fill their bank accounts. With that familiar, innate, deep need to rid every petty dealer I can manage, the monster inside me stirs to full life.
Obviously, I don’t do this for money. There're more zeros in my bank account and trust than I can ever spend. Money I don’t give two fucks about, and which I’d gladly toss into a fiery pit of flames just to return to that day and have my family back.
This is personal. It’s necessary.
This country’s grossly negligent court system is failing its people. It’s neither fair nor equal and only ranks twentieth on its quality of criminal justice. My brother, Sean’s great-niece, and the hundreds of other victims are losing to the failed punishment of these pathetic loser punks, most especially those with rich families like Gallow. Sadly, the numbers continue to grow instead of decline. So, is it wrong to take matters into my own hands? Is it an unforgivable sin, as the Bible states? An instant stairway to Purgatory? I suppose by many more standards than not, it fucking is.
But where is the justice for these innocent kids? These broken families?
Where is their revenge?
Where is their destiny?
Why is my brother in the fucking ground?
Why did my mother die of a goddamned broken heart?
Sobbing and trembling, Gallow snorts the coke deep into his sinuses and I decide that I’m done here and inject the syringe into the jugular vein. “Night night, Gallow. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
“Fuck you, pretty boy,” he responds. “You’re no better than me.”
“Never claimed to be.”
Once his body starts spasming and rolling on the floor like a squashed bug, it only takes minutes before hypothermia sets in. Sweat beads over his brows. Shivers gain control over his body as his temperature drops and his nervous system fails. His speech slurs, the vessels in his eyes shattering as his oxygen supply depletes itself.
Thirty minutes later, I’m looking into dilated pupils filled with terror and heavy sweat covering skin that’s taking on an odd shade of purple from cyanotic tissue damage. Piss pools around his distorted-looking torso. Five teeth and part of a tongue that the bastard chewed off himself rests beside his leg. Reaching for the Ruger just because I fucking feel like it, I aim right between his eyes, pull the trigger, and watch a thin trail of scarlet gravy exit the wound.
“As we sow, so shall we reap, fucker.”
I suck in a deep breath, one more, then snap a photo on my phone, gather my things, and walk out the same door I came in.
My days as a killer aren’t over. Not yet. Maybe never. I am a businessman, a madman, an exterminator. And I won’t stop. Not until I smell the one aroma never to be erased from even the strongest of men—the slow-roasted, coppery tang of burning flesh and the man only known to me as CD.
I am with you… always.
Now, if you love some seriously hot man on man romance, check out Damian and Diego's story in Butterfly Dreams, book two in my FORSAKEN series, and a standalone MM thriller.
I can't love Damian Kinnard.
I made a promise.
Gave a dying woman my word.
But when the disappearance of his lover throws me back in his life, nothing matters anymore. Nothing but the hunger in his gaze, the way his hands and mouth feel on my skin, and the way he makes my blood run hot.
Together, it feels like this was fate. Like I'd been put on this earth to love him and him love me.
Nothing, including promises, obligations, or the job, will make me walk away.
No matter the risk.
No matter the outcome.
Michael Bassey Johnson once said, “People will walk in and walk out of your life, but the one whose footstep made a long-lasting impression is the one you should never allow to walk out.”
When my dad told me we were moving to a little shit hole of a town called Springhill, Texas, my first day at school was filled with nothing but anger in my head and a huge chip on my shoulder. I never realized that one move would change my life. Never contemplated returning some nineteen years later torn between what was most important—a daughter—and the man and woman who still ached for me just as deeply as they did one another.
But someone is stalking the woman I love, the mother of my daughter. Her museum has been burned to the ground, her Jeep vandalized, and confidential suggestive photos sent to her family.
Secrets will be exposed.
Truths will be unveiled.
Lives will forever be changed.
Will these revelations bring us closer … or will one person from our past ruin everything and destroy our chances at forever?
When I was fifteen, my dad announced over a dinner of grilled hamburgers and my mother’s tropical fruit salad, that we were making another move. This time to a small shit-hole of a town in far West Texas called Springhill.
My dad was a hard-working man—an oilfield worker. Raised in a family of six in Southeastern Massachusetts, William Nathaniel Lee decided way before he graduated high school that the oilfield was the place for him, and not the cranberry bogs where he’d watched his father and many of his peers work since he was a young boy. Oilfield work guaranteed good money and didn’t involve fancy educations or high-powered skills, just hard manual labor. Dad had gone to work with William, Sr. many times growing up. He’d seen it all. Grueling hours of standing in flooded bogs from dawn to dusk, back-breaking physical work in the cold rain, dealing with insects, weeds, and fungi. William, Jr., aka ‘Dad’ or ‘Pops’ chose roughnecking over the cranberry bogs in his early years, earning a decent blue-collar living for his family. But also requiring moves from city to city, state to state, following the ever-changing ups and downs of the oil and gas industry.
