An Evil Tease

I am an asshole. I own it.

What I said was out of line. I own that, too.

She snatches her nightdress off the floor then shrugs it on, not even attempting to be sexy about it, a fact for which I’m grateful. “You think Dash is perfect. You think you love her.” She shoves her feet into those stupid assed slippers then plucks up her panties. “But you don’t. You don’t love anyone.” 

She charges up to me, going toe-to-toe, chest-to-chest, while she wags her finger, thong included, under my nose. Her panties reek of recently fucked pussy, and it’s a dickslap in the face. 

“You can’t,” she screams. “Bastards like your aren’t capable of love!” Her smile turns arctic, her final words like razor blades. “And even if you were, remember this. She doesn’t love you. She’ll never love you. You made goddamn sure of that, you stupid motherfucker.”

Prudence flings her hair behind her, pushes her shoulders back, and then prances out as if she’s just won the Triple Crown. And that’s when I lose my shit. 

I slam my fist into the mirror, not caring that I bought myself seven years of bad luck or that my knuckles are raw and bleeding. I don’t care about anyone or anything because Prudence is right. 

Dash doesn’t love me. 

Not anymore. 

She’ll never love me. 

Not again. 

I destroyed her once. I destroyed her twice. Then I destroyed her a third and a fourth time. But the final time? She destroyed me.

~See The Evil

Three Wise Men

Book 1

by Molly Grayson

Kinky Questions

Sebastian glared up at Thane, defiance written all over him. His icy black eyes burned with rebellion. Insolence carved every line on his face. Obstinance bled from his very pores. The smile he wore was cruel, contemptuous. His stance was challenging, and Thane had never wanted him more. 

“You bottom for no man,” Thane snapped.

Sebastian’s nostrils flared. His tight jaw ticked. “I bottomed for you,” he mocked.

The fire to fight rose in Thane like the sun in the East—slow, steady, impossible to stave off. The urge for battle charged through him, ripping through his veins. His blood, it boiled. His skin was ablaze. Only sheer determination and iron control kept him from taking Bast to the ground and showing him how far he was willing to go to win this war of wills.

“Yes, you did.” Thane dropped his head. He waited a heartbeat before placing his mouth at Sebastian’s ear. “But I’m no man,” he breathed.

Sebastian tensed. His chest heaved, hitting Thane’s. Breaths came to Bast hard. They came fast. The air, hot and angry, slapped Thane in the face. 

Thane relished every, single blow.

“Who are you then?”

~Mia

In Love, There Was You

The Doms of Kinky, KS

Teasetastic Tuesday: Cavemen & Kink

“You know I don’t touch a woman with another man’s cum on her.” Or in her. “Too messy.” 

The bullshit falls from my tongue with disturbing ease. I’ve delivered it so many times I almost believe myself. But a man who gets off on dirty, filthy, nasty sex doesn’t give a shit about mixing fluids because it’s “messy.” No, it goes deeper than that. 

There’s something primal in me that balks at the thought of touching a woman who’s been marked by her lover. Yes, I say, marked. You can call it what you like. Signed, branded, stamped, whatever. It’s all the same thing. It’s a sign of ownership. And I’m not a part of owning anyone. I’m the third or fourth. On occasion, I’m the fifth or even sixth. I’m the person who joins, not the person who belongs. I’m me. They’re them. We’re separate entities, who happen to come together.

Don’t you dare excuse that pun. Pure. Fucking. Gold.

Now if I ever take my own woman, which is about as likely as a penis pump working without a hose, I’ll always go bare. I’ll be the one filling her. I’ll be the man marking her. It’ll be my pleasure to sign, brand, and stamp her. Our third will be suiting up. But I don’t have to worry about that. I’ll never take the lead in a relationship. That’s on Hunt. The poor fuck.

~Reyes, Untitled

The Original Brothers

(of The Billionaire Brotherhood)

by Molly Grayson

“Because you were so worried about us, Sorenson.”

Thane came off the couch and was in Sebastian’s face. Their eyes locked as Thane’s palm landed against Sebastian’s neck. He wrapped his fingers around the sides and squeezed. “Don’t think for a second I didn’t do this for you,” he breathed. His mouth hovered above Sebastian’s. “Don’t believe for a moment I didn’t walk away because I didn’t care about what happened to you.” 

