Blood.
That's the only memory he carries from a childhood he does not remember. And now it is all he knows. Blood is his life.
Knox Bishop has done a lot of horrible things, all at the command of the man who holds his leash. It's a matter of loyalty for him. Allegiance to the man who saved his life when he was a child. So he goes where he is needed and does what he is told. He tortures. He kills. He kills. He tortures. It is an unrelenting cycle that he constantly craves and can never quite satisfy.
Until her.
She goes to Knox willingly offering him the only valuable thing she has. Herself. In doing so he allows her into his world, a world filled with darkness but rather than being scared it intrigues her. It lures her, calls to something in her that she hadn't known existed until he awakened it.
Every bit of his flaws is reflected in her and Knox will do anything to keep her in the darkness with him.
Lacey
Sordid words echo off the sullied walls of the motel room, a disjointed symphony of grunts and groans as he labors for release. The sourness of his breath, the hot wet beads of his sweat, and the unrelenting grip of his fingernails burrowing painfully into my skin is all too familiar—a necessary evil of the oldest profession in the world. With his mouth poised at my ear, he whispers words meant to turn me on, and I arch my back, rotate my hips, and drive back against his cock to show that I enjoy his dirty little words. He likes it when I do that, pays a little extra when I play the bitch in heat. He smacks my ass to get me going, a precursor to his release, and I smile thinly. I send a silent thanks to the prostitute gods that it’s almost over. He’s done in a short countdown, filling the condom, and I’m out of the shadow of his collapsing weight. He lands in an unceremonious heap across the bed in an attempt to catch his breath.
“You were amazing, baby,” he pants, raising his head slightly to look at me. “As usual.” He grins and drops his head back on the bed with a great sigh.
“Glad you enjoyed yourself,” I reply tonelessly, twisting my arms to fasten my bra strap. I slip on my threadbare T-shirt and shimmy into a black mini skirt that hides very little from the outside world. Stepping into the pair of black and white low tops, I feel the wad of cash pushing back against my toes, a clear indication that it’s been a good night. Keeping my earnings in my shoe is a great hiding place because it’s probably the last place anyone would look if I ever got mugged.
“I’m out of here,” I say as a farewell, grabbing the two hundred-dollar bills on the nightstand on my way out of the cheap motel room.
Francette lives in Massachusetts with her amazingly supportive husband of ten years and her darling two year old son. Reading amazing books has led her to writing and she’s dabbled in fan-fiction before self-publishing her own works. She’s constantly thinking up new stories to write and does her best work when music is playing in the background. Romance is where she’s most comfortable but she hopes to one day venture in mystery novels. She has a weakness for coffee ice cream, tropical fruits and a good glass of wine.
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