Three changes of residency in four years meant another new address. Another new school. Boxes to unpack. New people to meet. New churches to join. Leaving was never easy, but this move had been more than just setting up a new house, making new friends, or adapting to a new town. This move changed everything.
It was life-defining.
A turning point.
One that would forever change who I was and who I would become.
I stood in the cafeteria line, new to town, alone, uncomfortable, staring at what they were calling meatloaf. Mediocre-looking at its best, there wasn’t much of anything I wouldn’t eat other than anything green and classified as a vegetable, but the overpowering scent of garlic in this place had bile rising up my throat. Perfectly squared cubes of gray-looking meat. Vegetables that were near mush. Dry mashed potatoes that were most definitely instant. I grunted in disgust.
“Looks like utter, putrid shit, doesn’t it?”
The low rumbling tone had me spinning on my feet and looking to my right. His voice was heavy. It was powerful, robust, one that demanded you listened as it spoke. It was cultured and smooth, but potent, commanding, and possessive. And when I got my first good look at him, I would have dropped my last dollar that he had to be from one of the swanky ranching families in the area. It wasn’t that he was dressed particularly fancy, but he just had that kind of aura to him that stopped you in your tracks. Features strong and defined. Eyes the color of the earth. Lips full, thick, and bending into a sly grin. Slightly wavy, tousled dark hair. All framed by a distinguished chin and muscles rippling underneath his shirt that made my body flush warm. Just one look at this guy and his wide shoulders, flat stomach, and long sturdy legs clad in faded Levi’s leading to scuffed-up brown western boots, and I was positive that he was someone special, someone who would be in my life for years to come.
I felt drawn to him, like right then and there he was claiming me with silent whispers that one day I would be his. From that very moment, I wanted to know him better. My God, I ached to know him in wrongful ways a boy was only meant to know a girl. Ways I knew were unethical and unjust and ungodly. Ways that, for the next two years of my life, I would try my best to forget and overlook.
Ways that would only grow stronger as I grew older.
“Smells like utter shit as well,” I responded, while wondering why someone like him chose to eat someplace like this when surely he had a hired cook and fancy meals waiting for him at home.
He took a step closer—his shoulders almost touching mine, his chocolate eyes narrowing as he held out a strong hand—while shame, remorse, and a deplorable urgent need and hunger sucked the air from my lungs and lodged deep in my throat. In that split second, something powerful and almost soothing told me this person would one day be my kindred spirit, my soul mate, and my eternal companion.
“Keith Ryker.” His lips curved when he held out a hand to shake, the sound of his cultured voice electric, the glimmer in his eyes bright, yet flashing with something dark, wicked, and powerful.
“Name’s Jason Lee. Glad to make your acquaintance.”
Less than five years later, I was following my old man’s footsteps. Working in the oil patch. Hauling parts to far-flung sites. Roughnecking on a pulling unit. And living the life of a bi-sexual man.
And now, in my mid-thirties, I’ve moved up the ladder and landed myself a good-paying job with a nice retirement package and long list of quality benefits. I’ve traveled all over the world. Met hundreds of interesting people. I’ve visited beautiful blue sandy beaches, high, snow-covered mountains, and cities full of trash, smog, and poverty on every other corner. Working in the oilfield industry has given me the opportunity to relocate to a long string of cities and states, and even countries. Yet, out of all the white sandy coastlines, snow-covered Alps kissing the heavens, and peaceful drifting waterfalls, I chose Springhill. For one reason—to be a part of my daughter’s life, even if she doesn’t know who her true biological father is. And though there are times that I feel like life would be simpler somewhere else, deep down I know I wouldn’t have it any other way.
But along with all the good always comes the bad. Picking up where I left off has been hard. Excruciatingly. While I live out my life in Springhill, enjoying my growing bank account, driving fancy cars, and traveling the world, I’ll stand by Keith and Jen. I’ll watch them live as man and wife, share tender touches, trade loving smiles, raise children, while I remain the same old Jason.
A man torn. A man lonely. A man broken.
Keith and Jen will carry forward. They will live on, move ahead, and have everything, as I stand firm, survive, persevere, pretend that my insides aren’t in bloody painful pieces, and continue to have … nothing.
My mind is in shreds. At no time have I ever considered something so vicious as this in the small country town of Springhill. Arson… Motherfucking hell, what I’ve just witnessed is a picture I will never erase from my mind.
Warm water runs down my back and releases some of the tight tension while I scrub the nauseating stench of smoke from my skin. Fifteen minutes, maybe longer, have passed since I stripped out of my soiled clothes and stepped inside the shower, but I can still feel the heat of the flames. Still smell the ruins of destruction. Still see pain flashing in Jen’s eyes, anger, rage, and guilt in Keith’s. All as I stood shocked, helpless, and hopeless. Yearning to comfort Jen in my arms. Desperate to relax the remorse and stress from Keith just the way I know he likes.
