MASTER'D COVER REVEAL

True Dom. True Story.

Projected Release Feb. 28th

CLICK COVER TO ADD TO TBR

MASTER D RAW AND UNCUT (EXCERPT)

I walked in through the dark door as a couple was walking out, twisting to avoid bumping into each other. My eyes skimmed the packed place to see if she was already there. It took me a second to spot her. Hard to miss her when she’s the only woman in the room. Every detail of the way she looked sitting there at the bar carved into my psyche…like a gorgeous Russian spy in a classic espionage movie. She was dressed to kill, and I was her mark.

Her elegant yet racy white dress. Those black sex-me pumps. Her dark hair swept over one shoulder. Her red lips curved into that smile of hers, the secretive one permanently imprinted on her face, as if she was in on a joke no one else was privy too.

I don’t have to tell you how gorgeous she looked—but I will anyway.

Fucking gorgeous.

She glanced around but didn’t see me. I watched her nurse a glass of champagne, enjoying the way she crossed her shapely legs, her thighs peeking out from under her skirt. I moved toward her, a singular thought driving me, those thighs sandwiching my head. My pace waned when a wolf in Armani clothing approached her.

Apparently, we had the same thought.

He offered to buy her a drink. I could read his body language, the way he gestured toward the shelves of colorful bottles behind the bar. She shook her head and smiled, like polite, well-behaved girls who aren’t interested often do, showing him the champagne in front of her. He faked a big plastic smile and leaned against the bar with a casual arrogance, brushing off her gentle letdown. This guy was a professional pussy hunter. He wasn’t letting a bump in the road stop him from crossing the finish line. These guys are a dime a dozen.

I decided to wait and watch them.

His lips moved with the smoothness of his velvet words. I speculated he complimented her stunning appearance or cracked some witless witticism. She self-consciously tucked a group of fugitive hairs behind her ear, a flattered shyness coloring her cheeks. It was sexy as fucking hell. She had no idea she was a twenty in a room full of sevens, putting every other woman there to shame.

Could I blame the pig in sharp threads for choosing her out of every option here?

Thinking he weaseled past her defenses, his greasy hand made a ballsy play, slowly moving down her calve from knee to ankle.

I’d witnessed enough.

I bee-lined to them at the bar, secured an arm around her waist, and dragged her from her stool. She stumbled against me.

“What the f—,” she muttered, rattled, her voice crackling and fading away.

Ignoring the wannabe Casanova, I led her away from the bar, through the people, and out the door into the hot, humid rain.

“What’s happening?” she asked while attempting to protect her hair from the downfall with her tiny purse. Futilely, I might add.

I hauled around the building to the side alley and crowded my body into hers, pinning her to the brick wall. She dropped her purse and released a hiss, her hands instinctually finding my hair, my lips instinctually moving onto her mouth.

Her hands dove to my chest, pushing until they forced me away from her, keeping me at bay. She panted, her nipples taunted me from her see-through dress.

“You aren’t jealous?”

I removed her hands and restrained them to the wall over her head by the wrists. “Do you want me to be jealous?”

“Maybe a little,” she replied with a breathy voice.

“I’m not the type. I enjoyed watching you—it turned me on.” My hands navigated the waves of her body until they discovered the plump mounds of her phenomenal backside, dragging her into me so she felt what she did to me.

Her body was my addiction—my undoing.

ADD MASTER'D TO YOUR TBR TODAY!!!

WEDDING BELL BLUES

PROLOGUE

This isn’t a wedding, it’s a merger between two powerful families, coming together to form an unstoppable empire. This isn’t love, it’s business.

  When I was informed I would marry Shaw, I didn’t bat an eyelash. We’d been ‘dating’ for over a year. Plus, I’d been raised with the understanding I was bred for ‘a greater purpose’. I was educated at the best private schools and learned about wifely behavior from my mother, all with the goal of being the perfect trophy wife. I’ve always done what my parents asked of me, without hesitation or question, and to the best of my abilities. Their happiness is important to me, even if it means mine isn’t. I’m willing to sacrifice it for the betterment of our family.

  I’m a good daughter, a doting daughter, an obedient daughter.

  My entire path has been paved and laid out before me. I’m sitting in the backseat of my own life, my parents at the wheel, while I watch the world flash past my window.

  My father, a politician from Pennsylvania with his eye on the White House, made the arrangement with Shaw’s father, Louis LeBlanc, a wealthy businessman from New Orleans who wants a hand in the political game.

  The first time I met him, he insisted I call him Papa Lou—right before he pinched my backside.

  My father wants his money. LeBlanc wants my father’s influence. Shaw wants me.

  This marriage will be one of convenience and breeding, carrying on the name and bloodline, rather than about needing to spend our lives together, not being able to live our lives without the other by our side. It’s all very technical, mechanical, methodical.