Thane’s grip tightened. 

Sebastian tried to swallow but couldn’t.

“My wife and you are everything,” he spat. “Every. Fucking. Thing.”

Thane’s hold strengthened.

Breathing was a challenge.

“I didn’t give up my life to save myself,” he said.

Sebastian’s heart battered his ribcage. Breathing went from a challenge to a burden. He couldn’t remember how to draw in air, couldn’t recall a way to push it out, and he couldn’t focus long enough to care. His lungs, they burned. They were desperate for oxygen. But his brain was adrift as Thane mindfucked him, as his body controlled him, as his chartreuse eyes revealed the things his words never could.

“Bast, I get your hurt. I get your angry. I am, too.” Thane released Sebastian so fast, so furious, his head spun. His legs weakened. He would have lost his balance, if Thane hadn’t been there to catch him. “Don’t forget. I. Am. Too. Goddamn it.”

~Sebastian, In Love, There Was You
(The Doms of Kinky, Kansas Book 2)
by Mia Ashlinn

Molly & Mia Come Together For Teasetastic Tuesday

I remember the first time I met Fear. 

I was five.

Then came Death.

I was nine.

After that was Abandonment.

I was eleven.

Then I met an angel.

I was twenty-two.

The funny thing, 

my angel was far more dangerous 

than the three previous combined.

Why?

Because she could do the one thing they didn’t.

She could break me.

And I could break her.

I wasn’t sure which of those scared me more.

~Reyes, Untitled story

The Original Billionaire Brothers
(of The Billionaire Brotherhood)

by Molly Grayson

“It’s him I don’t trust.”

Her words would cut Thane, and they should. 

Trust came easy to some. It came hard to others. But Delancey? She gave trust to no one, and her loyalty wasn’t offered. It was earned. 

“It’s Thane who doesn’t deserve my loyalty.”

Sebastian remained silent. Delancey was right. Thane’s deception had shattered her trust and demolished her loyalty. He’d done damage he might not be able to repair. Sebastian couldn’t find it in himself to care. 

Fuck me once, shame on you.

Fuck me twice, shame on me.

~In Love, There Was You

The Doms of Kinky, Kansas Book 2

by Mia Ashlinn

"The Duke and The Domina" Takeover Teasetastic Tuesday

Hello, my kink-a-licious friends. Today's tease is not my own. I stole it...dun, dun, dun...from the lovely Jenn LeBlanc. With her permission, of course. If you love it (and I have no doubt you will), Warrick and Lulu's story The Duke and The Domina is now available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Google, iTunes, and Kobo! 

XOXOXO,
~Mia

* * * *

Prologue

In the practical art of war, the best thing of all is to take the enemy’s country whole and intact, to shatter and destroy it is not so good. 

—Sun Tzu

The Art of War 

1883

The corset tightened, and Grayson let out his last breath of freedom, finally at ease. Corsets were popular with the men of Victorian society, but the reason he wore a corset was different from the rest. For them it was vanity, a softness of the waist, or a straighter posture. But for him? He had no need for help with posture or waistline. His structure was not at issue. 

Grayson needed the binding and the constriction, the pain of the tension and the relief when it released. 

Grayson breathed against the steel bones, letting them pinch as he watched the process in the cheval mirror. If he took a deep enough breath, if he held it long enough then shifted, he could bruise his skin where the boning crossed his ribs. 

He put his hands against the front of the corset and breathed again, waiting for as long as he could before exhaling, then he used his muscles to prolong that feeling. 

The pinch. The burn. The release. 

Then he nodded to his valet in the mirror’s reflection, and his shirt was brought to him. Then his waistcoat. 

Grayson wasn’t looking forward to today. It took everything in him to not run, leave Britain, and return to India—his home. It’s where he felt safest. Here in England, a country he’d wished to never see again, he was constantly on edge. Terrified he would be discovered. There was too much scrutiny here, particularly for a man like him. 

The fact that chance or fate or whatever machination would take his father and brothers without warning, without so much as an inkling, was beyond cruel. That today he was to meet the woman his father had contracted for his oldest brother, the woman he would marry, the woman who was now to become his duchess, was beyond him. Grayson couldn’t fathom marriage to anyone, but to a society miss? The daughter of a duke? A highborn lady who would expect certain things from him? This was truly unfathomable. 