Christ, I pine for all that I’ve lost. Some days I’m not sure if I’m alive or dead with this hole in my heart bleeding and aching, cold and bitter. I just want him … and her … and us. So. Motherfucking. Much.
Steam has misted the mirror and clouded the air when I step from the shower. I flip on the exhaust fan then reach for a towel with a wave of fatigue creeping up on me. I’m suddenly tired as fuck, ready to grab a bite to eat and crawl into bed. After I toss the wet towel onto the vanity, I leave a trail of water behind me and saunter into the attached bedroom, naked, my body hard with need, my mind swirling with a dozen thoughts.
“Jesus fucking Christ! Nothing like sneaking up on a man when he’s naked!”
Keith is standing with his hip against the door frame. His hands are inside his pockets. His eyes are glued to mine and glazed over with a look I know all too well. He’s tired. He’s stressed. He’s worried.
He’s hard as iron underneath his jeans.
For seconds that feel like minutes, we both stand and stare. Neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks. His cocoa-hued gaze doesn’t budge. It’s like cement against mine. When I can no longer stand to look at his symmetrical bone structure, the high and prominent cheekbones, a tightened jaw rough with several days of stubble, and that perfectly thick erection that I’m dying to touch, I break the uncomfortable silence.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Something dark, something deep, something threatening flashes beneath his hardened expression. A look I crave and need and long for, and one that almost undoes me.
“Think you know why I’m here.”
He takes long strides in my direction, boldly, fearlessly, and stops only inches in front of me with his lips coiling in some sullen kind of emotion. For a fraction of a minute, his gaze lingers on mine, his eyes dark and stormy. He slides a rough hand down the length of my stomach, stopping at my dick. “Your eyes are hungry,” he says with a husky drawl. “That beautiful cock of yours is dripping with arousal.”
He presses his warm lips into the hollow of my throat that I feel absolutely everywhere. “And your neck is flushed … boy.” And with that, his fingers are sliding underneath the back of my hair. He’s pulling my lips to his, swallowing them, his tongue dipping deep, probing and stroking as he kisses into my mouth with a desperate ferocity like he not only craves the kiss, but more of a have-to-have kind of kiss.
“I fucking need you. You need me. We complete each other. So stop fighting what’s inevitable.” With one hand palming my length and the other moving around toward my windpipe, his jaw tenses when I inadvertently release a sensual moan. Every damn thing he’s doing feels so fucking good. I want nothing more than to let him take me out of this hell-filled misery, bend me over, sink his teeth into my flesh, and then feed every inch of his cock inside me until he’s balls deep.
With his palm pressing against my throat, I can barely catch my breath. My hands itch to reach out and touch him. My knees are shaking to drop before him. My lips crave the taste of his warm, salty release … and my cock is hard and ready to turn the proverbial page. To flip him over, spread him apart with my palms, and take him hard and deep with no compassion, very little or no lube, and show him I’m not the same Jason as before. Right now, at this moment, I’m not his boy.
I do none of these things I’m thinking. Instead, I pull back, my chest balled with emotion, my body in confusing misery, my heart splitting right down the middle. “No,” I manage to say without falling apart. “We’re not doing this. You’re married. You have two girls to raise. My daughter to raise. And whoever did this to the museum knows something. You damn well know it. And I won’t put the people I love at risk. So, just go.”
Fucking fuck. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, the worst pain I’ve ever felt. Part of me wants to apologize for what I’ve just said and ask him—plead with him—not to go. The other side of me hears my dad’s voice telling me to stay strong and stand tall. Before any words form, his thumb is brushing against my chin and his lips are crushing against mine again. My body is weakening, my willpower turning to dust. He moves lower and sucks hard at the sensitive part of my neck. Teasing. Taunting. Punishing and tormenting with the wicked warm feel of his mouth and the small touch of pain and pleasure he knows I crave and desire.
“Seeing my marks on your neck turns me to fucking stone.” His lips press to my ear. “With your dick that damned hard and your heart thudding against your chest, give me one good reason to believe you don’t want me to stay. Stop playing these mind games, Jason. Let me give you what we both need, what we’ve always needed.”
There’s almost an urgency in his tone, one that pulls a moan from my chest. He shifts, then bites, shifts again, bites again, and leaves what I know will be a red trail underneath my ear.
He steps back and we share another long moment of miserable silence with his hand still squeezing at my cock. His eyes are fixed, hungry, and damn near black. They’re pinned to mine like unmovable magnets. “Jason, I don’t want to leave. I don’t think I can.” Grudging, bitter torment fills his tone while his gaze turns to liquid. “I miss you. God help me, I miss you. She misses you. The three of us need to be together.”
“Jesus,” I respond without breaking eye contact. “People will talk. People will motherfucking crucify. They already have.”
Confusion stirs like bubbling acid inside my chest. I crave this man more than should be humanly possible. This pain, this incessant need inside me is worse than any form of hell, more agonizing than an open wound, more excruciating than burning flames against my flesh. Every word he’s spoken is true. I want the three of us. I long for him and me and for my time with Jen. These needs own me, dominate every thought, and rule every action. They crawl inside me like a painful cancer and linger like the red-hot fires of the nether world. But it can’t be. It won’t work. I’ve told myself a hundred times that it simply isn’t logical.
