Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 76736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
I can't get out of the gala dress fast enough. I wince as I pull off strategically placed tape, and then, after a good scrub and a shower, I crawl into bed. I've got on my best Winnie the Pooh pajamas, the house is silent, and while I've been itching to read all day, that's now on the back burner.
My Kindle forgotten, I lie back to close my eyes and let my hands wander. I picture myself under a rough, tattooed biker who's big all over, especially where it matters. Not that I’ve ever had the opportunity to learn firsthand how good it could be, but I have an active fantasy and a whole library of source material to learn from. When I dip a hand under the elastic of my pajama bottoms, I'm already slick and ready to enjoy myself.
I imagine my other hand is one of the bikers', roaming freely and exploring, eager to grab me and pull me against him. That he's crawling over me, his massive chest bare other than a vicious tattoo and scars. Tough bikers like them have to have scars from how they live.
He covers me, his chest hair rough against my breasts, his harsh whisper promising dirty things into my ear, his weight on me, pinning me beneath him. My fingers work faster, even as I'm trying to make it last, to drag it out for as long as I can.
With my mind's eyes, I'm looking right into his, the deep, dark pools of the lead biker. And then he shifts, and the man over me has a purple streak in his hair. He grins mischievously as I imagine him kissing his way down, into my throat, through the valley of my breasts, eagerly making his way down to where my fingers are working overtime.
Another shift, and it's the biggest one, the strongest one, his beard tickling me softly between my thighs, just before he slides his tongue through my folds.
And that's where I can't hold on any longer. My back arches and my toes curl as my imaginary bikers bring me over the edge. For a few long moments, my mind blanks before I collapse onto the sheets, breathing hard and only regretting I never got so far as imagining them actually inside me. With a smile on my lips, I remind myself that there's always tomorrow night. Those bikers are going to be getting a lot of my attention for many days to come.
I just know it.
2
EMILY
A nightmare wakes me up. They often do, but this one's bad. I'm sweating, my sheets are drenched, and I feel gross. The details of the dream are already fading, but the dark chill wrapped around my spine refuses to let go. Lying back down seems risky at best, like trying to go to sleep knowing there's something deadly lurking in the room with you. I should change the sheets anyway, and maybe I'll have calmed down after. God, I hate nights like these. It started so well, too.
A noise startles me—a sharp crash, followed by a soft swear. A man's voice, but not Dad's. His swears are never soft. But then who? There are guards at the front gates, and an alarm system.
Did one of them come inside? I pick up my phone. Two in the morning. What the heck?
The dark chill squeezes tighter. The deadly lurker suddenly seems a lot more real. Usually I'm happy my wing of the house is away from Mom and Dad, but now I feel very isolated and alone.
There's a softball bat hanging on my wall, a signed trophy from when we won the tournament in high school. We all got one, even though I was basically the glorified water girl who was put up to bat only when we were certain the game was in the bag. Dad paid for varsity placement, because of course he did. I had no business being there and the other girls knew it, but those are still some of my favorite memories. How sad is that?
I nudge my bedroom door open with a foot and peek out. “Hello? Who's in here?”
A massive shadow appears in front of me, but I don't even get a chance to swing, because someone grabs my arms and a stinky cloth is pressed over my face.
The tingly aroma slithers up my nostrils and down my throat, and then everything goes black.
My eyes open, but I can't see a thing. My hands are stuck behind my back, and I can't move them. Every thought is like trudging through a pool of syrup.
Is this another nightmare?
I'm jostled in a way that feels all too real, and there's the familiar rumble of a car engine. This isn't a dream.
I'm blindfolded and bound.
My mind tries to make sense of it, but it's too good at imagining scary stuff. Too many horror novels and spy dramas. Dirty hit man romances. True crime docudramas. The only thing they all have in common is that this is bad news for me.