   I’m in front of the vanity, in the bridal suite of an opulent manor in the heart of the Garden District. My hair is done and impeccable, not a strand out of place. Like my life seems to be. My makeup is camera ready, a mask to hide my pain. My dress is elegant, expensive, designer, of course, like my husband-to-be.

  Over the past year and a half, I convinced my heart I love Shaw because I had to. In some faint way, I do. Or I’ve fooled myself into believing I do.

  It doesn’t matter though. Minutes from now, I’ll be his wife…whether I want it or not.

CLICK HERE FOR MORE ➜➜ BLACK MAGNOLIA

SHOT OF JAMISON

CHAPTER ONE

“You are so drunk!” Meghan exclaims, bumping into me and laughing. I stumble on the cobblestone street, my ankle wobbling and giving out on me for a nanosecond before I regain my balance.

“Just a little,” I laugh out with a snort.

We stumble towards North End Park, clinging to each other for stability and warmth. It’s a bitter April evening in Boston, the kind of night that braces and chills to the bone. Usually, on evenings when the weather is deathly cold, you’ll find me in the warmth of my apartment with a mug of Irish whiskey-laced coffee and my boyfriend, DVR. Though, this is not any old night. Technically, it’s early Friday morning, but that’s neither here nor there. This is my twenty-fifth birthday, and there’s no one I’d rather get sloshed and stuck out in the bitterness with than my sister. I can’t wait to fall into my warm bed, without so much as washing off my makeup, and pass out cold. I intend to sleep good and ugly tonight.

Even though the spirits sitting hot in my belly help with the chill, my face begins to burn from the frosty wind lashing it. However—it’s not nearly as bothersome as the penetrating sensation of being watched overcoming me. I discreetly glimpse behind us, hoping it’s just the alcohol giving me the heebie-jeebies. When I spot the male-shaped figure about twenty-five paces back, my heart begins to race violently.

Normally, this might not make someone nervous. It’s just another guy out for an early morning stroll—dressed in all dark clothing—with his face obstructed by the shadows he’s clinging to religiously.

Yeah.

This situation is anything but normal, and his intentions aren’t noble, something deep down in my gut affirms.

I must be really distracted because I don’t hear Meghan loudly calling my name, “Abby. Come in, Abs.”

“What did you say?” I ask as we intersect Cross Street along Hanover.

“What are you looking at?”

“Nothing.” I smile, trying to keep her from glancing back in his direction.

Even though my apartment isn’t more than a few blocks away, the distance between him and us is diminishing quickly. I decide it’s better to find somewhere safe as fast as humanly possible. Since it’s freezing out, I can use it as an excuse to get Meg off the street without letting her know what’s really going on. I just pray we can find somewhere open this late.

“We should find a place to duck out of the weather for a bit,” I suggest, trying to keep my voice composed and steady.

A glacial gust of air plays through her flaming hair, framing her lightly freckled face. She must be frozen; her naturally pale skin virtually white, like the patches of snow lining the sidewalk, the rosy blush of her cheeks gone.

“Yes, please,” she says, between chattering lips. Even after growing up in Boston, she still isn’t used to the cold. “Where?”

I search the street ahead for any sign of hope, finding only darkness. Suddenly, a neon sign lit warmly in the night appears from behind an awning, its electric colors reflecting off the glass-like cement.

“There.” I point down the sidewalk, tugging her along with urgent strides, widening the gap between us and him, almost slipping a handful of times on the icy pavement. When we get closer to the neon, she must realize it’s a tattoo parlor because she hesitates. I’ve passed it several times before, but never really gave it a second thought. I read the sign, probably for the first time since it opened in the neighborhood six years ago.

“Warped Ink,” I mumble under my breath, visible in the air.

“I don’t know about this,” Meghan gripes.

“The sign says open and the lights are on.” I gesture up and down the street to indicate it’s the only place, realizing the faceless lurker is skulking closer one elongated stride at a time. “It’s this or freeze our butts off.”

“Alright,” she whines with a groan.

When I push on the door, it gives way, sounding off a high-pitched ding as we enter. The warmth hits me immediately, seeping deep under the skin to my chilled bones. I become uneasy when I notice the place looks completely unoccupied. I lock the door anyway, ensuring the shadow stalking us can’t follow us inside. Luckily, the windows are tinted, so he won’t be able to see us either.

We take a few unsure steps inside, looking at the artwork displayed all over the navy blue walls. Taking off our jackets and scarves, we toss them carelessly over the waiting chairs lined up against the front window.

“You lost?” a rough male voice questions.

I glance over my shoulder at the deadly hot specimen of a man bathed in ink, drying his hands off with a rag.

“Yeah—I mean, no. Sorry. We needed to get out of the cold for a bit. Do you mind if we hang in here?”

He has a pitiless expression on his face, which is far too good-looking for any one man. “If you want to stay here, you have to get some ink. Those are the rules, sweetheart.”

What is his problem?

“Do you speak to all your customers like this?” I inquire. “I can’t imagine you do very well if you do.”

“You aren’t a customer, yet,” he retorts with a condescending tone.

