Total pages in book: 216
Estimated words: 206530 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1033(@200wpm)___ 826(@250wpm)___ 688(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 206530 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1033(@200wpm)___ 826(@250wpm)___ 688(@300wpm)
Jesus fucking Christ.
Somebody needs to teach this woman a fucking lesson on safety. I hiss out a long breath at the possibilities that immediately begin flashing through my mind. Followed by the revulsion that’s a knee jerk reaction.
You are not a sociopath.
Before I fully admit what I’m doing, I’m in my car, punching her address into my GPS.
Six
MIRANDA
I was distracted for the rest of the day and barely got anything done after going to Dylan’s office at lunch. I think I answered some emails. Then daydreamed about Dylan. Maybe scheduled a few meetings? Daydreamed about Dylan some more.
I cancelled happy hour plans with Daniel and came home early. After today, I just wanted a glass of wine and a long bath. But Daniel is my bff and I know I’m gonna hear an earful about it on Friday when we’re planning to hang out again.
He’s having drama with his new Domme, shocking, and I know he wanted to tell me all about it. Frankly, the fact that he’s been in a semi-stable relationship for as long as he has—a whole three months—is one of the things that gives me hope for myself.
Maybe not with Dylan. He never responded to my texts. Though I guess that’s part of the point of those kinds of texts. I just put them out there and not knowing whether the guy will pick up the ball or not is part of the thrill of it.
With guys online we usually play over video chat a few times and then I meet them at the The Dungeon, my favorite local BDSM club, at least once before I send out the kind of open invitation I just sent Dylan. And I’ve never invited anyone to play at my actual house before.
But I’m breaking all the rules with Dylan. Which I guess is part of the point. I don’t want rules. I want to be free. Free to be as fucked up as I can be with someone who knows the score.
Outside The Dungeon. Outside sane. Outside safe.
All I need is consensual.
Is that fucked up?
I never pretended to be anything else.
I open the fridge and bend over to reach for the leftover fried rice from yesterday. Maybe if I—
I screech as I’m suddenly grabbed from behind.
A huge hand clamps over my mouth and an arm tightens like a steel band around my waist, pulling me into a body. A large, male body. A large, aroused male body.
What if it’s not Dylan?
Leaving the key under the mat is stupid. Really stupid. Everyone puts their spare key there.
It could be anyone behind me. It’s dark out and I always leave my shutters open because I secretly like the thought of someone watching me. Looking in when I can’t see out.
What if someone’s been watching me?
What if someone saw me put the key under the mat?
“Don’t say a word, bitch,” comes the growl in my ear. Low. Gutteral.
I can’t tell if it’s Dylan or not.
The hand not at my mouth grabs at my breast with a bruising grip and I cry out.
“What?” he sneers. “You aren’t even going to fight me?”
What if it’s not Dylan? What if it’s not fucking Dylan? Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God.
I start freaking the fuck out, fighting and screaming and biting to get away. The man behind me, oh shit, he only gets harder as he yanks me out of the kitchen and shoves me to the carpeted floor of the living room.
His cock digs into my ass.
I twist my head to get a look at him. I just need to know it’s Dylan. I just need to know. Then everything will be okay.
But he’s wearing a fucking ski mask.
He does let go of my mouth as he shoves me face first to the carpet, though. And when his big, brutal body leans over mine, I ask in a desperate whisper, “Dylan?”
There’s a brief pause though his grip on my wrists he has wrenched behind my back is no gentler.
“You want to say a color, little girl?” he barks. But the growling rasp is gone from his voice and it’s recognizable. It’s Dylan. I bow my forehead to the carpet as my heartbeat slows. It’s not real. It’s Dylan.
It’s Dylan and I could end all this with a single word. Red.
Instead, I arch my ass up and start to fight like a wildcat at the same time. I’m suddenly furious at him for scaring me. Furious at myself for my fuckedupness and how thrilled I am by the fear. Furious at everything.
“No, you fucking bastard,” I spit. “I don’t need to say a fucking color. I need you to get the fuck out of my house. You can’t fucking have me.”
I twist against his grip and his knee in my back even as I hear the noise of his zipper coming undone. My belly swoops at the sound as he laughs in my ear.