by Bella King
“Maybe doesn’t make me cum.”
“Yeah, but I do,” he replies, grabbing me by the waist and pulling me into a kiss.
Fire lights up in my soul, the very fire that drove me to the love I feel for Rey now. I’ve already admitted this to him, and he has to me. For him, this is the first time he’s ever truly trusted a woman. For me, it’s the only time I’ve ever felt loved.
I taste the sweetness of Rey’s lips on mine, and I know that whatever happens going forward, it’s going to happen to both of us, together. Good or bad, I’m in this with him, and he finally understands that.
I break from Rey’s kiss, smiling up at the source of my warmth and happiness. “You’re a lot sweeter than you try to act,” I say.
“Only for you,” he replies.
“I wonder what else you’ll do for me,” I say, hinting at tonight’s planned activities again.
“You’ll just have to wait and see…”
The End.
Preview of The Captive Contract
Robyn
The cheap cotton sheets stick to my body as I roll out of bed, attempting to drag me back into my nightmares as I try to escape to the bathroom. I know well enough that I can’t get away, even if my legs drag me away from sleep.
The nightmares have followed me into my waking hours, a once irrational fear turned into reality. At this point, the torment of sleep is better than what faces me on a daily basis. That’s why I gulp down thick cherry cold medicine every night despite having recovered from a cold three weeks ago.
I know better than to abuse over the counter drugs to fall asleep. The problem is, I don’t care anymore. The most effective coping mechanisms are the ones that bring you closer to death because when you flirt with death, you peer over the edge of life and see the end of suffering.
But my suffering has only just begun. That’s what makes waking up every day so difficult. I’m caught between two nightmares, and the one that returns when the sun comes up is far worse than the ones I experience in bed. At least my dreams end.
At least they aren’t real.
The bathroom light flickers on with sickening slowness, stuttering and stammering like my brain did at the hospital. I’ve relived that moment a thousand times, and somehow, it’s not even the saddest thing about all this.
I should feel worse about what happened to Michael, but any guilt over my mistakes has been washed away by the new demons that haunt me. I have more pressing matters, ones that follow me around like stalkers, leering and laughing at my helplessness.
I sit on the toilet and gaze out through the open door to the bedroom. Red spills over the bedside table from a clock displaying the time. I can’t see what it says, but I already know that it’s too early in the morning to be awake by the lack of sunlight peeking through the curtains.
Unfortunately, I won’t be able to go back to sleep. I don’t feel tired.
I would’ve killed for this kind of insomnia when I was completing my degree. Eight years of thankless work and ramen noodles requires a whole hell of a lot of caffeine to keep you up. My insomnia hadn’t kicked in at that point.
Near the end of the eight years, caffeine wasn’t enough. Like many of my peers, I switched to stronger stimulants. I can’t even look at those orange and white pills anymore without feeling sick to my stomach. There’s more than one reason for that.
I want to blame the pills for what happened, but I know that it was my fault. Everything was my fault, and now I’m trapped.
I stand up from the toilet, flushing it before turning to the shower. My bathroom is like a broom closet, too small to move around in, and smelling of mildew. The shower is barely large enough for an adult. I doubt someone much larger than me would be able to fit.
But that’s okay. I don’t share this apartment with anyone else, and I doubt I ever will. The thought of dating someone while I’m in such a disastrous situation is laughable.
I can picture it now.
“So, let’s talk about finances. How do you do your budget?” my date would ask.
“Oh me? I’m half a million dollars in debt, jobless, and living off what little remaining credit I have left. My budget is survival,” I would respond, promptly cutting off any hope of ever going on a date with him again.
It’s funny. Most people have this idea of going to medical school, like they can work their ass off for years, and then they’ll be rolling in money when they get out. For most people, that is the case, but I stumbled out of school, crashed, and burned without even making the first payment on my student loans.
I’m not swimming in money.
I’m drowning in debt.
I turn the knob in the shower, inhaling sharply at the sudden rush of cold water. In a weird way, I enjoy it. It makes me feel something other than sadness and anxiety. It’s the adrenaline rush that I use to force myself to take action because, despite how dire my situation is, I still have the faintest glimmer of hope in the back of my mind that I can fix this mess.
I may be foolish to hold onto something so small and dim, but I do. If I let it slip, then who’s to say what will happen to me.
Maybe I’ll just die.
Eventually, the cold water turns warm, and I’m able to relax under it. I wash the sweat from my skin, rubbing it away with the thin sliver that’s left of my dollar-store soap. I should buy something better, but I don’t really care about myself enough to waste the money on it.
I stay under the hot stream until it turns back to cold, my signal to get started with the day. I know it’s no later than four in the morning, but I might as well start my job search now. Maybe tonight, I’ll be so exhausted that I’ll be able to sleep without the taste of cherry medicine.
I walk out of the shower without a towel, letting the air dry my body as I make my bed. Some of my routine is still there, engrained from my happier days. I’ve seen how depressed people fall out of sync with their routines. If I keep mine, then maybe I can continue lying to myself that I’m okay.
I know that I’m not, but I’ll keep up the façade for as long as possible.