“Let’s just go,” Meghan insists, tugging on my arm.

I gently remove it from her grasp, staring him straight in the eye, and say, “You only live once, right?” I glimpse over the wall of art and then at him. “I want that one.” I point to a design of three delicate roses on a thorny vine.

“You sure?” he asks, impressed. Honestly, he’s hard to read.

I walk up to him, standing only inches away, and smell his distinctly masculine musk. I also realize something I hadn’t when I was across the room. His eyes, they’re two different colors. The left is like an Irish ale, rich and dark, the right, a cloudy English sky, distinct and bright against the other. When he notices me ogling them, he becomes agitated. “Are we going to do this, sweetheart?”

“Where do you want me?”

With a flare of his nostrils and a twitch of his mouth, he walks over to one of six small rooms in the back, a blue velvet curtain hanging in the doorway and slides it open.

“I want you on the chair,” he says, his words roll out drenched in sex.

I give my sister a glance. She has a pleading look, shaking her head and mouthing, “Don’t do it.”

I shrug and enter, standing next to the chair with my arms crossed.

“What are you waiting for?” he asks and nods to the black leather chair. I slide on, resting against the sloped backing. He washes his hands in a sink in the corner before putting on a pair of latex gloves. “Where do you want it?”

Trying to figure out where it’ll be hidden if I dress up for a nice date or event, I decide on my hip. “Here.” I point.

He picks up a remote and with the click of a button, my chair begins to lay out flat.

“Turn on your side,” he orders, “and roll down your jeans to about mid-hip.”

Once I’ve done as instructed, he tucks tissue paper, like the kind laid out across the examination table at a doctor’s office, into the folded band of my jeans. Next, he preps my hip, shaving and cleaning it with a cold, solution soaked cloth. He picks up the tattoo gun and turns it on.

“Aren’t you going to use a stencil or whatever you use?”

“I don’t need one.”

The shrill buzzing of the gun sends a nervous tremor up my spine.

“Will this hurt?” I ask with an undeniable waver in my voice.

“I won’t lie.” He looks sincere for the first time since I walked in. “It’s going to feel like cat scratches, intense cat scratches.”

“Okay.” I nod my head and shut my eyes tight. “I’m ready.”

He places his hand on the mound of my hip, below the line of my pants, and it does little to ease me. I’m now extremely turned on. Then the sharp sting of the needles puncture my skin over and over, permanently etching the design, and all I feel is pain. My teeth bear down on my bottom lip, attempting to place my focus elsewhere. I whimper shrewdly at a particularly unpleasant stab.

What was I thinking?!

Not wanting to look like a coward in front of him, I do my best to fight through the raw agony.

“How long have you worked here?” I probe, figuring it’s fair game since he’s doing it to me. Literally.

He doesn’t look up at me, keeping his eyes pinned on the task at hand.

“Ever since I opened the place six years ago,” he answers, but I can sense the distance in his voice. It was mechanical.

“You own it?”

“That would be the idea,” he replies, paying attention to my hip. “Now, stop talking. You’re moving.”

I’m pretty positive that isn’t why he wants me to stop talking. But I use the opportunity to my advantage, studying him. The blue neon sign on the wall behind him reflects off his slicked black hair. His sizeable muscles flex under a plain gray t-shirt. I wouldn’t call him brawny in stature, but he certainly isn’t someone you’d want to mess with either. His old jeans, the same faded blue as my irises, look so dang good on him. His unique eyes focus on my hip, partially squinted with concentration; his stubbly jaw clenched.

“I’m sorry about earlier, when I was staring at your eyes. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just—they’re really interesting and unusual. You don’t see it often.”

He continues working, his concentration concrete. After a painfully prolonged period, longer than acceptable for a response, he mumbles, “Heterochromia.”

“What?”

“The thing with my eyes, it’s called Heterochromia. It’s a pigmentation defect.”

“Whatever it is, I like it,” I confess. “It makes you unique.”

He glimpses up at me, his discomfort apparent, his lips tightened into a not quite smile. It’s more of a grimace actually. He doesn’t like compliments or maybe it’s attention he dislikes. Before I have time to ponder this notion, he announces, “All finished.”

“Really?”

I realize it’s been over an hour when I notice the clock on the wall.

“Take a look.” He holds up a handheld mirror, angling it for me until I catch the reflection of three blood-red roses mimicking the curve of my hip.

“Do you like?” he inquires.

I’m amazed by the detail and quality. They look unbelievably realistic, as if they’re budding from my skin. “It’s—perfect.” I glimpse at him with a satisfied smirk. “How much do I owe you?”

He pulls the latex gloves off his hands and dumps them in the barrel. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“But I thought you said…”

“If you want to stay here, you have to get a tattoo. I never said you would pay for it.”

When he smirks at me for the first time, revealing deep dimples, a lump forms in my butt. It sounds strange, I know, but it happens when a guy makes me nervous. And this guy makes me feel like a ball of nerves.