This woman would be in his life and in his house. It would be impossible to escape her. The fact that he was an honorable man never rankled more than it did now. Honor was all he truly had, when the rest of him was…what he was, and he would be forced to hide who he was even in his own house, where he slept. 

To live out his greatest fear in life, to be a man of society, a husband, a father, a proper gentleman—he choked suddenly and leaned over, his breath stolen from him. He rested his hands on his knees at the thought, attempting to catch his breath as the corset bit into his lower abdomen. 

“Too tight, Your Grace?” Rakshan asked as he held Grayson’s jacket. 

Grayson lifted one hand and waved him off, unable to voice an answer. Breathing in through his nose, he stood tall again then pushed his arms back behind him. Rakshan slid his coat up his arms then yanked the tail, straightened the shoulders, walked in front of him, and buttoned him up. Then he pulled the brush from the dressing table and slid it across his chest, shoulders, and back. 

Grayson closed his eyes and settled into the calm of the movements on him. He would need to take that calm with him today to meet the woman he would marry. The future Duchess of Warrick, his dead brother’s fiancée, the woman who would prevent him from ever being himself. 

He may not miss his family for the reasons people believed he should, but miss them he did, because they were all that had prevented him from becoming who he now had to be. 

The Warrick. 

2015

Lulu snapped the single tail just to the left of Oliver’s shoulder, letting the sonic boom send shudders through his muscles. She loved the dance of muscle as it rippled across the back of a client, the skin undulating like a soft wave carried to shore. She snapped it again quickly, this time on the right before the first ripple had a chance to make its way fully across the broad expanse of his back—and Oliver did have the loveliest back. 

With near-perfect symmetry and structure, he was simply beautiful with his arms stretched out to the bedposts above his head. The canvas of his physique, almost flawlessly balanced, could not have been more suited to her art.

He pulled against the bindings on his wrists, his muscles tightening in the center and stiffening his spine. The tension straightened his back as the lats on both sides flexed. The action made his back even bigger and more impressive, exactly what she needed him to do, exactly as she had instructed, throughout his training. 

Lulu waited for him to steady, then she struck him in earnest. First on the left just below his scapula, then on the right without pause. 

Tonight she would give him the wings they’d worked so hard for. 

She picked up the second bullwhip and tested the air with both bullwhips in tandem. This was her special trick and hers alone, and her clients paid thousands for the honor of it. 

She followed the pattern of his muscles down his lats, not letting him breathe between the strikes because the tension played out in his back. The feathers of his wings, made by the welts of the whips, needed to follow his natural musculature in order to look perfect. It was a difficult and practiced dance. Each strike had to be exact, because she wasn’t to draw blood, yet, and it was incredibly easy to draw blood with a single tail. Much too easy. 

For her part, the muscle control required of her had taken years to perfect, the ability to strike in tandem with an exacting weight and placement was nearly impossible. She practiced daily and worked her shoulders and back twice weekly to train out all signs of dominance on her left side. She worked harder than anyone else had ever considered doing. That’s why the clients paid, and they got exactly what they paid for.

Lulu painted his lats with the red feathers, different weights and lengths of strikes making different patterns until he looked as though his back would physically give birth to the wings she put there. 

She set the bullwhips aside and picked up the Wartenberg wheel to add more subtle texture to the feathers. Then the evil stick for the center of the wings, for additional definition. She used multiple tools to complete her work, each leaving a different pattern. 

She didn’t use the bullwhip where the bone was close to the surface, because the chance of drawing blood was much too high. Instead, she used the floggers to paint broad strokes, then the wheel and the stick to define. The final effect was well-defined crests with fluffier-looking feathers down to the tips, but it was the last feather that sold the piece. 

She picked up her whips again for the final strikes, the most painful of all. They would hit the soft hollows below his ribs, carefully avoiding his kidneys, and painting the final, long feathers that would go from his sides to just on either side of his spine. The feathers would bracket those beautiful dimples in a searing pain he would remember for the rest of his days. These would bleed, but only slightly, and only because he’d asked for them to. 

He yelled into it, a deep, throaty growl. They always did, if not during the process at least during the last strike. None of her subs could contain themselves through that final strike—blood or no.