The phone on my desk buzzes – another message from a debt collector. I’m late on all of my payments, not just the student loans, but the best thing I can do is ignore the calls until I find another job. It’s too bad that I’ll never be able to work in a hospital again, though. I’ll probably never fully pay off my debt.
I brush the thought out of my mind and head to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. It’s another habit, unnecessary for my insomniac lifestyle, but one that I maintain to keep normalcy in my life. I don’t need the coffee; I need the routine.
My laptop is still on the living room table, plugged into the wall because the battery is long past dead. The second I unplug it, the screen will go black, so I can’t move it anywhere. I just sit on the couch all day, searching for jobs that might allow me to start living normally again.
It’s a false hope.
While the coffee brews, I sink down into the yellowing couch cushions, letting out a sigh as I open the laptop to start my work. I’m certain that I’m the first one to see new job listings, so that gives me the upper hand if someone posts something good.
So far, nobody has, but that doesn’t mean it won’t happen. I haven’t been looking for long enough to give up hope, but I’m close.
The website I use is full of the same old posts from last night, but that makes sense seeing as it’s only been a few hours since I last checked it. The new listing probably won’t come in for a few hours.
I refresh the page.
Nothing.
I get up and go back to my bedroom while the smell of coffee replaces the slight mildew scent that my apartment suffers from. I can’t figure out where it’s coming from, but it’s one more reason to make coffee in the morning.
I push my blue hospital scrubs to the side in my closet and grab a haphazardly folded shirt and pants from the back. I still fold my clothes, but barely, and I certainly don’t iron the
m. I don’t even own a clothing iron.
Coming back out into the kitchen, I grab the same white coffee mug I’ve been using since I was in school and pour the ink-black coffee from the pot into it, filling it to the brim. Caffeine releases dopamine in the brain, but I fear I may be all out. The coffee does little to nothing for me these days.
I bring the scalding cup to the living room, sloshing some over the side and dropping brown spots onto the carpet. I don’t care enough to clean them up. The carpet was spotty when I moved in, anyway.
I instinctually refresh the job listings page as I sit down on the couch, anticipating nothing, but I’m pleasantly surprised by a new listing. It was posted just five seconds ago, according to the preview.
I put my coffee on the table, far enough away from my laptop to reduce the risk of frying the motherboard in case of a spill, and I move the cursor over the job listing. I click on it, an odd excitement bubbling in my stomach. I don’t know why, but I feel good about this one.
As I start to read it, I feel like the listing is talking specifically to me. I’m almost waiting for my name to pop up, as though they wrote it to me in an email. The listing is so detailed, so precise about the requirements, and I meet all of them. It’s incredible!
Read the full book here…
More Mafia Please!
His Target: A Dark Mafia Romance
She only exists to satisfy me. After that, it’s lights out.
Zeno
She was cast to the streets the day she came of age, left to starve in a city full of junkies and violent criminals.
I took her in, gave her shelter, safety, and food, but it wasn’t out of the kindness of my heart.
I have no heart.
Instead I have a plan: Marry her, dispose of her, then make off the with the inheritance she doesn’t know that she has.
It’s ruthless, but then again, I never claimed to be a saint.
I’m a bratva hitman, and I’m about to score the ultimate target.
His Target is a dark standalone mafia romance packed with action, and drenched in sinful submission.
Get your copy of His Target now.
* * *
Wedding Sin: A Dark Mafia Romance
On the day of our wedding, he humiliates me in front of a thousand people.
Seven days later, I’m on my knees, begging him to punish me again.
I never thought I’d find myself craving the cruel touch of a mafia boss, but I am, and it might just end in my death.
Kazimir.
His name means destroyer of peace.
It fits him well.
Behind his devious smirk is a black box of secrets. The reasons why he married me.
His tongue weaves lies just as well as it creates wicked pleasure, and he revels in doing both.
He’s a bad man and he knows that, but he doesn’t want to change.
He wants to twist me into a cruel reflection of himself, and I’m not sure if I’m strong enough to stop him.
I’m going to hell with him, and I’ll be soaked in guilty sin the entire way down.
Wedding Sin is an explosive standalone start to a mafia series so real and dark, you won’t be able to put it down. As always, it has a HEA and absolutely no cheating.
Get your copy for Wedding Sin now!
* * *
Claimed for Life: An Arranged Marriage Mafia Romance
They killed my father, so I married a madman.
Honey
He’s twice my age, ridiculously handsome, and filthy rich.
It sounds like I found my happily ever after, except that I didn’t.
I don’t really know him, but that’s beside the point.
He’s my husband now, and he expects me to serve him like a king.
But I’m not that easy, and I’m not going to drop to my knees at his command.
It’ll take a lot more than an arranged marriage with a mafia boss to break me.
Carter
She thinks this is about her.
It’s not.
I have better things to do than fool around with a younger woman.
I need to own her, to control her, and to use her to my advantage.
That’s what she’s here for.
That’s why I married her.
The cards are in my hand now, and I’m about to make the gamble of a lifetime.
I just pray it doesn’t end with one of us dead.
Claimed for Life is a heart-pounding dark mafia romance built on twisted desires, lies, and vengeance. It’s not for the faint of heart, and it’s certainly not for those who blush at graphic and intense scenes. Enjoy!
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