“Are you sure?”

“The owner said it was cool. Consider it a birthday present.”

How did he know it’s my birthday?

Until then, I’d forgotten I’m wearing one of those ridiculous HAPPY BIRTHDAY crowns, with pink glitter and everything. My face heats up with embarrassment.

After he’s explained the aftercare and placed clear plastic over the sensitive skin, he sees me back out to the front with everything I’ll need. Meghan sits in the waiting area by the front window, texting away, completely oblivious to me. We’re practically standing over her before she finally spots us approaching.

“Well,” she says with a flat, displeased tone, “how did it go?”

“Fine.” I pick up my coat and scarf from the chair beside her, bundling up for the nastiness outside, and then my bag. Setting the strap on my shoulder, I ask Meg, “You all warmed up?”

“Yup.” She slips the phone into the rear pocket of her jeans when she stands. “I am so ready to get home.”

I turn back to the brooding stranger. “It was nice of you to let us stay. And thanks for the free ink.”

“No problem,” he says simply.

I stand there staring at him for a lingering moment, confused why my feet, like two huge slabs of granite, refuse to move away from him. I tuck a wild piece of my chestnut hair behind my ear and clear my very dry throat.

“I should be leaving,” I state stupidly.

Because he really cares, dumbass.

“Yeah, you should,” he affirms.

It sounds like a warning or maybe a threat. However it was meant, it hurt. What did I want him to say? Whatever I was expecting, it certainly wasn’t that.

I walk toward the exit, disappointed, glimpsing back when I realize I don’t even know his name. I feel dumb not asking him sooner as we just spent the last hour together.

“I’m Abby,” I introduce myself, hoping he’ll be polite and respond with the appropriate exchange of information.

“Jamison,” he replies with the corner of his mouth curled up, creating a single dimple.

“It was nice to meet you, Jamison.”

I walk out without waiting for a reply, braced instantly by the frigid chill of early spring.

JAMISON

Cherry Kisses

“Dance with me.”

 “What?” Her head cocks back. “No.” She laughs off my request. “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.”

 Yanking her from the stool, I bring her into me with an insisting arm on her tapered waist. She gasps from the spontaneous jolt, bracing herself with my biceps, her nails biting into my skin with a gratifying burn. I smile at the honeyed lilt of her laughter, anticipating the confection of sweet noises she’ll make when I take her.

  Pressed tight, we sway, eyes welded. My hands slide to the breadth of her hips, wider since she arrived in my bar—in my life. Holding Rae to me as we move, it becomes painfully evident they aren’t the only proportions that filled out in the past weeks. Her upturned breasts smash into my chest. They’re begging for my mouth.

  Extremely turned-on, my fingers clutch the taut fabric of her skirt, my hands balling into fists, bringing the hem high on her thighs. Before overthinking my next move, I hoist her onto the unforgiving counter, forcing her legs open with my waist. She presses her pliable lines into my immoveable edges.

 Her scent, her suppleness, her black waterfall of hair. Something about Rae makes me feel like a fucking man.

  I lean my lips close to hers but don’t let them touch. “If you don’t want this,” I groan into her parted mouth, “you know what to do.”

  She boosts her hips from the bar’s surface to help me along.

  “I want it.”

  I shove the hem up around her waist, revealing her panty-less condition. Hungrily staring me in the eyes, she raises her arms high over her head, inviting me to continue removing her dress. Makes my cock so hard I could hammer a nail through the densest wood. Accepting her invitation, I pull my hands skyward, taking her dress with me, peeling it from her bare curves.

  I involuntarily groan.

  “Think you forgot somethin’ when you rushed out,” I remark, the line of my mouth cracking into a crooked smile.

  Her entire body blushes. Even her permanently erect nipples take on a rosier shade. Fuck me if that doesn’t make her hotter.

  “The dress was too tight for panties,” she confesses in a whispered voice, as if telling me a secret.

  “Sounds awful.” I caress the under curve of her breast with my knuckle, to the mouthwatering pink gumdrop reaching temptingly toward the ceiling. “Glad I could relieve you of it.”

  She sucks a sharp breath in between her teeth when I clamp the bud between the pads of my thumb and pointer finger.

  “Tell me what you want, Reagan,” I order gently.

  “I want to come.” She moans when I loosen my vise-like pinch on her. “And I want you to be the one who makes me.”

  Her hot breath, spiked with a hint of sweet liquor, rushes out in cock-twitching pants.

  An arm’s length away, I reach for the cocktail garnishes and pluck a Maraschino cherry from the container, bringing it to her mouth. I glide it across her lips, over the tip of her tongue, sneaking out to taste the juices threatening to drip down her chin.

  “Open your mouth,” I instruct, mesmerized by how fucking sexy she is.

  Opening it without pause, I wedge the bright fruit between her cherry-stained lips. Before she comes to her senses and pushes me away again, my mouth covers hers, breaching the wet gap between with my tongue, roughly declaring it mine. The cherry splits from the force of our kiss, the sugary syrup seeping down our chins. Her tongue sloppily tastes the sticky mess, her eyes shut. She’s completely immersed in us.