I place my hands on either side of his shoulders. “You chose Jen. Jen chose you. You’re married. You have a family, a responsibility. Go be with your wife. She’s upset. She’s scared. She needs her husband right now. And she loves you so much, dammit. Just go.”
His eyes glisten with torment, frustration, and anger. He gives a huff of laughter then runs a rough finger over my trembling lips. “And who the fuck do you think sent me here, Jason?”
“Doesn’t matter. Go home, Keith.”
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The inspiration for each of my books has always surfaced either from a past experience, mainly from my childhood, or from someone I’ve recently met or encountered in some way. This series was literally written after recalling an afternoon spent in a park that was no different than any of the others I’d spent there.
I grew up in a small town in West Texas with a population of around 3,000 people. With no movie theatre, no bowling alley, no shopping mall or any kind of real entertainment, kids were forced to create their own ways to kill time. Hanging out in parks, on the side of a highway, in a parking lot, or in a tunnel (yes, a tunnel) were basically what we did.
This series is extra special to me because it’s written with three very close friends in mind.
Call Me Sugar was written on a mere whim after a phone conversation with an old friend. Like always, we were talking about old times and all the silly things we used to do in our little town. Once our conversation ended, I immediately remembered a particular afternoon spent in the park. Bees kept chasing one of us (not me thankfully). They seemed to appear out of absolutely nowhere. We laughed so hard that day watching him run from those bees and even today, I can remember him yelling, “Why the hell do they only chase me?” It’s funny how simple things like that are the things you never forget. I have dozens of silly memories from that little town, some that I think of often, others that I’ll take to my grave trying to forget. Anyway, after I ended that conversation I thought, “Hmm. I feel a story here.”
The park and museum this story revolve around are both real places. All four characters in both Call Me Sugar and soon to be released book two, Call Me Sweetheart, are real people. Of course, I have to mention that the sex is all purely fictional. Sadly, one of the heroes, aka Jason, died tragically at an early age, while one of two heroines, aka Rylee, didn’t truly have an abusive mother, nor did she take her own life. In addition, the other hero in the book has been happily married (to a woman) for many years. Being that I’m still friends with him, I figured he may have me murdered if I didn’t clarify that one small fact. As for the other female character in the book, I guess you can figure out who that was meant to be.
Again, ALL FICTION.
One last little thing. Anyone who knows me also knows that music is a big part of my life. I take it to heart if that makes sense. I’ve had playlists for each of my books with a list of songs that make me feel closer to the characters. I’ve included those just for kicks.
SUGAR & SIN PLAYLIST:
Highly Suspect – “16”
A Day to Remember – “Resentment”
Tool – “Forty Six & 2”
Seether – “Breakdown”
Keith Urban – “We Were”
Starset – “My Demons”
Breaking Benjamin – “The Dark of You”
Crown the Empire – “Blurry”
Killswitch Engage – “I Am Broken Too”
Five Finger Death Punch – “Question Everything”
Seether – “Forsaken”
Godsmack – “Under Your Scars”
I Prevail – “Hurricane”
Eli Young Band – “Always the Love Songs”
Bad Wolves – “Hear Me Now”
Shinedown – “How Did You Love”
10 Years – “Fix Me”
Thirty Seconds to Mars – A Beautiful Lie”
301 Scenic Drive had once been a simple little house covered in white siding, the windows dressed with sky-blue shutters, and a long row of shrubbery winding down the entire length of the large yard and hiding it from the street. Just after dawn on Saturday mornings, like precise clockwork, my brother stood outside trimming the hedges to an even perfection, while I had the chore of dusting and vacuuming as my mother tackled the laundry of four and mopped the kitchen and bathroom floors.
With the trailer only inches from the driveway edge, I finish easing the Jeep underneath the attached carport, my heart racing in my ears.
Holy shit, this place is nothing like before.
As I scan the yard, the first thing I notice is that the shrubbery is replaced with a charming scalloped-spaced white picket fence separating the lawn from the street and the next-door neighbor. The house’s siding is the same, still white, only newer. Black shutters replace the blue. When I see the missing swing that once hung from the roof overhang on the side of the house, my throat tightens, but then just as quickly, I’m staring at its replacement hanging on the end of the newly built wraparound porch, which brings a massive smile back to my face. Suddenly, I’m chomping at the bit to hang ferns down the length of the porch and hoping this West Texas sunshine will keep them thriving.
With dozens of memories shuffling through my brain, some wonderful, some melancholy, life had seemed so much simpler. Scratches at my windowsill late at night.
Whispers through the screen.
Bees in the park with the sun beating down.
My mother running her two-day-old car straight through the living room wall. It’s these silly heels I wore today. My foot slipped right off the brake.
