Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 89228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
His cock pulsed as the thrill of possibilities heated his blood. It would be so damned exhilarating to throw her against the wall, mar her pretty skin, and fuck her before the stunned effect of terror released its first breath.
He stood taller, lighter, no longer bound by slave-buyer virginity requirements or his father's bullshit tyranny. He could be greedy, merciless, unrestrained. He could beat her just for letting him in. He could fuck her any way he wanted. Then he could take her home, chain her in his room, and keep her until he was done.
He hadn't taken anyone against their will since Joshua Carter, limiting his sexual encounters to quick fucks with men and women to take the edge off. Had it really been a year since he'd felt this rush? Why the hell was he giving into it now?
Because this fearful, sassy, crazy woman had awoken something inside him.
He slid on his leather gloves, unconcerned with how she might react to them. When he nudged open the door, the sound of her heels speed-clicked around the corner and faded into another room. He hadn't expected a red carpet welcome, but seriously? She didn't know his intentions, yet she'd opened the door and run? That was fucked up from the tits up.
As he crossed the threshold, the aroma of bleach and springtime fumigated his nose, a peculiar concoction of citrus, girly gardenias, and enough disinfectant to saturate a morgue. Maybe she was hiding a body. He locked the deadbolt and followed the aseptic wisp through the small sitting room.
Up ahead, a doorway opened into the kitchen. The hallway branched off to the left, leading to three rooms. Shadows gathered around the entrances of two. A soft band of light gleamed from the third, presumably where she'd run off to. She could wait. If she was stupid enough to let him roam alone, that was her problem.
Dated but well-kept furniture formed perfect right-angles, enclosed by gray walls, wood floors, black fabrics, and the sheer absence of color. What halted his steps, however, were the four round wall clocks, hanging side-by-side, identical in style, and synced down to the motherfucking second hand.
The oddity propelled him to examine the room closer as he listened for her footsteps. Four candles lined the glossy coffee table, four black pillows sat at rigid attention on the gray couch, and four bookshelves filled one wall. No TV. No knick-knacks. No picture frames. And definitely no trace of the pungency that would come with harvesting marijuana. Not that he still entertained that assumption.
Which raised new questions about her twice-a-week visitor. Zachary Kaufman was an unknown who would need to be dealt with.
With the envelopes tucked under one arm, he brushed a gloved finger over the dust-free surfaces, turning in a circle and searching for a deviation in the patterned decor. Everything was in symmetrical groups of four. The row of leather coasters, the books on the shelves, and the five-light chandelier...yep, missing the fifth bulb. Even the damned orchid on the sofa table had four white blooms with four petals each, as if she'd plucked the poor thing to fit an obscene idea of perfect proportion.
While the impersonal space offered little insight into who she was, one thing was certain. She was a straight-up freak of orderly foursomes.
“Come here, Van.” Her voice skipped down the hall, strong and confident.
He stiffened, and his head tilted. She was beckoning him? Oh, how he wanted to answer with a cruel laugh just to expose her misunderstanding. Little did she know, he'd moved the mics during the twenty-four minute wait and had listened to her frantic footsteps running in and out of the back rooms. And why had she made him wait exactly twenty-four minutes? Was it an even-numbered thing or something more practical, like setting up a plan to trap him? If it were the latter, the pistol tucked in his ass crack would let her know she'd surrendered the instant she invited him inside.
He slid his tongue over his lips, seeking the toothpick he'd forgotten to replace. The worst part about being a sick bastard was the internal view of his perversions. He'd watch, like a helpless witness, as his body instilled fear in the eyes of his captives, his memories molding them into a weaker version of himself. In those moments, when his hands became manacles and his strikes connected with flesh, he beat the living shit out of the pathetic boy he once was. Nothing was more therapeutic. Or fucked up.
A jolt of heat pulsated his groin. Christ, he couldn't wait to introduce her to the realm of his imagination.
He leaned over the coffee table and stacked three coasters in a lopsided pile. As he passed the couch, he rotated one square pillow to sit on its cornered edge. His grin stretched so big his mouth hurt. Sometimes, it was the little things that teased sadistic pleasures.