Lulu dropped the bullwhips and inspected his back. The small cuts at his lower back bled two small rills of blood that slid easily into the dimples at his spine, pooling there. “Don’t move,” she whispered. 

She walked to him and leaned across his back, careful to avoid streaking the blood while brushing his newly formed wings with her corseted breasts, running her fingers down his sides, at the very edges of his feather welts. 

“Don’t move, don’t breathe, we’re almost there,” she whispered over his shoulder into his ear. Her breath sent goose bumps across his skin, his welts, causing shudders of pain to rack his body once again. She loved the sound that came from the depth of his rib cage. She wrapped her hands around his waist, skimming her thumbs just at the edges of the last welts to the center of his spine. 

“Thank you, Domina,” he breathed, his voice tense and hard but gracious, and she was brought to life in that. She hit a switch on the wall, then walked to her camera. The lighting was set, the stage created. All Lulu had to do was check the focus and press the shutter, and they would both have a permanent reminder of why they were here. 

She stared into the ground glass at the upside-down reversed image to check the framing. “Don’t move, my darling,” she said as she made the final adjustments to the focus. This was one of her best yet, and she had the beautiful man before her to thank for it. 

She grinned and gave a little booty shake at her excitement, but when she stepped to the side to take up the shutter release, her heel caught on the tripod and her ankle rolled. Her hand flew out to grab anything to help steady herself, catching the leg of the tripod. As the camera tipped she went down hard, hitting her head on the floor, the camera crashing down with her.

The entire thing landed just in front of her as though she were composing an image, their legs tangled like lovers. She could see the back of the camera, the image out of focus, the tilted room projected on the shattered glass, the wings she’d only just created attempting to take flight as Oliver fought against his cuffs. 

She blinked, struggling to keep her eyes open, focusing intently on the back of her camera one more time to try to keep herself from passing out. As she felt the warmth of blood pooling beneath her skull. she heard him yell her name, but she could do nothing but close her eyes and dream of wings.

* * * *

You can find out more about The Duke and The Domina at Goodreads. And if you'd like to get to know Jenn LeBlanc better, she can be found at www.jennleblanc.com as well as on Goodreads, Facebook, and Twitter.

Teastastic Tuesday: Kinky Questions & Kinkier Answers

Jealousy slithered beneath Sebastian’s skin like a snake. Fangs bared and venom dripping, the dark monster searched for a place to strike, and it found one—in his gut. “Did you fuck them?”

Deke’s office fell deathly quiet. The air went eerily still. Thane didn’t speak. So Sebastian asked again, “Did. You. Fuck. Them?”

Thane exhaled. “Would it matter, if I did?”

Possessiveness was a hemp rope. It tied around Sebastian’s chest, pulling tighter and tighter, squeezing harder and harder, until breathing became not only difficult but also damn near impossible. “What do you think?”  

“I think it would bug the shit out of you.” Thane rose from his chair. “Not that you’d ever admit it.” He prowled toward Sebastian. The urge to run crawled up Sebastian’s legs. He forced the impulse down. “But the question is, what would bother you more—me fucking Baylor? Or me fucking Derrick and Tanner?”

Rage ran white hot down Sebastian’s spine. Thane had better not have stuck any part of him inside of any part of them. If he had, Sebastian would have his dick on a stick, and he’d roast it over the biggest goddamn fire he could find. 

~In Love, There Was You (The Doms of Kinky, Kansas 2)

*For another Tease, check out Molly Grayson's at Southern Girls Do It Sexier.*

Molly's Teasetastic Tuesday Takeover (Part Two)

Hey everyone! Mia gave herself a much needed day off. So she asked me to takeover her blog for her—again.

Sigh. The things we do for those we love... 

Aw, I'm just messing around. I am super excited to be here. I mean, come on, it's Teasetastic Tuesday. Who doesn't love to be a tease once in a while? Or in my case, more than once in a while.

Bow chicka wow wow. 

Like last time, my unedited tease comes from Torn Between Twins (Tales of the Taken Bridesmaids Book 1). I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.

Kisses,
Molly

* * * *

“Knock, knock?”

No answer. 

I glance around. The large, open space is desolate. Maya isn’t slaving away in the kitchen while Emery sits at the bar stuffing her face with Cheetos. There are no overgrown apes crowded around the dining room table and the living room couch looks lonely. No music blares from the Bose sound system. No tv plays ESPN in the background. It is freaky quiet.