This house is a bittersweet reminder of shared meals, household chores, arguing over curfews, tending to a sick parent.
And now, 301 Scenic and its new porch swing, white picket fence, and all the thick green grass blanketing the yard is owned by none other than the man who took my virginity, betrayed me, and broke my heart, which makes Keith not only my new boss but also my landlord.
My God, I’m really doing this. I must be crazy.
Hands shaky and heart thundering wildly, I reach underneath a bronze flowerpot full of blooming pink and white begonias to retrieve the key. With only seconds passing after I unlock the door, a sudden eagerness sends me traipsing through the three-bedroom house and looking inside cabinets and closets, opening and shutting shades and wood blinds, staring out windows.
Holy shit balls, this is a brand-new house!
Dark distressed wood covers the floor in the sunken living room while beautiful white crown molding runs between the freshly painted gray walls and ceiling. Built-in shelving, finished out in white with a niche in the middle for a flat-screen television covers the wall where a large antique buffet table once stood, and flat Roman shades in a lighter gray than the walls showcase the four white windows facing the street, which was originally a long picture window. Surprisingly, he’s left the large walk-in closet in the corner of the living area, which I’m thankful for since this house never had much storage. When I open the door, my chest tightens for a few seconds and I almost sense the faint smell of gun oil with visions of my dad’s gun collection, along with the vacuum cleaner, spare luggage, winter coats, and men’s hunting apparel that once filled the moderate-sized space. Keith has ironically done exactly what my daddy used to say he was going to do before his health got bad. He’s added three rows of shelving and a stack of built-in drawers that weren’t here before.
Jesus, I love the thought of no longer having to stash odds and ends underneath my bed.
After throwing myself into bringing in what I can and spending the next two hours rummaging through suitcases, hanging clothes, and emptying half a dozen boxes, I sort through a few toiletries then blow out an exhaustive breath. My body feels like it’s been run over by a semi and I need a shower, some food, a cold drink, and a bed. Four AM, the early hour I’d pulled out of my apartment this morning, seems like a century ago.
Bone weary and ready to drop, I unpack a towel, grab fresh panties, and strip out of my clothes then stare into the floor-length mirror still hanging on the bedroom door just as it was over a decade ago. Once trimmed in white, it’s now a deep, brushed bronze to match all the door handles and fixtures throughout the house.
Emotions swirl in my belly like choppy sea water as I take a long glance into the mirror at the bags underlining my eyes, the little to-no makeup left on my face, hair that is stringy, straight, and in need of a good washing, and my body that’s slick with sticky sweat. I take a deep breath, another, then another, then close my eyes and rake my hands down my sides, my nipples tightening at thoughts of Keith. The hay barn behind his house. Those lips covering every inch of my body. Those hands exploring and discovering all my hotspots. The rope he used to bind my wrists. The belt he used on my ass and inner thighs, and the pain that turned to hot pleasure as his thick erection severed my hymen for the first time, while he controlled me. Empowered me. Dominated me.
Changing me for life.
Smooth hands run down the length of my naked body as I lose myself in every single detail of that day and burn hot with need for a man’s touch, a man’s mouth, a man’s weeping erection. Desire pulses deep in my core as dark images course through my mind, images of his hands—large and rough—all over me. Fingers—lengthy and flexible—probing inside me. Lips—warm and moist—teasing and tasting me. Dear God, I want to be on my knees, bowing my head, offering, giving, ceding, submitting.
One finger grazes my clit while another pushes hard and deep into my sex. My eyes squeeze tightly shut as I plunge inside, my thumb gently rubbing the swollen peak. It feels good. So damned good. Still, it’s not enough … not enough.
Shit, Jen. Forget him. Your best vibrator is right inside your travel bag.
With thrusts growing deeper, breath becoming fervent and rapid, I bend the tip of my finger and brush the hidden, velvety inner spot that sets my body on fire. My head drops back as the familiar tingle in my belly grows deeper, one man entering my mind as a climax is only seconds from ripping through me.
Vulnerable, defenseless, and mortified, I spin on my foot with the color draining from my face and a scream tearing through me at the familiar honeyed voice and sight of the provocative cowboy in the doorway. My mind is an instant blank as we stare in frozen silence, his eyes searching mine as I search my brain for any kind of reasonable words to speak while feeling like a blithering half-witted idiot
But when his dark brown gaze does a slow, gradual, nearly painful sensual downward slide before lifting and locking onto mine, lacking even a trace of embarrassment, politeness, or courtesy, it takes only a split second to know that there’s only one kind of danger I’m in—the kind that can wound my pride and most definitely my heart. Awareness flickers in his amber-colored stare, which makes me shudder and hits me deep in the stomach. For seconds I just stand there in all my naked glory, motionless, staring just as hard, shocked, appalled, flushed with humiliation, and turned on out of my mind.
Sweet merciful fuck!
God, I’ve missed him.