Want more? Click on the images below...

GAME OF PRETEND

“Are we gonna talk about it?”

“Let’s pretend what happened, didn’t,” I suggest.

“I’m down for a game of pretend.” He shrugs, still looking out at the brick garden.

“Good.” I release the breath I choked back when he mentioned our wet, naked encounter.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t want to take you right there in the bathroom.” He turns toward me, his arms crossed on the table, and leans in. “I’ll pretend I didn’t want to bend you over the sink, press your face into the mirror, and fuck you until you release all over me.”

And I’ll pretend I didn’t want you to.

“Greier.”

“Don’t worry, Rae.” He sits back in his chair again. “I know the deal.”

Black Magnolia

2.13.18

⚜ ♔ ⚜ MIDNIGHT SPECIAL ⚜ ♔ ⚜

“Maybe I should’ve gone with him.”

Her comment stuns me.

I’m disgusted and hurt she’d even consider going back to that scumbag. But I remind myself this isn’t Rae talking. Not my Rae. This is her father, her mother, years of brainwashing and training.

“Why would you say that?”

Her arms still folded around herself, she strolls over to the open terrace doors and stares out toward the alley. “We wouldn’t be here. You’d be safe, and I’d be…”

“His prisoner, Reagan,” I cut her off, finished entertaining to the drivel coming from her mouth. “You’d be his fucking prisoner. He doesn’t love you. You’re an object to him, something to possess. His daddy bought you for him, remember? And if you went back, that’s all you’d ever be—” I walk over to her from behind, wrapping myself around her, “when you’re so much more.” Her head flops back against my shoulder with a sigh. I set my mouth in her midnight hair. “I’d rather die than let him cage you.”

“Why are you hell-bent on saving me?” she questions with a sad playfulness and a tremor in her voice, as if she’s dreading the answer.

“It’s my blessing and my burden,” I reply as I had before, but this time, I’d sign my soul to the devil if it meant her safety.

⚜ ♔ ⚜ UNTIL DEATH ⚜ ♔ ⚜

“He’s dangerous, Rae. A monster. Wealthier than God. And darker than the devil. He isn’t gonna give you up. In his mind, you belong to him.”

   She peers into nothingness and whispers without emotion, “Until death do us part.”

    The words tear down my spine.

RUN AWAY FEBRUARY 13, 2018

BLACK MAGNOLIA COVER REVEAL

Run Away 2.13.18

HAPPY SPANKSGIVING (ADS EXCERPT)

Chapter Two

Spanksgiving

Present

I gasp out his name and topple onto the mattress, a sweaty, satisfied mess, clinging to the sheets while I come down from my sensational sexual high. Hunt’s my favorite vice, and I want to overindulge on him.

He climbs on top of me, shifting between my thighs, kissing me over my face and neck. With those piercing pools of emerald, he lifts his head to stare down into my heavy eyes, running his fingers through my sex-battered honey hair, and breathes a sigh of relief and contentment.

“I love watching you come undone, Mrs. Hunt. You’ve become so uninhibited. It’s sexy,” he growls in that low, smooth voice, and I nearly melt beneath him.

“I love the way you make me come undone, Mr. Hunt.”

I grip his tousled hair, drawing his face to mine, and nip at his plump bottom lip. He moans, closing his eyes at my delectable masticating grasp, his cock twitching between my thighs. He grinds himself into me and crashes his mouth onto mine. His teeth clamp onto my top lip, putting us in a biting, libido-igniting lip-lock. I wrap my legs about his waist and my arms about his neck, holding him to me.

Cutting through the delicious tension between us, an alarm on Hunt’s cell goes off, a reminder of the real world waiting to invade our happy little bubble.

My limbs slacken, heavily slumping onto the mattress.

“Playtime’s over, angel,” he comments, pushing himself onto his knees and climbing off the bed. “We have to be up at my parents’ place by noon.”

I lie in our empty king-sized bed, downshifting from fourth gear, and rest my eyes. I listen to heavy November rain beat on the glass wall and the muted footsteps of my husband moving about the room. It quickly dies away as I retreat into my mind, thinking about the past four fantastic months since our wedding.

Fortunately, the reception was the last time Dante made contact with us. Once it was confirmed I’d been drugged, Hunt and Banks were on full alert, always on guard to stay one-step ahead of him. Other than that, it’s been the best months of my life. He’s been a beyond wonderful husband, nurturing, attentive, without being overly so, and works so hard to do anything I desire. He’s been a dream.

I ask myself, at least once a day, how I got so lucky to have him.

Sure, we’ve had our share of disagreements…Okay; it’s more like nuclear warfare. He infuriates me to no end at times, but the making up is out of this fucking world.

“Hey, daydreamer,” Hunt’s seductive voice slices through my reveries like a knife. “What do you say you get your perky ass in the shower with me?”

