by A. R. Torre
His hand comes up, brushes gently over my back. “Not in the least.”
We stay there, for long moment, and then I straighten. “Tell me what happened. I saw the house explode—you couldn’t have…”
His eyes study me. I don’t like how they look at me. As if they are fighting a war beneath the green. “First, what happened to your face?” His eyes drop down. “Your hands.” He pulls back the sleeve of my gown, flipping over my hands to reveal my shredded palms. “Jesus, Dee.”
I push his hands away. “It’s nothing. I pulled up to your house right before the explosion. Got scratched up from the blast. Tell me what happened.” I keep my eyes on his, my face so tight I feel as if my skin will rip.
He looks away. “I don’t really know. I came home from work. Walked in the house, don’t remember anything happening, but woke up and was tied up.”
“Tied up?” My voice is harsh. Harsher than I meant it to be, the anger pushing and pulling my vocal cords without my permission. His eyes return to mine, a bit of wariness in their depths.
“Yeah. My hands behind my back, with zip ties. Feet tied. I had some kind of tape—probably duct tape—across my mouth and eyes.”
“For how long?” Fuck. Any compassion, any guilt that may have stuck around, lingered in some traitorous vein in my body, disappears. It’s a waste of a question. I know when Marcus arrived at my house. I know the time I spent with him, the time I spent dumping his body. Taking my sweet fucking time while Jeremy lay alone.
He shrugs. “Not sure.”
“How’d you escape?”
“I kicked my feet instead of yanking them. Broke half the kitchen before I hit the pipe I was tied to. Rolled my way to the side of the house. Really heroic, manly stuff.” He smiles and I try to but I can’t.
“So you never saw the guy.”
“Nope. Why? You know who he was?” The question changes the dynamic of the room. I try to read his eyes. Try to understand the vibe between us. Not anger, but wariness. Hesitation mixed with curiosity.
“Yes. A client.” I don’t give him anything more. Wait to see what pawn he slides forward. I don’t want to tell him what I did. There is no short way to tell this story, a Pandora’s box of outcomes to revealing my soul. Plus, he’s got to be tired. Medicated. The responsible thing would be to let him rest. “That was why I was so rude yesterday afternoon. I thought he was coming to my apartment—didn’t want you to be in danger.”
It is a horribly brief explanation, one that should be followed up with a flurry of questions, but Jeremy stays silent. “Do you want to know more?”
A long silence, then he shakes his head. “I don’t want him to hurt you.”
I shake my head. “He’s not going to.”
“I don’t want you going back to the apartment. If he came to me he could have gone to you next. He could be waiting there, like he did with me.”
I raise my chin, look into his eyes with enough resolve that he stops talking. “He’s not going to hurt me. I’m not saying that to reassure you, I’m telling you it as fact.”
He says nothing. We hold a long look, then he nods.
I am scared of the question but ask it anyway. “Do you want to know more?”
His head slowly moves. Shakes. “Not right now. The, uh, the nurses said that the police came by. Want to talk to me. Are investigating the explosion. I want to be as truthful as I can when I speak to them. As ignorant as I can.” He lowers his voice, as if he has suddenly remembered where we are. “If you want to talk later, once I get out of here, we can talk then.” He rests his head against the pillow, turns it to look into my face. “Do you want to tell me?”
I laugh through an exhale of breath and shake my head slightly. “No.” I look back at him. “But I think I should. There are things about me that you should know.”
His eyes squint a bit as he focuses on me. “Just because we are in love doesn’t mean you have to share all your secrets.”
“You might not love me if you knew all of them.” I smile sadly.
He pulls at my hand, tugs my mouth to his. “I will always love you,” he whispers.
I lower my head to his chest to avoid a response. No, I think. You won’t.
I can’t do it. I can’t ruin this beautiful loyal man’s impression of me. I can’t destroy the only person in this world who looks at me as if I am not broken. Who knows about my dark desires, yet still loves me. Who might not be able to handle the fact that I have acted on those desires.
