by Skye Warren
“Well, why would you think you were a suspect? She was your girlfriend. You wouldn’t think of killing her any more than you’d think to kill me.”
Sean ran his fingers down her bare arm, and her skin tingled. Terrible timing, but she knew what she needed. When his hand approached hers, she grasped his wrist. Plunging his palm between her legs, she helped him rub there, slow but hard.
He didn’t seem shocked. Not in the least. In fact, he tugged up her skirt, making it dance against her thighs, teasing her smooth skin.
“What was she wearing that day?” Lucy asked.
Sean gripped her pussy over the tight stretch of her panties, hugging it with his hand. The heat from his body filled her bones, soaring from her cunt to her skull, making her dizzy.
“A dress?” Her legs threatened to collapse beneath her as she stepped out of her ballet flats and into warm, wet sand. She grabbed him by the crotch and took him with her, until the lake lapped at their ankles. “Were her panties made of cotton?”
“Always,” Sean groaned.
She unzipped his fly and found his cock, took it out, stroked it. Falling to her knees, Lucy asked, “Did Tamryn ever do this?”
Without waiting for an answer, she wrapped her lips around his tip. His precum drizzled across her tongue like frosting, and she swallowed it eagerly. He never answered her question, but maybe she didn’t want an answer. Maybe she just wanted to feel his hands in her hair, gripping it tightly while she sucked.
Christ, did his cock ever feel good in her mouth. The perfect size, perfect girth—just enough to stretch her capacity without injuring the back of her throat. She threw her body into it, devouring his dick while she wrapped both hands around the base of his shaft.
“Oh, you can’t…” He pushed her shoulders. “You can’t. I’m gonna come.”
“So come,” she said around his cock.
“No.” A deep growl emerged from the back of his throat as he pulled out of her mouth. “I gotta fuck you first.”
Throwing her down in the sand, Sean got on top, trapping her half in, half out of the lake. Her dress soaked up water like a sponge as her bare feet sank below the surface. He straddled her with his dick surging out the front of his pants, and when she tried to grab it, he pinned her arms to the ground.
“No,” he said. “Your hands are sandy.”
“Oh.” She laughed, but she was too stunned to say anything more.
“I need your pussy, babe.”
“It’s yours,” Lucy said, keeping quiet, not wanting to get caught. “My panties are soaking wet.”
“Your hot, tight, soaking wet pussy…” He let go of her arms to pull up her dress, then pressed his erection to the wet cotton. The heat from his dick passed right through the fabric, sizzling against the throbbing mass of her clit. Pressing his weight down, he crushed her into the sand while gentle waves licked their bodies. When he rocked on her, she felt his wild exuberance in every cell.
“I want you inside me,” she said. They usually used condoms, but in that moment safety didn’t seem important. “Fuck me, Sean. Fuck me like you fucked her.”
Pressing his mouth to Lucy’s ear, he said, “I told you—we fucked in the woods, up against the tree.”
Lucy closed her eyes and pictured them from above. Was Tamryn watching? Hovering overhead as Sean shifted the gusset of Lucy’s panties aside with his cock? What would the murdered girl think if she could see them now?
Her pussy was so wet it left a slick patch in the crotch of her underwear. Sean had no trouble pushing his cock inside her cunt, not satisfied to dabble in the shallows. He gave her pussy a few quick thrusts and then threw himself into the job, fucking her with wild abandon.
She closed her eyes and tried to exist as little as humanly possible. She breathed only when it was absolutely necessary, slow inhales and lengthy exhales. The lake had soaked through her entire dress now, and her nipples drew into tight buds, pressing through the fabric to prick Sean’s chest. She didn’t move her arms or her legs.
Playing dead altered her state of consciousness so drastically that the friction of his cock in her cunt got her hotter with every thrust. His chest sat on hers like a rock, like a weight, driving the breath from her lungs. Though she wasn’t moving, her mind whirled. She felt dizzy enough to fall over, and she was already lying still.
It wasn’t just Sean’s motion that threw her senses into a tailspin. Tiny waves crashed like ocean tides against her bare skin. Birds in the trees sang at a hundred decibels. The squirrels stomped through the underbrush like elephants. Everything overwhelmed her, but nothing more so than Sean’s hands as they looped around her throat.
“Tamryn,” he moaned. “Who would do a thing like this? Wrap his hands around your little neck and tighten his grip? Strangle you until you were dead?”
Lucy wasn’t sure if his grip was really as tight as it felt, or if her hyperbolizing imagination just experienced it that way. Her belly spun and tightened as he drove his cock again, again, again, grunting with every thrust. She felt like she’d just stepped off that twirly-whirly playground ride that had spun her in circles as a kid. That was her first memory of feeling any kind of arousal. The twirly-whirlies. That’s what they’d called the sensation. Unoriginal but, to them, it represented joy and fear all wrapped into one.
Now Lucy had it bad. Her head felt loopy, though she hadn’t moved in—how long? Time had fallen out of her grasp. Had they been fucking for minutes or hours? She had absolutely no idea.
“It hurts,” she heard herself gasp.
