by Carnal, MJ
“What are you thinking about?” Mia rubs my back and I pull her on top of me.
“Kids. Lots of them. I want to have a big family. I want to see you pregnant with our baby. Do you think ten is too many?”
She laughs, her eyes sparkling back at me. “I think we can negotiate a number we’re both ok with.”
“Want to start right now?” I wink at her.
She rubs her body against me. I can feel her nipples harden against my chest. I squeeze her perfect ass then run my fingers through her soaked pussy. She moans as she presses her body back into my hand.
“You want to come?” I whisper in her ear and she shivers. “That’s it, baby. Take what you need.”
She rides my fingers like her life depends on it. Her breathing comes in short spurts and I know she’s close. I’ll give her this one but the next one, she’s going to ride my face. Her pleasure is too good to go to waste.
“Oh God.” She arches her back off me and explodes on my fingers. As she’s coming down from her high, I put my fingers in my mouth and lick them clean. My eyes roll back. Her flavor is a drug. I’m greedy and I need more.
“Climb on my face. I need more.” I pull her sexy body to me and lick her from ass to clit. Her legs shake. “Ride me baby.”
She rolls her hips as I lick and suck. She’s so responsive and it doesn’t take long before her thighs are squeezing my head and her scream echoes through the bus. I get so much shit from the guys but I can’t help it. Let her wake them up. It’s sexy as hell knowing I make her scream.
“I want you.” She pants and grabs my cock.
“Take me.” I hiss when she slides down my erection and squeezes me with her pussy. I feel her juices slide down my shaft. “Fuck that’s good.”
She pulls me up to sitting position and hugs me as her hips roll against me. Her lips nip at mine, her tongue explores my mouth. As her orgasm builds, she whimpers against me. I grab her hips and pick up our pace. I need her to come. I need to let go. I feel my orgasm building. It roars down my spine and as she yells my name, I explode into her.
We both collapse onto the bed. Our breathing is erratic and she closes her eyes. I kiss the inside of her wrist, her hand, her forehead. I don’t ever want her to forget how much I love her.
I look around my tiny room at the back of the tour bus. Our shows are sold out. I have the woman of my dreams lying naked next to me. I’m living the life I’ve always wanted. I’m sober. I’ve forgiven my past. My tears are no longer Liquid Regret. They’re filled with a promise of what tomorrow holds.
I’m living my fairytale, too. Mine is just a little dirtier.
The End
The Liquid Regret Series
Liquid Regret Damien -2014
Liquid Courage Harley - Early 2015
Liquid Assets
Max - Spring 2015
Liquid Redemption
Chance – Summer 2015
About the Author
MJ Carnal with Joshua Sean McCann, Damien Reynolds from Liquid Regret.
USA TODAY Bestselling Author, MJ Carnal, lives in South Carolina with her husband, daughter, two dogs and four fish. If she isn’t writing, she can be found playing with her daughter, watching The Walking Dead with her husband, cheering on the South Carolina Gamecocks, or obsessing over all things Dr. Spencer Reid from Criminal Minds. She loves to hear from readers and writers. She can be reached at [email protected], on Facebook at www.facebook.com/mjcarnalauthor or on twitter @mjcarnalauthor.
Acknowledgements and Thank Yous!!
FAMILY: To my hubby, THANK YOU for giving me all the “time away” I needed in order to finish this book. And, for taking care of our princess while I was glued to the computer. To C, you are my world. I love you to the moon and back a million trips. To my mom. Thank you for being my biggest supporter and cheerleader. I love you guys very much!
To Joshua Sean McCann. The day I saw your picture for the first time was the day I knew you HAD to be my Damien Reynolds. You were perfect and you were exactly what I pictured when I pictured Damien. You have added so much laughter to my life. I can’t wait for all our travels together. To learn about Josh, visit www.facebook.com/joshuaseanmccannofficial
To Golden w/ FuriousFotog. I was dying to work with you and I’m so glad we got the chance. You are an amazing man with an amazing eye. I am in awe of your talent. I can’t wait to work with you again and again in the future. You’re amazing and I’m so glad we’re friends. To learn more about Golden, visit www.facebook.com/furiousfotog
My cover designer, Marisa with Cover Me Darling, is AMAZING. I am so thankful we ran into each other in North Carolina. You had a great vision and you absolutely rocked the cover. (And all the covers from the Liquid Regret Series) Find out more about Cover Me, Darling, visit www.facebook.com/covermedarling
Kellie Montgomery! Thank you for editing my baby. Your kind words and encouragement always keep me going. Thank you for always believing in me.
Nathan Coy. You inspire me. Your words are beautiful. Your poetry is a gift. Always use it. Thank you for being my “official song writer” for Liquid Regret. Your friendship is a gift! You’re amazing. (Even if you don’t realize the SEC is the best) To my PR reps, Angela Lane, Christine Stanley and the rest of The Hype PR family. I love you guys. Thank you for believing in me and my books. I love being part of this amazing family! And Angela, I love how hard you work for me!!