“Anybody home?”

I laugh. Somebody has to be home.

“I know y’all are here somewhere. It’s like a Walmart parking lot party out front and there are no teenagers in sight.”

Still, no response. Just crickets.

I huff before hauling myself to the stairs and trucking it up to what is affectionately known as the Fuller Floor. It’s as empty as a pint of Ben and Jerry’s during PMS when I get there. “What the fuck is going on?” Turning, I trot back the way I came. “I’m talking to myself. That’sa what’s going on.” 

I head down the stairs. I’m halfway to the bottom when I notice—“Logan!” In my surprise, my foot misses the last couple of steps. I lurch and stumble. Logan rushes forward. He snags me before I make a total ass of my klutzy self. 

“Aw, you fell for me,” Logan jokes. His cheese factor catches me off guard again. I half giggle, half snort, which sends Logan into a fit of laughter. “That was pretty lame. Wasn’t it?” he asks.

“You have no idea, Lo.” 

The intrusion of Derek’s voice is the bitchslap to end all bitchslaps. Lost for words, I whip my head toward Derek. He grins. “Hi, baby.”

My gaze leaves Derek and darts to his twin. “Hey.” Logan winks. “Miss me, Riles?”

Déjà vu takes me away faster than a bottle of Calgon and a fifth of Jack. Every dream I’ve had in the past four days ended with “Miss me, Riles?” 

I want to sink to the floor and scream, “Yes! Yes! Yes!” I don’t. Instead, I extricate myself from Logan and back away…from both of them.

Teasetastic Tuesday: A Long, Cold, Kinky Blizzard

Looking at Sebastian was like being locked out of her house during a blizzard—cold, bleak, and lonely. His eyes were shrouds of darkness, his face as lifeless as a corpse. No spark, no emotion, just…dead. 

“Put me down.”

Wyatt hesitated.

“Now.” Delancey had never spoken to Wyatt quite like she did at that moment, which is probably why he sighed and set her on her feet. 

“You have thirty seconds,” he said. “Then I’m getting you out of here—whether you, Thane, or Sebastian like it or not. You are my priority. No one else.”

Delancey would have gagged but she’d already turned away. “Bastian?”

Sebastian bore a hole through her. It was as if he saw her but didn’t see her. “What?” His voice was sharp as a dagger but cut like a knife. It sliced through her middle, clean and swift.

“I’m going to go with Wyatt.” For your sake, not mine. Delancey half hoped Sebastian would ask her to stay. A part of her bled when he didn't. “I need to know you’re going to be okay.”

Thane cursed loud enough to be heard, but it was Sebastian’s relapse into silence that deafened her. 

“Bastian?”

Sebastian’s face remained utterly devoid of life. “I’ll be better when you’re gone.”

Where Delancey's stomach had been slit before, it was now a jagged wound. The blood her heart had wept escalated to a river of crimson tears.

~In Love, There Was You (The Doms of Kinky, Kansas 2)

Please Be Gentle...This tease is unedited.

Teasetastic Tuesday Takeover

Hello 69ers! I'm Molly, and I might have killed Mia. A girl has to do what a girl has to do—when she wants to takeover Teasetastic Tuesday. Right? 

Wrong. I didn't kill Mia. Seriously. I'm a lover, not a fighter. And Mia is easy...to bribe. So she's off somewhere eating Ben & Jerry's while I do my thing on her blog.

Now, you may be scratching your head (or other things) and wondering, Who the heck is Molly Grayson? Well, the simplest answer is: I'm a writer of smut. 

Before anyone gets their panties in a wad, I mean no offense by using the word smut. In fact, smut is a term of endearment for me. Strange, I know. But it reminds me of a person I loved and lost. Growing up, my aunt and I bonded over our love of reading. We started out with kiddy stuff like the Little Golden Books and as I aged, we shifted to more "grown up" things like Double Standards by Judith McNaught. My mother, who wasn't much of a reader, used to tease us incessantly about our smut. Now, my beloved aunt is gone, and my mother still teases me. So when I say I write smut or I read smut, it truly means something to me.

Alas, I am getting off topic, which I often do. And I apologize in advance for that.