Sean’s thighs trembled against hers. His cock throbbed inside her cunt. He held his hands around her neck as her eyes rolled back. Light filled her mind as the late-afternoon sun gleamed off the lake. She’d never seen anything so beautiful, and her eyes weren’t even open.
His hands fell away from her throat, but his weight drove her deeper into the sand as his body relaxed. Prickly stubble dug into her cheek like razor blades. His breath came hot and fast, hers cold and slow. He’d gone in like a lion. She’d come out like a lamb. Her skin tingled, like tiny fairy feet were dancing all over it. Lake water had filled her pussy, but it rejected everything that wasn’t Sean’s cock—that still pulsed inside her flesh.
“You didn’t make a sound,” Sean said. “I thought you might…”
Lucy’s mind worked slow as molasses, considering responses, rejecting them. She felt heavy and light, both at once. Part of her sank into the sand while another part rose to the heavens. She couldn’t bring herself to speak.
But if she could, she’d have said to him, This is the place where poor Tamryn was killed. She’d have realized her mother knew a thing or two about character, and said, I know how she felt when she died.
Thank you!
Dear readers,
Thank you for reading Take the Heat!
The criminal mind has always fascinated me, so putting this anthology together has been a blast. You can help spread the word about Take the Heat by:
· Telling a friend about it! Word of mouth is the best way to share books.
· Lending it to a friend! This book is lending enabled on Amazon, so please do lend it to another reader who loves dark books.
· Leaving a review! Reviews help readers discover new books.
I love exploring dark impulses within the realm of romance, and I know my readers do too. That’s why I’m so excited to share my upcoming release, titled Prisoner, which was co-written with my friend and amazing author New York Times Bestseller Annika Martin. You can turn the page for an excerpt…
Yours,
Skye Warren
Excerpt from Prisoner:
Heavy bars close behind me with a clang. I feel the sound in my bones. A series of mechanical clicks hint at an elaborate security mechanism beneath the black iron plating. I knew this would happen--had anticipated and dreaded it—but my breathing quickens with the knowledge that I am well and truly trapped.
“Can I help you?”
/> I whirl to face the administrative window. Empty. With a tentative step forward, I peek inside to where a heavyset woman in security guard uniform stares at her screen.
“Hi,” I say, pasting on a smile. “My name is Abigail Winslow, and I’m here to—”
“Two forms of identification.”
“Oh, well, I already filled out the paperwork at the front desk. And showed them my IDs.”
“This isn’t the front desk, Ms. Winslow. This is the east wing desk, and I need to see two forms of identification.”
“Right.” I dig through my purse for my driver’s license and passport.
She accepts them without looking up, then hands me a clipboard with a stack of papers.
Papers I had already filled out. Apparently those were front desk papers and these are east wing papers. My stomach sinks. So far, this has not been a great start to my class project. My professor—the one who’d forced me into this—warned me that prisoners were not always receptive to outsiders. But I haven’t even gotten that far, haven’t seen a single prisoner, and I’m already running into walls.
I complete each form and stack the pages on the clipboard before returning it. The guard accepts them and gives back my IDs… also without looking at me.
My hands clench and unclench, clench and unclench. I force them to lay flat on the desk while the guard files my paperwork and resettles at her desk.
Seconds pass. Or are they minutes? God, it’s cold in here. I hadn’t noticed at first. I’d even worn a cardigan, despite the balmy day, just to be safe. But the damp chill has seeped into my skin and left me shivering where I stood.
Leaning forward, I read the name tag of the guard. “Ms. Breck. Do you know what the next steps are?”
“You can have a seat. I have work to do now, and then I’ll escort you back.”
“Oh, okay.” I glance at the bars I just came through, then the open hallway opposite. “Actually, if you just point me in the direction of the library, I’m sure I can—”
Thunk. The woman lets her hand fall heavy on the desk, and the sound makes me jump. Finally, she turns to look at me. Her dark eyes are faintly accusing. A shiver runs down my spine. I suddenly wish we could go back to talking without eye contact. How did I manage to make an enemy in ten minutes?
“Ms. Winslow,” she says, her voice patronizing.
“You can call me Abby,” I whisper.
A slight smile. Not a nice one. “Ms. Winslow, what do you think we do here?”
The question is clearly rhetorical. I press my lips together to keep from making it worse.
“The Kingman Correctional Facility houses over five thousand convicted criminals. My job is to keep it that way. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes. Of course.” I stumble back, landing hard on the metal folding chair. It wobbles a little before the rubber feet stop my slide.
Heat suffuses my cheeks. I understand the woman’s point. She has to keep the prisoners in and everyone else out. And I assume that part of her job is even to keep people like me safe--civilians who were inside the prison for some purpose. The last thing I want to do is make her job harder. Even though I hate being here, hate being forced into this project, it’s not her fault.
And I understand her other point, which is that even the hallways aren’t safe. At least, not completely. I would require an escort and I would be grateful for it too. So I’ll wait.
I reach down and pull a book from my purse. I never leave home without one, even when I go to classes or run errands. Even when I was young and my mother used to take me on her rounds.
Especially then.