There’s no way I could list all the authors who have made a difference in my life in the past year. Being at signings and getting to meet the people I’ve fangirled over is awesome. Rachel Van Dyken, thank you for looking over the first chapter when I had it written and for giving me advice on how to make first person work for me. Thanks for reading this early and for being my favorite author in the world. Liz King, I love our lunches and dinners and any time we get to giggle together. It’s wonderful to bounce ideas off of you. (and getting the inside scoop on your books is a major plus) Dawn Robertson, thanks for always talking me down from the ledge and for listening when I rant. Your friendship is awesome and your books kick ass. Harper Sloan, I want to be you when I grow up. Thanks for having an endless wealth of information any time I ask. And thanks for Maddox Locke. He’s my book boyfriend, forever and ever. And to all the other authors I chat with, swap books with, rant to, and laugh with – THANK YOU for being in my life.
Chelle Bliss. Thank you for the awesome Mia and Damien graphics for the beginning of all the chapters. I love them so much. And I love City. But that’s beside the point.
To my Moretti Men and Eric Wainwright. Thank you for continuing to support me on this journey. The Morettis will always be so special to me. I’ve loved traveling with Sam and Paul and can’t wait to travel with Preston and Alex.
To my betas, Janelle and Ashley. You both rock my world. I would honestly be lost without you. I can’t imagine anyone else reading for me!
To the Moretti Minions. I friggin love you guys. To the moon and back. Forever.
To all the blogs on my blog tour and all the ones who have supported me from the very beginning. Indie authors couldn’t do what they do without your support. You have a thankless job sometimes but I hope you know I will always value you. You are the true rock stars on the literary world.
To my readers. I am in awe of every single one of you. Thank you is never enough. Never. If there were words stronger than that, I would use them. Having you along for this wild ride is amazing and I am thankful for each and every one of you. Your positive energy and kind words mean everything to me.
To the rest of my Liquid Regret Men: Lance Jones, Ripp Baker and Sam Coy. I’m so ready to take this journey with you!
I love you guys very much. THANK YOU!
Copyright © 2013 by Claire Contreras
Smashwords Edition 2013
***
Copyright © 2013 by Claire Contreras
Smashwords Edition 2013
Cover design: Mae I Design
Photograph: Tomasz
Zienkiewicz
Internal Design/Formatting: Fictional Formats (https://www.facebook.com/FictionalFormats)
Bee Logo: Mae I Design
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems-except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews-without permission in writing from its publisher, Claire Contreras.
“Ready” by Paige Chaplin
© 2013 Paige Chaplin
“Reminders” by Paige Chaplin
© 2012 Paige Chaplin
“Connect” by Drake
Written by Birchard Ross Matthew and Aubry Drake Graham
© 2013 WARP MUSIC LIMITED
All rights reserved.
***
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Playlist
Extra
Author’s Note
About the Author
Acknowledgements
For the broken ones—
Don’t give up.
Giving up is easy.
The fight will be worth it.
For you, depression—
Thank you for making me somewhat of a decent writer. And also, fuck you.
***
***
My eyes burn from tears that mask my eyes but refuse to fall as I stare out into the ocean. Focusing on the waves crashing the rocks below, my eyes trail along the water. A body of blue so big and wondrous that I can’t decide where it begins and where it ends, because it doesn’t—the ocean doesn’t have a beginning and an ending, it just is. Much like me, it just is. Except I do have an end, and that ocean is it for me. I clutch the red bars before me when sobs threaten to overtake me, thoughts of the hell I’ve been living seeping through my memories. Closing my eyes, I see his strawberry hair and the light freckles that paint over his beautiful smile, and the pain stabs me harder.
The reality of what I did spreads through me as the sobs consume me. I killed him. I killed him. The only person who was ever there for me, the one that showed me what love was supposed to be, and I killed him. Tears stain my face and my dyed blonde hair, wild from the turbulent wind, sticks to it. I try to swallow back my broken cries as I look around, my eyes squinting at the sign beside me that reads: Hope. My shoulders shake as new tears rise and my throat opens up with cries that refuse to be held back.
Then I see him, or he sees me. I close my eyes to the wind once more, relishing the feel of its caress against my skin before opening them and looking into the pools in his eyes.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
I mirror his question, unable to find my own thoughts.
“Looking for you,” he mutters, rendering me speechless.
I open my mouth to speak again but uncontrollable shivers invade my body making it impossible for me to form words. My eyes roll back shakily and panic floods through me because I can’t see him anymore. I can’t see the boy that found me.
I can only see the one I failed.
The one no longer here.
He’s gone … and so am I.
***
When I was six years old, my father held both my arms and shook me so that I would look into his eyes.
“Who do you want to stay with, Brooklyn?” he seethed. “Who do you choose? Me or your mom?”