After he tips back his black cowboy hat, he gives me a beautiful close-up of that handsome face that I’ve never forgotten, and his hands dip into the pockets of faded black jeans hanging low and snug around his waist, hugging his ass and thighs just right, and paired with a wrinkle-free, lightly starched, black button-down shirt that pulls tightly across the width of his chest and shoulders. Shiny, square-toed boots covered in exotic leather hit every single one of my hot spots being a true Texan woman who loves a man in a fine pair of boots, and from what I can see, his hair is much shorter now but still shiny and dark with deep brown sideburns leading into a neatly trimmed beard that I can literally feel brushing up my thighs. He’s cowboy, businessman, and jock all combined into one, and I can’t keep from sucking in a breath at the sight of him.
Need powers through every inch of my body and I want to experience every sexual act that two people can with this man. Vile things, shocking things, sinful things. I want his mouth, his hands, his body. I want his control, his influence, his reign. And that damn facial hair … I want it touching me absolutely everywhere. Greed radiates through me in an almost unnerving force, when in fact, I know I should be feeling indifferent and resentful.
But I want him. I want us.
With a wicked gleam in his eyes, when they rake hungrily back down my body as he takes in every inch slow and steady, a blistering swelter licks over my skin and comes to rest deep inside my core while my nipples stiffen to hard peaks, all which leaves me with two choices here. First, I can act like what I’m doing is perfectly normal and just utter something stupid like “Miss me, cowboy?” Or I can try acting like my female scent isn’t making it perfectly obvious what I was just doing and pretend he’s simply barged into my home without the common courtesy of knocking and caught me in the middle of changing clothes, maybe scratching my leg or smoothing lotion on my skin, instead of relieving the ache in my sex that’s been lingering since I drove through San Alba.
Right, Jen. He’ll fall for either of those things. When. Hell. Freezes. Over.
But rebounding on pure instinct, I grab the towel beside me and wrap it around myself like it’s a crucial life preserver while he shifts awkwardly and moves those addictive eyes slowly upward. Our gazes cling, transfixed, as his yellowish-tinted irises flicker with the same strength, determination, power and command as they had before.
My God, he was striking before. But now, he’s sexual magnetism. He’s charisma, strong muscle-bound, small rural-town hotness. He’s heat, sex, and sin.
I shiver, shift restlessly, then take a deep breath, and he does the same. Something crackles in the air between us and shoots a sea of flames straight up my spine, the magnitude of sexual tension between us after all these years surpassingly stronger than when we were teens. My pussy throbs as it perfumes the air with my arousal, and for a quick moment, I can sense the sting of leather from his worn belt, hear his relentless unyielding demands, and feel every thick vein of his slick girth sliding in and out of me desperately and mercilessly while he grasps my neck.
He’s the reason I need to submit to a man.
Soft whimpers rise up my throat and I no longer care about the fact that he once broke my heart or that he stopped
communicating with me altogether two years ago. Don’t care … don’t care … just don’t. My stomach is quivering wildly, my pulse quick and heavy like a barrage of bullets.
He stiffens then swallows hard. “Jesus, I’m sorry, Jen.” His concentration strays to the boxes stacked beside me and his hands leave his pockets and reach for the back of his neck to crack the tension. “The door was open, and I wanted to make sure you got here safe and sound and let you know I’ve a got a couple of ranch hands who …”
For what seems like a boundless minute, he pauses then drags his eyes back over my towel-clad body.
"Fucking hell. Finish … getting dressed, or get some rest … or Christ, do both. Tomorrow is gonna be a long day, sugar.”
The edge to his tone brings another pool of arousal between my thighs while my stomach flutters with delicious thoughts of rough, controlling, extraordinary sex with this man. Heat simmers through absolutely every inch of my body, which leaves me with a strong but petrifying inclination to drop the towel, ask him not to leave, and show him just how heavy and tight my breasts are, how swollen my clit has become, how wet he’s made me.
My God, I want him in ways I don’t understand.
With a parting nod, I shove away the need crawling between my thighs and release some kind of ridiculous-sounding giggle that resembles more of a cackling then respond with a near silent, “Cool,” because not only am I little shaky, dumbfounded, and rattled, and a whole shit-ton of mortification and humiliation, but also because I haven’t the slightest idea of what else to say.
With his fawn-tinted eyes blazing hot like fire, he drags a hand down his face then turns to leave with what I think is a small bend of a smile and definitely a bulge behind his jeans, while I’m left cringing at the sound of his boots against the wood floor, my pulse marching through my ears, and wishing I knew what to say, what to do, and how to make him stay.
"Lock the door behind me, Jen.”
Just like that, he’s walking away while every part of me wants to shout, “Please come back,” then drop to my knees, remove his boots and jeans, and take his thick cock between my lips. But when I hear the front door slam, it’s obvious that he has other ideas.
An unpleasant ache flickers inside me.
I don’t belong to Keith. I never have.
Why are you doing this?