The wolfish grin on his face promises some wet and wild fun. I smirk back at him and jump up on the bed, splendidly naked.

“Fuck,” he mutters, admiring me with prideful wonderment. “If those curves could kill, I’d be a fucking goner.”

I giggle and faintly blush.

He holds his sculpted arms out to me, and I leap into them, clinging to him like a tiny monkey to a massive tree.

“Take me away, Mr. Hunt.”

After a morning replete with steamy sex and loving worship, we finally head to his parents’ home in Napa, a stunning villa with ivy snaking up the earth-hued walls. It blends with the surrounding beauty of the grounds and rolling hillside.

We drive up in the Land Rover, the windshield wipers furiously swishing back and forth, sweeping rain off the glass as fast as it lands. The downpour is so dense, I can scarcely see more than ten feet in front of the car. This would terrify me if Hunt wasn’t driving. He navigates the wet roads and torrential weather with ease, as if it were a clear, sunny day.

I sink back into my chair and admire him, his large frame, his masculine yet dignified face, his squared jawline blanketed in stubble, his devastatingly green eyes. I note his fuckworthiness in his black pea coat, V-neck sweater, and dark tailored jeans.

Gotta love a man who takes pride in his appearance.

My eyes wander down his defined arms to his hands, gripped securely to the steering wheel, and stop on the platinum wedding band with the three small diamonds proudly decorating his most significant finger.

“What’s going through that head of yours?” he asks, taking my focus from his ring.

“I’m thinking I love being your wife,” I white lie, embarrassed to admit I was ogling him like some love-stricken schoolgirl.

“We better get those pants off quick,” I stare at him with a curious confusion, “before they catch fire.”

“Oh, jeez, you’re cheesy,” I giggle out and shake my head. “Do you really want to know what I was thinking?”

“I always want to know. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t, angel.”

“Fine.” I reach for the stereo and skip through the various artists. When I locate what I want, I hit play. The loud notes from a guitar screech out of the speakers, and an amused smirk creeps across his lips.

ZZ Top’s, ‘Sharp Dressed Man’.

He laughs and nods his head with a look on his face as if to say, ‘Touché’.

I smile to myself, very pleased with my little tease.

“You want to play, angel?” he inquires, hitting a button and changing the song. I chuckle when I realize it’s ‘Legs’, by the same band. We laugh and tease each other the rest of the way to the Montgomery Estate.

The instant our feet hit the top step of the wide veranda, Vivian opens the door and greets us warmly, “Hello, my darlings. Happy Thanksgiving.”

Her crystal blue eyes sparkle with delight and relief of our safe arrival. Her jet-black hair, pinned into an impeccable bun, makes her faultless fair skin resemble porcelain. She’s dressed to kill in wide-legged tan trousers, a silky cream blouse, and black heels.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Vivi,” I reply, smiling lovingly at her.

“It’s dreadful out here.” She scoots Damian and I into the palatial home and out of the bitter weather, shutting the enormous door behind us. “Let’s get you both something warm to drink.”

“No thank you, Mother. I’m fine,” Damian answers, shrugging off his rain-spotted coat.

“Nonsense.” She holds her perfectly manicured hand up, palm toward us. “I won’t have you getting sick…Now, make yourselves at home and then join everyone in the living room by the fire.”

She kisses the air and then promptly leaves to tend to one of the countless details she puts into parties and family get-togethers.

Hunt assists me with my jacket, taking them to the closet in the huge entryway.

“You look beautiful by the way,” he comments when he comes back out.

“Thanks, slick.”

I look down at my ensemble, an off the shoulder sweater, paired with dark skinny jeans and black calf boots. It hugs my curves rather snugly. However, everything fits me that way recently. Hunt, with his irresistible cooking and always wanting to feed me, successfully managed to pack on more than a few of those lost pounds from our breakup. There may be more of me than before I met him. I think he enjoys the way I jiggle when we fuck.

Trying to shake it off, I take a deep breath and smell the amazing food cooking in the kitchen. “Jeez, I’m starved. I hope we have something to snack on before dinner. I don’t think I can last until then.”

He smirks down at me, scanning my voluptuous body before taking me into his arms. “I can help you curb that appetite, Mrs. Hunt.”

I cock an intrigued brow at him. “Damian, do you like my new figure? You don’t think I’m…”

“So help me, Gabrielle. If you even think of uttering the F word, I will take you into my bedroom and spank that glorious ass until it’s on fire. Is that clear?” he asks with an unyielding look in his eyes. “Elle, you’re fucking stunning,” he states in a firm but tender voice. “Yes, I enjoy your exaggerated curves, but you, my loving wife, are not fat…Quite honestly, I’m shocked you would think that of yourself. Haven’t I shown you how incredible you are?”

“Yes, you have.” I lay my palm on his broad chest, rubbing it gently. “It was a silly question.”