Again, I am a writer of smut. I currently have no published books. But I am working on a trilogy entitled: Tales of the Taken Bridesmaids. The first story, Torn Between Twins, is not quite finished. Though, it is not too far off. That's why I am here—to share an unedited "tease" of my work-in-progress. I hope y'all don't mind but as Mia would say, "Someone's cherry is getting popped tonight!"

Kisses,

~Molly Grayson

I'm a good southern girl. I drink sweet tea, bake pecan pie, fry batches of chicken, put butter in everything, and eat gravy on my biscuits. I say things like "Bless your heart," "God love you," "Well, pardon my french," and "Y'all ain't right." My mama still scares the daylights out of me and my manners are impeccable. I smile and wave to my neighbors, and I catch lightning bugs in mason jars. I love like crazy, kill people with kindness, and count my blessing. And on occasion, I do shop with a buggy.

But as good as I am good, I am bad. I write saucy, sultry, smutty stories with sassy ladies and men who share. My mind is dirty. My mouth is sinful. And everyone who knows me say they wouldn't have me any other way.

Email: mollygraysonauthor@gmail.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/molly.grayson.90

Twitter Handle: @MollyEGrayson

Twitter Link: https://twitter.com/MollyEGrayson

Blog (Will Launch Soon): http://www.southerngirlsdoitsexier.blogspot.com

* * * * 

I sigh as I lounge on the bench seat at the back of Derek Fuller’s boat. My head reclined, arms behind my neck and legs straight out in front of me, I stare up at the cloudless sky. The mid-day sun is hot on my face and every other inch of skin my black bathing suit doesn’t cover. Still, I feel more relaxed, more alive, more everything than I ever have in my life.

A second sigh, this one more content than the last, slips past my lips as my head lifts. I stretch languorously, my body moving and extending like a woman whose just been fucked within an inch of her life. Only I haven’t been fucked all damned day. Derek is—and has been—too busy navigating his Four Winns bowrider across the muddy waters of Watts Bar Lake to give my body the attention it craves. 

And boy, does it crave. 

Not to worry, though. Derek will get on the stick soon. The man just can’t keep his hands, feet, or any other part of his body off me for long. And once anything of his touches anything of mine, both of us go off faster than a bundle of firecrackers to an open flame. Until then, I’ll have to be patient—which I rarely, if ever, am—and simply enjoy our time together. 

Not that spending time with Derek is a hardship, especially on days like this. It’s all sunshine and sweet, sweet summertime in East Tennessee. Sure, it’s August. So it’s hotter than blue blazes. But the humidity reminds me of dirt and sweat and gritty, filthy sex. And let’s all face it, that’s exactly how I like it…with Derek.

Speaking of Derek, my gaze goes to him like a moth drawn to a porch light. The handsome devil is sitting in the captain’s chair, one large hand resting on the throttle while the other is curling around the wheel. Titanium eyes, alive and carefree, are looking somewhere off in the distance as beautiful brown hair blows casually in the breeze. 

I ogle him openly, shamelessly. He seems to sense my attention and shoots a glance my way. The smile he blesses me with would have charmed the pants right off me, if I’d actually been wearing them. 

“Time to drop anchor,” he says.

I think I mumble, “Okay.” Though, I’m not positive because his big, buff chest is delectably bare, and the sight is frying my brain faster than the okra my mama—may she rest in peace—scorched at her last Sunday Dinner.

“Stupid naked chests,” I mutter.

 Derek grins as he cuts the engine. “What was that, baby?”

My eyes slide away. I’m not touching that question with a ten foot pole. “Nothing.”

Nervously, I reach for sunblock. While I squirt the lotion in my hand, lather it between my palms, and coat my skin, Derek works with the anchor. By the time I’m done, my body glistens and he’s casting the anchor off the side of the boat. “There,” he says. Then he turns…to me. 

The wicked glint in his eyes has my breath catching, my hands sweating. Holy crap on a cheese cracker. That look should be illegal.“Get. Naked. Riley.” His demand is soft but deadly serious. I love the way the command sounds on his lips, all gruff and gravelly, and I find myself fascinated by how my name leaves his mouth with the reverence of a prayer. 

That voice, those words, his eyes, and the look—fuck me naked and steal my clothes, the look. It’s too much hotness all at once and a fire begins to burn inside me. The blaze is born in my veins. It bubbles my blood. But blood turns to lava and lava streaks through veins until all I know, all I feel, is the inferno that used to be my body.