Through an ocean of tears, those were the last words she ever spoke to me, the words that left me yearning to die a long painful death. I remember every minute of that day and the long lingering silence between us, the first tear sliding down her cheek, the minute Jason got in my face, so fucking livid at what I’d done that his eyes sizzled like a raging fire.
I remember it all like it was yesterday.
“You’re nothing but a spoiled pretty boy,” he’d said while stabbing a long finger into my chest. “A rich little ranch kid who gets all the pussy he wants and only cares about his own needs and no one else’s.”
“You talking about her being hurt?” I’d countered. “Or you, Jason?”
“Fuck you, Keith. Fuck you and your egomaniacal attitude.”
Guilt plows at my chest all over again as I pull out of the driveway and onto Scenic Drive with blood surging hot and fiercely to my groin while I try to process what I just walked in on. Christ, I should have called her before I just waltzed through the door like I had a right to do so.
Another thoughtless shit move on my part.
I swallow the last drops of lukewarm bottled water wishing like hell it were something strong and smooth. Frustration pulls at my chest with a compelling need to pull over and curb-stomp something.
Fourteen years ago, she’d been stunning.
But Christ if she’s not beautiful today, still radiating that smell of vanilla and fresh-cut flowers, her body lean but curvy, tits small but made for my palms, a shaved pussy carved for my tongue and cock, an ass just full enough to enjoy the forceful sting of my palm, and those jade-green eyes flashing with their cock-hardening, whitehot fire look of a woman who knows just exactly what her body needs and wants. Jen Boylan is strong. She’s determined, desirous, and sensual.
Sweat beads over my brow, and my dick is still rock hard.
“Fuck.” I adjust the steel brushing my zipper while fantasizing about my fingers in that pussy, my mouth on that pussy, my cock inside that pussy.
She belongs here. In Springhill. With me, goddammit.
I thirst to touch her. I need to touch her. I ache to touch her.
I loved her then. I love her now. This time, I won’t let her get away.
Intrigue Me (Tangled Pleasures)
An Erotic Romance Novel by Lacee Hightower
Publisher: Evernight Publishing
Heat Level: 4
Keywords: MF, BDSM, Contemporary, Romance, HEA
Warning: This title contains explicit sex scenes, BDSM, and anal sex
This book was definitely a challenge. Yet, nothing is worth having or doing if there's not effort, pain, and difficulty along the way. Intrigue Me not only deals with the complexity of power exchange in a complicated, but loving relationship, but also another tough subject - Down syndrome. I struggled with bringing that into the story, but decided I wanted something different and also wanted to show that these children are not only beautiful happy beings, but can also grow up to be very intelligent. The hero and heroine are both strong, independent people, but also have flaws like we all do. I personally love this story, and hope you do, as well.
His fingers probed and pushed as my muscles tightened around him. I hadn’t been touched this way in years … maybe forever, and I was so insanely turned on by his dark sexual words and harsh behavior that I couldn’t even comprehend how to answer him. Everything clenched as my body reacted with both fear and lust so strong that it made my head spin and my body reel with longing. My hands flew up into my lap, my fists balling as he caressed that one spot with a wonderfully gentle, spot-on precision. That’s when the first blistering sting of his hand on my sex sent an excruciating pain through me, worse than anything I’d ever experienced.
“My God! Jesus freaking Christ!” My whole body lifted, the breath lodging in my throat like the air had left the room. Had I died and gone to hell? Had I been doused in liquid hot fire? The agony in the sensitive flesh between my legs certainly felt that way.
Holy freaking shitballs! Am I bleeding?
“I asked you to be still, but just as I suspected, my little doll isn’t going to cooperate, is she?” He slapped the inside of my thigh, and I yelped, staggering, struggling to move. Aching to rub my legs together to ease the blazing pain. Feeling somewhere between fiery hot and chillingly cold, I wasn’t sure if I was appalled, or elated. But one thing was certain … I was turned on. Achingly so. Embarrassingly. My body was so aroused, my sex trembling with need, as a steady, hot drizzle of arousal gathered in my core. I audaciously opened my legs to him, clearly asking for more.
He leaned over and kissed me so hard that my lips felt as bruised as the rest of my body. “Do you really think a pretty fragile flower is what I’m after? Someone to make gentle love to? Whisper sensual words while eating popcorn under the stars? Tell me, Ava, does your pussy sting? Your thighs? Are you having fun yet? Do you feel intrigued?”
He seized my legs apart farther, restraining them, and adjusting them into an awkward, tight, uncomfortable position. Shit, it hurt. I couldn’t move. Then, he did the same with my arms. Ouch. Oh, shit.
“Please, Tage. That doesn’t feel good.”
“Neither does a plug up the ass. Sit still.” His hand speared through my hair again as his lips fell against my ear. “You remember your safeword?”