“Excellent. Now, let’s get this show on the road,” he says with a sigh and clasps my hand in his, guiding us into the main room where our family has gathered around the blazing fireplace.

I spot my mother’s blonde hair first, shining in the golden light. Her bright hazel eyes find mine, and she rises, coming over to greet us. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Hello, Mom.” I smile and move in for a hug. “You look well.”

It’s been six months since my father’s passing, and she seems to be getting along. Though she’s had those days where she can’t even get out of bed, she seems to be coping beautifully.

I’ve even begun to make peace with him on some level. I realize he may not have been my father by blood, but he was my father through love and support and guidance. He was my rock, my pops. Even though I’ve made progress with Caleb, my biological father and family chauffeur, there’s a small piece of me missing without my dad.

“Ellie, are you alright?” Elizabeth asks me, rubbing my bicep tenderly.

“Yes,” I fib. “I’m great.”

“How are you doing, Liz?” Hunt asks, taking the attention off me. Sensing my sadness, he places his arm about my shoulder and holds me close as she goes on about her latest charities. His embrace is welcome, and I relax into my nook, tranquilized by his touch.

Once we’ve made our rounds and chatted for a while, we head into the large dining room, settling in to enjoy the button-busting meal. Hunt and I take our place on one side of the table with Keira, Aubrey, and my mother sitting across from us. Pierce and Vivian sit at the ends.

We dig in, conversing and passing platters to each other. Amongst the chaos of moving food and loud, cheerful voices, I notice Hunt’s sisters’ inquiring green eyes glued to me. With omniscient smirks spread across their faces, they watch me with prying fascination.

Then, smashing through the noise of the room, Keira bluntly asks, “Are you pregnant, Ellie?”

The loud clinking of silver on porcelain and chatter comes to a skidding halt and all wide eyes shift to me, including Hunt’s. I can only stare back at everyone, mortified.

I wish Maya or Jules were here to take some of this awkward attention off me. But they’re spending the holiday in the city. Maya is with Chase at his parents’ home, and Jules is introducing Liam to hers. It’s their first Thanksgiving without Nicholas, Jules’ twin brother and my abusive ex.

“Gabrielle,” Hunt murmurs, grabbing my focus, “are you?”

I glimpse over at him.

“Not that I’m aware of.” I notice everyone still looking at me with meddling eyes. “I’m not pregnant,” I insistently state.

I hear a symphony of disappointed groans as they deflate into their chairs.

They can’t possibly want me to be with child this early in our marriage. We’ve barely had time to adjust to married life, to spend time just the two of us. Hell, we haven’t even gone on a damn honeymoon yet.

“I think it’s time to change the subject,” Pierce suggests.

His aquamarine eyes meet mine, and he nods with silent understanding. I nod back and take in a relieved breath as he guides the conversation in another direction.

I admire him for a moment, noting how much he reminds me of my own father, Marshall, the dark brown hair, gentle eyes, and calm paternal manner.

“You should eat, Gabrielle,” Hunt says, pointing to my full plate with his fork. “You look a bit pale.”

I smile weakly and begin to eat, glancing back at him. He has a satisfied smirk on his gorgeous face, satisfied by my compliance. He leans into my ear and whispers in a husky, lustful voice, “That’s my girl.”

When the last morsel of food has been devoured and the last drop of wine has been drunk, the family goes into the living room to have coffee and dessert while Hunt and I take a walk on the back veranda, watching the sun set slowly behind the lush hillside. Like only it can after a hard rain, the smell of wet earth floats in the clean, sweet early evening air. We stand in silence until the sun gradually vanishes, taking all the light with it, becoming difficult to see him standing next to me. Only the slightest hint of light comes from the tall, narrow windows of the villa.

I love twilight, I think to myself, inhaling a relaxed breath.

From inside, I hear the familiar tune of Vivian’s favorite song, Make Someone Happy.

“May I have this dance?” Hunt’s voice says from the shadows. I can’t see him, but I feel him.

“Of course,” I answer, extending my hand out.

He gently takes it in his, firmly placing the other on my lower back. We begin to sway gently, nothing extraordinary.

“Gabrielle,” he whispers.

“Yes, Damian?”

“I couldn’t help notice how uncomfortable you were at dinner. Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I was just caught off guard by your sisters. Then again, when am I not? I think it runs in the family, surprising the hell out of people.”

I feel his smile in the dark.

“Yes, we do tend to do that.” The tone of his voice becomes somber. “You do want them, don’t you?”

“Who?”

“Children, of course.”

“I thought we discussed this in the beginning.”

“It never hurts to reevaluate a subject as important as this. People change their minds all the time.”

I really don’t like this topic. Not now at least. It feels like I’m being forced to make a decision here and now.

“Damian, now isn’t the time to talk about this. God forbid your sisters eavesdrop on us and blab to everyone else.”

“Fine, but we are discussing this when we get home.”

I roll my eyes and shake my head, knowing perfectly well he can’t see me.

“Yes, sir.”