I can’t do it. My weakness, my lack of courage is dismaying, my own subconscious stepping away with an offended look. But my heart is too strong. It beats too loud and too rebelliously, drowning common sense as it sets up roadblocks and dams, keeping out anything, including morality, in a quest to protect its claim.
I love him.
He loves me.
I can’t destroy everything. Not when he doesn’t even want, isn’t even asking, for my secrets.
I try to think, try to fill our silence with something, some response to his words, some delay tactic that will get me out of this thorn bush and back to safe, non-relationship-ending conversation. I straighten, realizing, as my gaze finds his face, that he, beautiful man, claimant of my heart, is asleep.
CHAPTER 117
One Month Later
THERE ARE NO lights, there is no pink. I don’t wear stockings, or a garter, or sexy panties. There is only me, in a tank top and cotton underwear, on hotel sheets, Jeremy’s temporary home until he finds a new one. And his body above mine, his shirt off, sweatpants low enough that I can see the V of his hips.
“Are you sure?” he whispers.
I reach a hand up, run it through the short tufts of his hair. Gently trace the line of his strong jaw, stubble beneath my fingers, his lips parting slightly when I reach their edges. The vulnerable look in his eyes giving me courage. I nod. Wrap my hand around the back of his head and pull him down, onto my mouth, his soft kiss gaining strength as my mouth opens, as he tastes my willingness and pushes further. Then his body moves, my legs spreading, wrapping, his weight taking its rightful place atop me, and he pushes forward slightly, into my body, hard pressure against me proving his need. He lifts his head, leaving the kiss, the rough scrape of his jaw moving lower, the soft trail of his mouth moving across my jaw, down my neck, his weight lifting off of me as his hands gather the bottom of my tank top and slide underneath. I close my eyes, relax my head against the pillow, and release a breath. Shudder as fingers slide up my body, hitting the curve of my breasts and sliding outward only to come together. Cup the weight of them in his hands gently as his mouth nudges lower, moves over the fabric of my thin tank, his mouth kissing them each in turn, sucking gently through the fabric, wet and hot, the sensation of the cloth and his mouth, his tongue, his teeth, causing my pelvis to tilt, hot need to shoot through me.
“Jeremy,” I beg. “I’m ready.”
“Soon.”
“Now.”
He slides down, between my legs, loops fingers under cotton, and drags my panties off, lifting my legs and dropping a quick kiss on the underside of my thigh, his eyes catching mine, a smile tugging at his lips. “God, you don’t know how long I’ve thought about this.”
“How long?”
“Too long to admit it here. It’d ruin the moment.”
I smile. “Creepy?”
“Creepy.” He throws my panties to the side, running strong fingers slowly down the length of my legs, his breath hot as he takes a small nip of my skin, his teeth causing me to shiver. Then he spreads them, moving back up the length of my body, in between my legs, coming to a stop above me, his eyes on mine. “I love you.”
I study the thick lashes, his eyes behind them open and trusting. “You shouldn’t.”
He lowers his mouth, brushes against my lips, taking his time with the kiss, his tongue soft and suggestive. “I do.”
“I love you too.”
He sits back, his eyes on mine, loosening the tie of his
pants, the green glow of his stare darkening, my breath inhaling in one soft gasp when he pushes down the material and his cock pops out. Hard. Ready. Our soft kisses and sweet words had done nothing to pause his arousal. “You ready?”
“You don’t have to be gentle.” My body is already broken, penetration an old game my body has played too many times to make this special.
But he ignores me, his fingers testing me, taking a slow swipe down my legs, taking a measured draw over my pussy, swearing at the moisture there. I myself am surprised, still, at my body’s reaction to the heat of his touch. How much my cunt responds, body arches, a moan slipping from me when he does the simple action of pushing a finger in. I can’t think of anything but how much I want his cock, its hard stiff bob sticking straight out, bumping against my sex occasionally, the dark need in his eyes telling me that he knows. Knows exactly where his cock is. Exactly how far it is from my wet need. I reach a fast hand down, wrapping my fingers around his shaft, his eyes closing at the contact, his hips thrusting forward, the organ shocking in its warmth, unbendable yet alive in my hand. A drop of clear liquid appears at his tip, and I run a hesitant thumb over it, my name dropping from his lips at the movement of my hand, my fingers, his own hands dragging my shirt up, making a slow tour of my skin, his eyes still closed, tightly. “Let me get a condom,” he rasps, pulling his hips away, opening his eyes, raw want in their depths.