“Hummingbird,” I breathed, my breath lodged in my throat. My mouth was dry. My lower body ached. Everything just … hurt. My ass … my thighs … my pussy. How badly would he hurt me? Would I need medical attention afterward? Bandages? Ice packs? Heating pads? Thoughts of something, or anything up my ass, was borderline terrifying, not to say damned embarrassing. All of a sudden, this entire concept frightened the life out of me, striking me with a panic that I had only witnessed in movies, read in books. Yet, it was also pain, marks, bruises. Provocative. Electrifying. Intriguing.
“Perfect.” He released the ungodly grip on my hair and gently brushed his fingertips over the stinging sides of my scalp. “Feel better?”
“Yes,” I answered, struggling to keep from clenching my fists.
“Just yes? Seems a bit inconsiderate, kitten.” He began forcing a wad of something inside my mouth. God, no. Was he really going to gag me? Would I be able to breathe? Would I choke? Die a horrible painful death, naked, exposed, open and vulnerable? Tears bit at my eyes as I whimpered, forcing myself to breathe through my nose.
“How does it feel to be gagged with your panties, Ava?”
My panties? He was using my panties to gag me? Tears rose again as he reached behind me, lifting my hair so tightly that my stomach clenched.
“Nod your head once if you’re okay. Twice if you aren’t.”
I whimpered, nodding only the one time.
“Beautiful,” he murmured. “Now sit still.”
After what seemed like an eternity, his hand began caressing my neck and down over the swelling of my tender breasts, gently teasing my nipples, as he mumbled off Swedish words that I didn’t understand. Right as I began to relax, my back bowed, my left nipple no longer being stroked, but instead being viciously rolled and taunted between the thick pads of his fingertips. I flinched, whimpering, and he released me. I blew a relieved breath through my nose and swallowed hard. That was when the most piercing, insufferable agony I’d ever felt raked the fleshy tip of my right breast. I screamed through the gag, thrashing, as the delicate skin felt like it was being burned by the red-hot tip of a hundred flames.
Fucking hell. He’s killing me. Ruining my nipples. Motherfuck, it hurt. I swallowed hard, gagging as I did, trying to back away, but my breath catching as he beset my second nipple with the same excruciating torture device as the first. Both nipples howled in misery, the pain a paralyzing ache. Now I was sobbing, choking on my own damn panties while everything between my legs felt hot enough to catch fire. He tugged further. Grasped harder. Pushing me to the point I’d requested. To give in. Cede and surrender.
“Du har mycket vackra brost.”
A jolting breath lifted up my throat, my toes curling, the tortuous hell in my breasts beginning to slide all the way down into my clit. He leaned over, kissing my hair and gently stroking between my thighs, making my core ache harder. “It means your breasts are very beautiful. And they belong to me, Ava. Stop pulling away.”
I writhed as he tugged at the nipple clamps, the smell of my lust embarrassingly undeniable. “This is what you asked for,” he whispered against my ear.
Tears trickled down my face, while soft, muffled whimpers fell from my lips. Tage began rambling off another long line of Swedish words, then leaned over, trailing soft kisses against my neck. “Don’t fear your desires, kitten. Indulge in them. Embrace them. Surrender to them. Because they make you so perfectly you.”
My breasts felt like they were falling off, and my ankles and wrists ached with the tight restraints. But my core was wet, throbbing, and clenching. What he was doing to me was harsh and unrelenting, but there was something genuine and deep—this pain, this fulfillment happening to my body—was like an unhealed lesion that was beginning to heal.
Was this who I was? Who I’d always been? Someone seeking pain? A masochist?
He traced a long finger down my torso. “Are you ready for my cock in your ass? Are you enjoying everything? Are you enjoying the intrigue?”
Yes. I’m enjoying it. It’s the most fulfilling sexual experience of my life. But why? Am I out of my ever-loving mind?
“You’re stunning when you’re writhing under my control,” he uttered. “You’ve never looked more beautiful. Nod once if you want my cock.”
My sex throbbed like hot white fire as he slapped the sensitive area of my pubis again. My hips arched. Every single inch of my body felt pained. Holy crap, I had never felt a sensation like this. I was borderline senseless with the instant need to orgasm. I had smacked my mound before, something I’d learned from an erotic hypnosis tape, but not with this kind of intensity. It hurt. Shit, it ached all the way through my bones. Even my toes hurt. How could anyone in their sane mind like this? Why would they? Still, in some dark, taboo kind of way, I more than liked it. I craved it. I longed for it. I needed it.
Gag me. Hurt me. Love me.
“Yes! My God! I’m r—ready.” My response was jumbled beneath the gag, and I highly doubted he could understand a word of what I was saying. After what sounded like a tsk, then a soft laugh, he removed the clamps without offering a word of caution, leaving me gasping and whimpering as the sharp, godawful return of pain shot through my breasts like a million searing irons were melting the skin right off. Then, he began walking. Where to, I didn’t know. I hoped it was for a warm cloth, a heating pad, or a case of bandages for what was left of my battered nipples.
“And I think I want something to drink,” he responded, closing the door behind him and leaving me alone.