Dear God in Heaven or Satan in Hell, does this man have a clue what he’s doing to me?

One glance, that’s all it takes to answer my question. Derek is not only aware of what he’s doing but he’s also relishing every second of my torment. It’s in the smug smile he doesn’t conceal and the way his stunning body strains toward mine.

“I…” My words dry in my throat. All the moisture in my body goes to my pussy and pools there. I shy away from the slickness and shift to evade the ache growing in my womb.

Derek’s eyes smolder as they drop to my chest. His stare penetrates my one piece, going straight through the bathing suit as though I’m wearing nothing at all. My nipples feel exposed. They tingle. They tighten. They need touched, need kissed. They need him. 

Derek’s intent gaze slides lower, gliding over me as intimately as a caress. I shiver. He continues his descent, and I squirm. When he reaches my lap, he grins that charmingly boyish grin I adore, and my heart clenches. “See, baby. You need to lose the suit. You’re getting it all wet.”

As though it’ll hide my response from him, I snap my legs closed and squeeze my thighs together. This seems to amuse Derek, who chuckles. And again, I gulp. Frantic, I glance around, searching for a nearby boat, praying one isn’t there.

“No one can see us, Ry.” Derek strides toward me. I watch him, rapt with desire. His swim trunks ride deliciously low, drawing attention to the defined muscles of his hips, and I hope against hope that the damned things will fall off already. “I wouldn’t want anyone to see what’s mine. And Camden Riley Evans, you. Are. Mine.”

My heart flies fast and furious at Derek’s fierce announcement, for I know I am his. Truly.

“I wouldn’t do that to you either. I know how you feel about spectators.”

I exhale. With relief or regret, I don’t know, and I don’t care. All I know, all I care about, is this man. I want him. I want to please him, to touch him, to kiss him, to love him. And yes, by God, I want to fuck him.

“Now, lose the suit. And don’t make me tell you again.”

Breathe. I have to breathe.

Unsteadily, I rise. With one last check for voyeurs, I offer him a hesitant smile then lift my arms. I reach behind my neck and loosen the ties holding my bathing suit in place.“Like this?” I ask as I release both ties at the same time, letting them fall forward and dangle down the front of my body.

Derek licks his lips and shakes his head. “More.”

A throaty chuckle comes from some unknown place inside of me. “How about this?” I go for the bustline, snaking two fingers beneath it. “Is this better?”

No answer. Just piercing gray eyes worshipping me, worshipping my body.

I slither my swimsuit down until I’m bare from the waist up. “Or this?”

Another lick of Derek’s lips. “More.”

I exhale in a rush, pushing out all my nerves with the air. Then with my pulse pounding, I shimmy the material down my hips until its a hairbreadth from fully exposing my pussy. “Now?”

Derek’s eyes flare. His body tautens. His tension is palpable, so visible I feel as though I can reach out and touch it. “Riley…” The warning in his tone hits home. I take it to heart and shove my suit to the ground then step out of it.

“Good girl,” he croons. His approval is as clear as glass, and it wraps around me tighter than a lock. Proudly, I smile.

“Come here,” he orders then softens his command by confessing, “I want to hold you.”

What kind of girl would I be to turn him down?

Panting, I prowl toward Derek, infusing each footstep with a sensuality only he and one other arouses within me. As I move, my hips sway. My breasts jiggle. Yet I don’t feel the least bit self-conscious. His adoring eyes are too open, too honest, too damned scorching for me to doubt his want of me or my less than perfect physique. In fact, his desire is so blatant, so deep and intense, that I can’t deny it. And my courage is bolstered.

I flash Derek a suggestive smile. Then I lift one hand and slowly slither the ponytail holder out of my hair. The rubber band drops to the boat’s floor, already forgotten, and I shake my head seductively. Waist-length, wild as the wind tresses swing free. They flow around me in a whirlwind of honey brown locks.

Derek groans. He reaches for me and grabs me by the waist. Then he hauls me flush against him. As our bodies collide, his steely shaft confined in swim trunks meets my pussy, and a moan whispers across my lips. After that, breathing is a battle because his killer abs and my fleshy torso are packed too tight. His rock hard pecs and my heavy breasts are crushed too close. Even his stiff nipples are at war with my tingling ones and our legs are a turbulent tangle of limbs. 

