 by Amarie Avant.jpg)
Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
And for the moment, he craves… me.
I fought. It was a losing battle.
I ran. His relentlessness ensnared me.
I'm a token. A trinket. A toy for Victor's amusement.
He's seductive. A dangerous deviant.
Although I can't stop the madness, staying is lethal.
**
Luxury Whitson, a young beauty with a heart of gold, never catches a break.
And for a brief time, she will be mine to possess.
She's cheeky. I'll train her mouth.
She's defiant. That kink will be straightened.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
PROLOGUE
LUXURY WHITSON
Twenty-eight days ago, his eyes captivated me. Tranquil blue pools transformed autumn in Manhattan into a warm, sunlit day.
I saw light in them.
In him.
Turns out, Dr. Victor Finch was nothing but a beguiling devil.
Now, steam emerges from my brick-and-chrome bathroom as I open the door, creeping across the darkened bedroom. My heart pitches into the pit of my stomach. I’d turned on every light after coming home from our disturbing date and scrubbed the blood off my skin.
Throat contracting, I stare at the monster I ran from. A dim glow from the dresser lamp spills over my beautiful nightmare’s marbled features while he dominates the reading chair by my bed.
Acrimony pours over my clammy, freckled skin. Mouth stiff, I enunciate, “Get out of my home.”
An alpha on his throne, Victor scrutinizes me like a fat gazelle ambling through the Sahara. His intense stare sends an irrational drum to the pulse between my thighs.
“Bollocks, Luxury.” A tantalizing British accent holds a consolatory note while fingers fork through dark hair, creating the only disarray in the otherwise immaculate beast. “Everything went balls up. It’s not what it seems.”
“What part of us screwing in Central Park, less than an hour ago, followed by you murdering random strangers is not what it seems? I texted you—”
“Never to call?” Reigning in his demons, Victor smooths the lapel of his suit, tailored over raw muscle. Oh, God. I’d thought his all-black attire was alluring, but realization hits. It hides the blood.
With aching tenderness, his eyes follow my curves. “You’re in shock. That’s to be expected—”
I widen my stance, gritting out, “You know my past. You friggen retraumatized me. The second you snapped; our relationship ended!”
Tone ignited in fury, Victor warns, “Allow me to remind you, Luxury, you and I are under a binding agreement—I own you.”
The claim plows into me. He did own me.
While flipping me
Left to right.
Up and down.
But he doesn’t own me. “Dick was involved,” I gasp.
“Wrong answer. You gave your word. The rights to that luscious cunt are mine.”
In the company of a madman, I take a tentative step toward the door. A split second later, I’ve opened it and dashed down the stairs.
“Dad—Daddd!”
“Lux!” My father, who spends his downtime watching old sitcoms, pops up from his seat. One might think living at home with their father at age twenty-three is pathetic, but I also own a failing floral shop, so there’s that.
Standing before me, my father is a solid five-foot-five, and I’m an inch shy of five feet. What am I doing? Neither of us are a match for the madman in my room.
Descending the steps, Victor grits out, “Luxury, listen to every word I tell you.”
Disappointed, Dad removes his prescription glasses. “Luxury, we have an agreement. If you’re inviting company—”
Curly hair dashes in my face in a quick decline.
Victor gives a nonchalant chin jut. “I came through the front door. You were amused by the telly.”
Further enraged, Dad exclaims, “Dr. Finch, I’m calling the po—”
A bullet blazes through the window. Cold dread zaps through my veins as glass skitters across the floor. Bits of brick break off the wall, inches from Dad’s head.
Eardrums ringing, I find my body crushed beneath the steel of Victor’s dominating frame.
“Get down, Dr. Whitson!” he commands.
My father conceals himself behind his La-Z-Boy. “What the heck?”
A stream of blood drips from his ear. My eyes glide from the look of fear one never expects to see in their own father’s to searching the dark blue depths of Victor’s eyes. “I have to check on—”
“No, no, I’m fine, honey,” Dad reassures, bewildered.
“That sniper’s here for you, Whitson.” Victor’s calm tone, which once made me mad, frustrated, even euphoric during sex, envelops me now. “Lux, I saved your life tonight.”
My life?
Victor’s mouth lowers, devouring my worries.
A stunned silence falls over me, and more glass showers over us. Victor captures my bottom lip in his mouth, tugging softly, and his tongue swipes over the agonized flesh. Once I’m a mess of moaning need, fire lights in Victor’s voice. “Lux, right now, I need you to be that cheeky, confident young woman I first met. No fear.”
1
VICTOR TUDOR
THIRTY-THREE DAYS BEFORE . . .
“Three-thousand nine hundred and fifty-two meters of bloody fucking perfection,” I murmur. With a keen gaze, I stare the lengthy distance through the scope of my rifle. Approximately two and a half miles away, a man’s enjoying libations with a few members of his militia. He’s dead and doesn’t even know it. The blistering Arabian sun pours down over me as I lie on my stomach on top of a clay building at a higher vantage point. A white towel covers my head to deflect the heat, and beige tactical gear camouflages me from head to toe.
Amongst the hubbub of cars, bikes, and pedestrians, the dead man raises a bottle in a toast. I’m aware of the precise second the blood in his veins will stop pumping. Although the wanker will never know he’s on the receiving end of my three thousand, nine hundred and fifty-two meters. A bloody fucking world record. A phenomenon I’ll not boast about either because this is what I live for.