I resist, holding firm to him, the movement of his body causing my hand to jack his cock. “Keep it like this.” I have had enough latex in my life. This is my first moment with a man, the first chance that my body will have to experience a real cock, this incredible beating organ that twitches in my hand at the words.
“No.” He shakes his head, his eyes on mine. “I can’t. You…”
I move my hand, savor the slide of it over his skin, savor the way his eyelids get heavy, his mouth drops slightly open. “You can.” I push his cock down, rolling the swollen head against my sex, the wet slide of me against him causing his hips to rock slightly forward, a groan dropping from his mouth as he lowers himself down, his mouth suddenly on my neck, teasing and tasting the skin there before moving to my ear, the heat and static of speech against my ear. “I don’t know if I will be able to control myself…”
I take over, the virgin leading the man, making the decision for him, my legs wrapping around him, my hand pushing his shaft slightly down and I pull with my feet, moving my arms around his neck.
“Fuck me, Jeremy. Right now, I need a loss of control.”
And there, my arms wrapped around his neck, his cock taking the first real thrust my body has ever known, I release the final strings of my own control. Let myself fully fall in love with this man. Let every push of him draw a little more of my vulnerability out. He cradles my head in his hands, his breath ragged against my neck and lips, his mouth stealing rough kisses in between breathless words of love, my name a gasp on his lips when he gives a complete thrust, going all the way in, the full connection one that makes my back arch, the feeling greater than any I have ever known, better than my kills, better than my freedom. This is all I need. This is stronger than my affliction, my dark needs. This is what is important. This love might be my salvation.
Don’t miss the next Deanna Madden novel
If You Dare
COMING FALL 2015
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The creation of a book takes an army. I never realized that. I always thought authors sat alone in dignified places and created masterpieces. Now I know.
I know that I couldn’t write without my husband. Thank you for stepping in when I didn’t have time to breathe. For cooking and bringing me plates of food. For putting together a telescope in the middle of our living room without asking me a single question. For spending evenings alone because I am locked away writing. For dealing with the irritable monster that I become when I haven’t slept in two days. For lifting me into your arms and hugging me when a plot hole has brought me to tears. For letting me wake you up at two in the morning because writing my kill scene has caused me to be scared of the dark.
I know that I couldn’t turn my jumbled words into a book without Susan Barnes. Thank you for carrying us through six drafts of this book. Thank you for speaking up, for pushing, for asking for more. Thank you for digging through this book and pulling out beauty. Thank you for not shying away from my gore and for daring these pages to be wilder.
I know that this book wouldn’t find you, the reader, without the Orbit/Redhook/Hachette team. Thank you to Wendy Chan, for creating a cover that causes the reader to stop and stare. Thank you to Lindsey Hall and Angelina Krahn for finding every typo, error and brain-lapse that my brain tried to hide through these pages. Thank you to Andromeda Macri and Giraud Lorber for formatting this book and for Alex Lencicki, Ellen Wright, Laura Fitzgerald, Andy Swist, and Rachel Hairston for spreading the word and getting it in front of readers. Thank you to the entire Redhook team for believing in Deanna and for giving her a chance to shine.
I know that this book wouldn’t have found the Redhook team without my agent, Maura Kye-Casella. You, more than anyone, are why this book is on shelves. Thank you for believing in my work and for letting me publish in any fashion I choose to. Thank you for bringing my work to the next level. Thank you, most importantly, for being my friend.
I know that my talent would not be possible without God. These words are not enough, but thank you for all that you bless me with, in this life and the next. I am not worthy but I am truly grateful.