I looked between both him and my mother. She was standing there with tears running down her face, her hands covering her mouth, and her eyes screaming what her mouth wouldn’t. I didn’t want to choose between them. Truthfully, they were both a terrible option, even in my six-year-old mind I knew that. They were always arguing, always fighting, always screaming—my mother always throwing items at my father. But they were my parents and I loved them both. They were all I knew.
In the end, I never had to end up choosing because they chose each other. They always did. One thing I learned from seeing my parents is that some people would rather stay in a toxic relationship than experience the fear of the unknown. I understand that now. They chose that life and I have made an effort to choose to not become that with anybody. As much as I have to love them because they’re my parents, I never want to marry someone like my father, and I sure as hell never want to become my mother. I’ve tried so hard to distance myself from them and their exuberant lives, yet here I am, waiting to speak to my father. Waiting to see what favor he’s going to ask of me, because there’s always a favor to ask. That’s the thing about my parents: I love them because they gave me life but in return love me under conditions—always theirs. And they don’t leave room for interpretation when I don’t agree to their favors. They threaten me with taking away things like my education. My mother is the queen of threats, amongst other things, and she uses that to her advantage. Boyfriends, cars, concerts, school, clothing, friends … you name it, she has taken it away from me.
At the sound of heels clinking on the marble floor, I rise out of my seat.
“Your father will see you now,” Sherry, his assistant informs me as she turns to usher me to his office.
I roll my eyes at her when she turns around. I don’t need somebody to walk me to his damn office. I’ve been coming here since I was a child. Despite the three mansions he owns, this building (along with three others) is where my father lives. Sherry suddenly jolts to a stop, the short red bob that frames her face swaying into her eyes. She pushes it back quickly and presses down on her earpiece to speak.
“Yes, sir. I’ll be right down,” she says to whomever is on the other end then she turns and smiles at me. “You can make your way in now, Brooklyn.”
“Thanks,” I mutter as I push the two massive iron doors open to enter the foyer that leads to my father’s lair. When I reach the threshold of his office, I stop and look around. Everything is as manicured as it always is: the wooden shelves filled with LPs that adorn the right side of his office are spotless, matching the larger-than-life stark wooden desk that sits in the middle. It’s simple yet masculine, but the thing I love the most about his offices, all three of them, is the stunning view that the floor-to-ceiling windows hold. This one is the most impressive, in my opinion, as it showcases Hollywood. The bold iconic letters on the canyon are as clear as a postcard from here. I’ve always been drawn to those letters. That sign is the one thing that makes me smile, despite the burden the word holds.
“Hey, Baby Girl,” my father croons as he swivels his chair to face me.
“Hey, Pa,” I say, retuning his smile as I round his desk to greet him.
He opens his arms for me and pulls me to sit on his lap, his green eyes bright as he examines my face. That’s the thing about my father, as much as I want to despise him for some of the things he has said to me in the past, and for making me feel like I’ll never be good enough for … anything, I freaking love him. I lean my face into his chest and breathe him in; he smells like cigarettes and honey. He always smells like honey for some reason, I think it’s the shampoo he uses. When I pull ba
ck I dust some little white flakes from his light brown wavy hair and smile.
“What’s up?” I ask, getting up and perching myself on the edge of his desk.
He exhales a long breath. “Are you still dead set on that microphone company?” he asks.
The swinging of my legs die down and I swallow loudly, waiting for the impending question. I already know what he’s going to ask of me, so I start to blink away the tears that I know will soon form in my eyes.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
I have an issue when speaking to authority. For some reason tears well up in my eyes when they speak to me. I can sit here and psychoanalyze myself the way I’ve done, the way others have done, and say that it’s because the authoritative people in my life never paid attention to me when I was a child, but that would be an odd reason for the water in my eyes. Regardless of what the reason behind it is, they’re there, swimming in my sockets, burning before my iris, and threatening to spill out. Blinking one last time, I tear my gaze away from his face and look out into the horizon. My parents have always had this pull on me. They know how to twist my arm hard enough to see that I agree to what they ask of me. Growing up, my mother wanted me to follow in her footsteps and be a model, as if anybody can just snap their fingers and become one. When she saw that I didn’t have a model body like her, despite her efforts in making me diet from a young age, she gave up on me—with much dismay, I might add. I decided to study business because I wanted to start my own empire—of anything. I just wanted to be part of something big that I could call my own.
Petty dreams, I guess, even for an eighteen year old that had just gotten out of a stint at rehab. When I declared my major to be business, I had to convince my mother that I would use it in fashion one way or another. That was the only way she would agree to not take my car away from me and continue paying my tuition. My father, of course, would defend me, saying that business was a great option. He didn’t care much about what I did, he had my older brother to hound and make an employee of his. Still, the fact remained that I was good for the music industry, as much as I hated it. I was good at scouting for talent. I was the best, really, though nobody knew this because my father’s label, Harmon Records, took all of the credit.