I would hide in the backseat with my nose in the book, pretending I didn’t see the shady people who came to her window when we stopped. I do the same thing now, when the little green light comes on that means the barred doors will open. Someone else is coming through, and this time I doubt it will be a library volunteer.
Pretend to be invisible. Read, read, read.
It’s no use. The most interesting part of the book is just over the top edge--a prisoner is coming through the door.
He’s flanked by two guards--escorted by them, I guess you’d say. But something about the leisurely way he saunters makes them seem like an entourage than anything. He’s a half a foot taller than the guards, but he seems to tower over them. His shoulders are so broad. His torso tapers down to a trim waist and as he nears, his heat pierces the chill around me. Power vibrates around him like a thinly veiled threat.
The little group approaches to the window,
“ID number 85359,” one of the guards says, and I understand that it refers to the prisoner. That’s who he is. Not John Smith or William Brown or whatever his name was. He’s been reduced to a number. The woman at the desk runs through a series of questions. It’s a procedure for checking him out of solitary.
The prisoner faces slightly sideways, spine straight, expression slightly amused, as if the procedure is something for his underlings to handle. Tattoos peek out from under his cuffs and snaking up his neck.
Who got tattoos on his neck? Didn’t it hurt?
I squint, trying to see. The book covers most of my face, like a mask, a shield, making it safe enough to study him. I can just make out roses, thorns. Is that a face drawn in black ink? No, it’s a skull--multiple skulls. They’re strung together in a grim daisy chain. The markings are compelling and…strangely beautiful. But a skull is just a dead person, when you get down to it. It’s hard to find that comforting.
Then the strangest thing happens; the prisoner cocks his head. It’s just a slight shift; his gaze doesn’t stray from the space in front of him, but I know his attention is on me, and I feel lit up by searchlights. Caught. Exposed.
My heart beats frantically, like a trapped bird.
I don’t want this man’s attention, this man who fills up the space, who breathes enough oxygen for twelve men instead of one, leaving no air for me at all. Maybe if we were in the library and he needed help finding a book or looking something up, then yes. But not here, in this hallway, where Ms. Breck already implied I’m not safe.
Two sets of bars on the gate. Handcuffs. Two guards.
Just how dangerous is this man? What do they think he would do if there were only one set of bars, one pair of handcuffs, and one guard?
My heart pounds as the guards draw him away. He seems to loom over me as he passes, like a tree with a massive canopy. I stare hard at his face, at the blunt nose and firmed lips, at the scar that splits one brow and the brown eyes that never once meet mine. He just continues on, two hundred pounds of pure male like a massive puppet on a threadbare string.
“Ms. Winslow. Ms. Winslow.”
I jump, surprised to hear that the woman had been calling my name. “I’m sorry,” I say, as a strange sensation tickles the back of my neck.
The woman stands and begins pulling on her jacket. “I’ll take you the library now.”
“Oh, that’s great.”
That shivery sensation gets stronger. Against my better judgment, I look down the hallway, where the guards and the prisoner are walking away. They move as one--a column of orange with two thinner, shorter lines of black down the side.
The prisoner glances over his shoulder. His deep brown gaze searches me out, finds me. I stand still, pinned by a subtle challenge I can’t quite understand. Somewhat mocking. Faintly threatening. Though it isn’t his eyes that scare me in the end. It’s his lips, as he forms words that make my blood turn to ice.
“Ms. Winslow.” No sound comes out, but I hear him just the same, as clearly as if he’d whispered into my ear. Then he turns to face forward and disappears around the corner with his entourage.
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Other Books by Skye Warren
Wanderlust
On the Way Home
Below the Belt
Dark Erotica Series
Keep Me Safe
Trust in Me
Hear Me
Don’t Let Go
The Beauty Series
Beauty Touched the Beast
Beneath the Beauty
Broken Beauty
Beauty Becomes You
Fem Dom Series
Sweetest Mistress
Dystopia Series
Leashed
Caged
Author Bios
Skye Warren
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Skye Warren is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of dark romantic fiction. Her books are raw, sexual and perversely romantic.
Pam Godwin
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New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author, Pam Godwin, lives in the Midwest with her husband, their two children, and a foulmouthed parrot. When she ran away, she traveled fourteen countries across five continents, attended three universities, and married the vocalist of her favorite rock band.
Java, tobacco, and dark romance novels are her favorite indulgences, and might be considered more unhealthy than her aversion to sleeping, eating meat, and dolls with blinking eyes.
Sheri Savill
Website | Twitter | Facebook | Newsletter
Sheri Savill is the author of dark BDSM erotic romance, and humor, and is a real-life submissive who was into BDSM before it was cool. A career in media and journalism (reporter, editor, DJ, copywriter) drove her to the brink of insanity, so she became an attorney and web developer.
Known for her irreverent blog, Savill is tattooed, pierced, geeky, easily annoyed yet fun-loving, and well caffeinated. She speaks often of a treasured “letter from Dave Barry” that no one has actually seen. Award-winning sex author and columnist Violet Blue called Savill’s BDSM parody “painfully, hilariously timeless.”