I know that I wouldn’t be able to write full-time if it weren’t for the readers. Thank you for picking up this book. For seeking out and enjoying my other works. For recommending my books to others, for leaving reviews, and for loving my words. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Truly. You are what make this career, and these books, possible.
Sincerely,
A. R. (Alessandra) Torre
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
I honestly didn’t know where to start with this book. I didn’t know where I wanted Deanna to go, how I wanted her journey to advance and end. I will tell you these two secrets. Secret #1: Jeremy originally was going to die. I’m very glad I saved his life. It gave me a surreal feeling of being in control of something, a feeling I very rarely experience—plus, it gave him and Deanna a more complete journey. Secret #2: I had written in Mike losing his fingers, Marcus cutting them off during the interrogation period. All of them. When my husband found out, he blew his lid. Literally. Pulled over the car, wouldn’t drive another step forward, and made me promise to change the scene. Right then. Wouldn’t drive to the restaurant for dinner until it was changed. And for me, withholding dinner is cruelty of the nth degree.
He was right. It would have been cruel to take Mike’s fingers. Sometimes my mind jumps full force out into darkness and I have to crawl my way back up the cliff to sanity. What’s crazy is that I really like Mike. Again, like with Jeremy, I’m glad that I revised the story. Thank you, my wonderful husband, for forcing the issue.
Deanna. I love this chick. I really do. When I first wrote The Girl in 6E, I had never planned on it having a sequel. Yet here one is, and honestly? I might love this book more than the first. And… after having this extra time in her head, I can’t let her go again, not just yet. Look for more of Deanna in late 2015—I can’t wait for you to see what happens next in her world.
Until the next story…
A. R. Torre
MEET THE AUTHOR
Photo credit: Romona Robbins Photography
A. R. Torre is an open pseudonym for New York Times and USA Today bestselling erotica author Alessandra Torre.
Alessandra lives in the southern United States and is married with one young child. She enjoys reading, spending time with her family, and playing with her dogs. Her favorite authors include Lisa Gardner, Dean Koontz, and Jennifer Crusie.
BY A. R. TORRE
The Girl in 6E
Do Not Disturb
If You Dar
e
AS ALESSANDRA TORRE
Blindfolded Innocence
Masked Innocence
End of the Innocence
The Dumont Diaries
Sex Love Repeat
Black Lies
INTRODUCING
If you enjoyed
DO NOT DISTURB,
look out for
THE GIRL IN 6E
A Deanna Madden Novel
by A. R. Torre
I haven’t touched another person in three years.
That seems like it would be a difficult task, but it’s not. Not anymore, thanks to the Internet.
My anonymous clients spend thousands of dollars to watch me take my clothes off for the camera. What they want, I give. Their secrets, I keep.
Everything I tell them is a lie.
UNDRESSING IS AN EVERYDAY occurrence. Most women do it mindlessly—automatic motions that accomplish an end result. But, if done correctly, stripping can be the ultimate foreplay, a sexual seduction that can wipe clear any rational thoughts and leave a man totally and utterly at your mercy. I have mastered the art.
I kneel on the bed and trail my fingers over my skin—light, teasing caresses designed to heighten my senses and stimulate my body. I exhale slow, trembling breaths as my hands travel near sensitive areas, the dip in my neckline, the lace over my breasts. I keep my eyes down, subservient to him, and wait for the command. One always comes.
“Take off your top. Slowly.” The voice is foreign, English words dipped in culture and dialect. I comply, lifting my eyes and biting my bottom lip gently, my tongue quickly darting out, and hear his gasp in response. I run my hands down my neck, grazing the top of my collarbone and dipping under the silk of my negligee. I slide down one strap, then two, the silk bunching over my breasts, the fabric clinging to my nipples. Then I rise to my knees, crossing my arms, sliding the fabric higher, letting it reveal inch by slow inch of skin until it unveils the curve of breasts, dip of throat, and the pout of pink lips.