After an awkwardly silent ride home, we finally make it back to The Artemis and head up to our bedroom, ready to finally unwind.

Hunt walks us into the bathroom, clutching my hand firmly, and presses the touchpad screen. The overhead lights turn on, but only to a gentle glow, and soft music plays from hidden speakers. It all lends to a tranquility.

The shower in the center of the room turns on, raining down from the ceiling. The steam builds quickly, clouding up the glass.

Hunt releases my hand and undresses, allowing me the pleasure of watching him reveal that wide, muscular back and dimpled ass. When he finishes, he turns around, slanting a brow at me.

“Why are you still dressed, Mrs. Hunt?” he inquires with a pantie-dropping grin.

I smirk back at him and lift up my arms like a child. He shakes his head and lets out a sigh. The amused look on his face gradually diminishes, replaced with a nefarious gaze. He steps into me and curls his fingers under the hem of my cream sweater, removing it over my head and tossing it aside. Next, he unbuttons my jeans and slides his hands over my hips just under the panties, taking those down with my pants. Lastly, he takes off my bra, ridding me of it with smooth, fast gestures, unhooking and flinging it carelessly.

“I can’t believe you’re all mine, forever, to have and hold,” He grabs me up, melding us together, “to love and cherish, to worship with everything I am.” He tilts his face into my neck, where my pulse rapidly thumps against his lips, and kisses along my jaw to my ear. “I worship you, Elle.”

“What if I don’t want you to worship me?” I reach up into his hair, brushing my fingers through the silky strands. “What if I want to be defiled?”

He moans quietly, eyes shut, taking my mouth with a slow, deep, rough kiss, breaking away just a little too soon.

“Come, angel. Let’s get you warmed up.”

“I’m feeling pretty hot already,” I retort with a breathy tone and a kinked smirk. He lifts me up and walks us into the shower, the hot water pouring down on us. It feels amazing, pilfering the last of the chill out of me.

He sets me down and grabs the shampoo, squirting the tropical scented liquid into his hand.

“Turn around,” he orders, and I do just that without pause.

His fingertips sink into my hair, massaging my scalp with an expert touch until I’m dough in his hands. The soothing water rinses away the suds as he cleans and pampers every inch of me. When he finishes with me, he starts on himself, and I offer him an extra hand. While he applies conditioner to his hair, I wash his back and fine ass.

“I think we should talk about today,” he states, turning back to me.

“Keira can be very blunt,” I reply with a shrug, “but she had her reasons for asking.”

“I wasn’t referring to her uncouth approach to the subject,” he corrects, “but the subject itself.”

He shuts off the water and steps out, handing me a towel off a hook just outside the shower door.

“Ah,” I mutter into the towel, patting the water off my face, “I see.”

“I know you aren’t ready now.” He sweeps some clumpy, wet hair out of my eyes. “However, I feel we should at least be open to talking about it.”

I exit the shower and wrap the towel around my shoulders. Hunt clasps his hands to my arms, rubbing them dry.

“It’s too early for us to bring children into our marriage.” He takes his towel and kneels down in front of me, continuing to wipe the beads of water off my legs. “We need time to settle into everything, have time for just us before we think about adding poopy diapers and all-night cry sessions.”

“I want time with just us as well.” He rises up and begins toweling himself. “As long as we are on the same page about what our future holds, I am happy as we are now.”

“I have to admit. Sloan’s situation with that scumbag Shane does alarm me a bit.” Recently, Sloan has been having issues with Shane. She feels as if she can’t rely on him to act like a father once she gives birth.

He clasps onto my biceps, stopping me before I can finish the depressing thought.

“I hope you know I could never do such a revolting thing to you, Gabrielle. I could never behave so callously toward you or our unborn child.”

He walks out of the bathroom and into the closet, coming back out dressed in pajama bottoms. Handing me a shirt, I put it on and follow him over to the bed.

“Oh, I know you never would. What you went through with Vanessa devastated you.” I cross my arms over my chest, holding myself. “I just don’t know if I’ll be a good mother. What if I can’t do it, and you end up despising me?”

He sits on the edge of the bed and reaches out for my hand, clasping it gently.

“Angel, I could never despise you. I would be fucking terrible if I treated you with anything less than the respect and care you deserve. Besides, it’s natural to be unsure of your ability to take care of a growing life. Everyone feels that way at times. But it’s the fact that you care so much that tells me you’ll be the best mother.” He yanks me down onto his lap, enfolding his arms about my waist. “You’re my everything, Elle.”

“I love you, Damian. I love that you accept me, scars and all.”

I lean into him, setting my cheek on his wide shoulder, and take a cleansing breath. He sets his large hand over the side of my face and kisses my forehead with the most delicate touch. I feel better now that my fears are out in the open.

Once I’m calm, he makes earth-erupting love to me until the early hours of morning. Beyond our bedroom window, city lights glitter like infinite flickering candle flames burning across the San Francisco skyline.

copyright © LENA BLACK