“Derek,” I sigh as his hands lower to my hips and anchor themselves to my skin. His hold is impenetrable, his touch masterful, and I never want it to stop. He has me. All of me. 

Derek drops his head forward. His nose finds a home in the curve of my neck. I hear him mumble something unintelligible, and I have to know what he’s saying, what he’s thinking but most of all, what he’s feeling. 

“Hmm?” I glide my hands up his arms, slow and deliberate, my touch light and teasing. When I reach his shoulders, I pass them up and keep going until I wrap my arms around his thick, corded neck. “What’d you say?”

Derek doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he nuzzles my neck, his breath hot and so very, very humid. I moan again, this time louder and more wantonly. My hips start to move. Of their own volition, they pump and grind my pussy against the bulge in his trunks.

Derek chuckles. His husky laugh vibrates through my flesh. He tightens his grip, hindering my movements but not stopping them altogether. “Like that, do you?”

“Mmmm.” He has no idea.

“How about this?” He gifts my skin with the smallest, sweetest, most unsatisfying kiss of its life.

“More,” I beg as my lower body continues its fight to gain purchase between his crotch and mine. “Please,” I add.

“I don’t know…”

“I know.” God Almighty, I know.

I cock my head to the side, granting him better access to my neck. I pray he takes the hint. He doesn’t. He smiles. I feel it, an entity on my overheated skin. “My, my, you’re getting awfully demanding, Ry.”

“Demanding? You haven’t seen demanding. Yet.” 

I go up on my tiptoes and press my lips to his. Derek doesn’t give me the upper hand. He instantly takes over. His lips, so soft, pry mine open. His tongue, so skilled, delves between them. And he sweeps into my mouth, all dominance and possession, his kiss claiming me as surely as if he’s branded a stamp of ownership onto my very soul. 

I shiver. From what, I am not sure. It could be the way he is kissing me—as though I’m the beginning and the end—or it could be the animalistic sounds erupting from his chest. It could even be his hands leaving my hips and landing possessively on my bottom. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters because he is cupping one cheek and then swatting the other.

“Eep!”

His mouth swallows my surprise. Then for the second time, he brings down his disturbingly—yet somehow delightfully—adept hand on the curve of my ass. This smack is swift and substantial, so much so that it cracks against my skin. And again, he swats my bottom. This time though, his fingers are further apart, the tips closer to the crevice.

Suddenly unsure, I attempt to wriggle away. But Derek doesn’t have that. His lips firm. His kiss deepens. His hold strengthens. He doesn’t give me an inch. There’s no stopping him, no saving me. He spreads my ass cheeks apart and opens me wide. I gasp into his mouth as a small gust of wind blows across my back entrance. A flush steals across my face. I freeze.

I’ve never….

I don’t want…

Wait. 

Do I?

Oh fucking shit. I do.

Instantly, I stop moving and melt into Derek as easily as sugar into a pitcher of fresh brewed tea. I dig my fingers into his solid shoulders, using my hold to keep myself upright. He groans and breaks our kiss. Staring down into my eyes, he murmurs in his smoother than Jack Daniel’s Number 7 voice, “Riley, I’m going to take that hole. I’m going to fuck it. Hard and fast. And you’re going to love it.”

My breath stalls. I have no doubt he’s right. He will fuck my ass. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon. And I will love it. Why? Because I love him.

Derek’s fingers drift inward. “You’re going to scream my name…over and over…and over again.” He punctuates each of his promises with a peck to my lips.

Hypnotized, I nod, saying nothing.

“When I’m done with you, you won’t talk for a week.”

Barely able to breathe, I’m incapable of speech. I feel disconnected but somehow manage to shake my head.

“You might not sit for a while, either. But it’ll be worth it.”

“Very worth it,” I croak as Derek’s fingers get closer. So much closer. C’mon. Almost there. And then, out of nowhere, Derek’s hands stop. Another set joins them on my body. Another pair of lips find my skin. Surprise ripples through me. 

Gasping, I whip my head around. There, standing behind me, is Logan Fuller. Derek’s mirror-image is grinning, his smile so sinister I have the urge to drop to my knees and pray for his fallen soul. “Miss me, Riles?” he asks, and I realize in that second, I did.