Wanderlust

He grasped her chin and raised her head. Prompted by his touch, she raised her gaze to meet his. His eyes flickered, as if a dam barely leashed something within.

She flinched.

His fingers tightened, not enough to bruise. “Tell me.”

Her mouth worked, but nothing came out. Nothing ever came out.

She couldn’t remember her name, but that wasn’t the problem. She could have told him that it was “slave,” or if she could manage without sounding precocious, asked him what he wanted it to be. She could have explained that she couldn’t remember anything before her captivity.

The real problem was she couldn’t talk.

He sighed. “Do you have someone I can call?”

Oh God, he really was sending her back. The ultimate failure as a slave—rejection—and she’d managed to achieve it within an hour.

No. She would never survive the punishment. And besides, she liked this Master with his gentle touch and cozy bed. It was presumptuous to think she had a choice, blasphemous even, but there it was.

For as long as she could remember, which albeit wasn’t long, she had wanted to be owned. Not in the compound amid the huddle of slaves and litany of trainers but by one Master. Now she stood on a precipice between a generic slave and one with hope. She wanted this Master.

She flipped through the ways she knew to please and placate, all of them sexual. Her body was torn to bits, not pretty or sexy right now, if it ever was. She had no feminine wiles – none. Her body was too skinny, all the trainers berated her for it. Scrawny, weak.

In a reckless burst of courage, she reached out and put her hand directly on his cock. At first it felt like nothing, just the flat stiffness of his jeans. But then, there, it jumped beneath her palm, lengthened.

This was solid ground. She could arouse him, then she would get him off. Any way he wanted it, she had probably done it before, or she could learn. He would see her value then. It wasn’t exactly obedient to grope your Master without express orders to do so. The opposite, really, but she was desperate.

He put his hand on the top of her head, not pushing her closer or away. It was sweet, his hesitation, and she thought for a moment that he would let her get away with it. God, she would do anything. Please.

He gently pushed her hand away.

She wanted to live. How pathetic.

Tears fell in hot tracks down her cheeks.

“Someone really did a number on you, didn’t they?”

Want to read more? Hear Me is available now.

Trust in Me

Mia longs for the daily torture to end, but one last task keeps her holding on. In a betrayal of the crime lord who pulled her from the gutter, she’ll free the shipment of human cargo, and if she’s lucky, die in the process. The alternative is unfatho

mable, even to a woman well-versed in erotic torture. But luck abandons her yet again when she meets the security expert in charge of the shipment and finds herself face to face with her childhood crush. The man she once begged for help. The man who failed her.

Tyler Martinez is an undercover FBI agent with one chance to right the wrongs of his past. Thrust deep into the seedy world of human trafficking, he must put aside his guilt over abandoning Mia all those years ago in order to save her now.

Someone’s pulling the strings in this sadistic play on trust, but Tyler and Mia may not live long enough to see the curtain fall. Trust in Me is a story of erotic pain and incipient romance, spiraling ever faster toward betrayal or redemption.

Excerpt from Trust in Me:

“Come, bitch.”

His words dragged my body across the floor, invisible chains. I hated him for calling me that way. I hated myself more for going to him. And I went the way I knew he wanted me to—crawling. A layer of grime covered the concrete floor of the warehouse, but it was only fitting to crawl through muck. This whole game was dirty, and so was I.

Carlos looked down at me from his seat with a half-smile. The guy next to him was speaking in low, urgent tones, but I had his attention.

Other whores might try coy smiles or a flash of cleavage, but if you really knew El Jefe—and, unfortunately, I did—then you knew all you had to do was drop to his feet. I knew what he wanted and how he liked it, knowledge born of years of training. As long as I behaved, he wouldn’t kill me. I craved the release of death, but I was too well trained to earn it.

I reached his leather shoes and waited. The same Italian leather shoes that had kicked me only recently, but they weren’t a danger to me now. Carlos didn’t like to get too messy when he had guests. Even though I didn’t like performing, I could be glad this new guy was around today. Then again, I’d probably have to service him next.