Rebecca's Forgotten Journal + Bonuses and Extras Collection

by Lisa Renee Jones

  I remember the very instant our lips had touched. I remember the freedom in our kiss that had started slow and sultry and I didn’t hold back, the freedom of contract, or obligation between myself and Alex empowering. There were no expectations. No rules. I could go on and write details but I will leave it at this. He was tender at moments and wild at others. I am no longer someone with inhibitions and yet at times I felt shy in a really sex way, that I can’t explain. I’d melted for him.

  Where does that leave us? He wants to see me again. I want to see him again. That doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten my ex-master. That doesn’t mean I don’t love him. It just means that it’s time to love me, too. As for Alex. We’ll I’m not going to call him my dream man. I’m not sure either man get that title. I just know that whatever choice I make will be about the possibilities that I allow myself to discover. And the rules, that only I make.

  THE END

  ***

  If you want to read what happens to Rebecca, her fate lies in the Inside Out series. All of the books in the Inside Out series are available now! Please turn the page for your bonus scenes from some of my favorite characters, and a little background information and teases into the Inside Out series!

  For more information on the Inside Out series visit: http://lisareneejones.com/connected-books/inside-out-series

  PART TWO

  The Inside Out Series

  Introduction, Reading Order, Characters, Sexy Scenes, and Extras

  Series Introduction

  Series Inspiration

  For eight years, my fiancé and I used to buy and sell storage units. We found all kinds of crazy things during that time: World War II love letters from a soldier to his wife, the first UFC poster ever made, a sawed-off machine gun with the serial numbers filed off, gas masks and so much more!

  In one of those units my fiancé found a journal. While sick, he lay down on the couch and started reading. He became absorbed in this woman's life and began reacting to the entries out loud, exclaiming "I don't believe it! She is pregnant again," and "Someone died next door and the police are involved!" From there, he suggested that I should write a sexy story about a journal found in a storage unit that leads to danger, suspense, and a whole world of trouble.

  Through his prodding, I started to develop the idea for the series and got to know the characters, but it was years before I actually wrote the story. Finally, the right window opened up, and since I was already so attached to the characters, the story spilled out of me.

  The series

  One day I was a high school teacher on summer break, leading a relatively uneventful but happy life. Or so I told myself. Later, I’d question that, as I would question pretty much everything I knew about me, my relationships, and my desires. It all began when my neighbor thrust a key to a storage unit at me. She’d bought it to make extra money after watching some storage auction show. Now she was on her way to the airport to elope with a man she barely knew, and she needed me to clear out the unit before the lease expired.

  Soon, I was standing inside a small room that held the intimate details of another woman’s life, feeling uncomfortable, as if I was invading her privacy. Why had she let these items so neatly packed, possessions that she clearly cared about deeply, be lost at an auction? Driven to find out by some unnamed force, I began to dig, to discover this woman’s life, and yes, read her journals—-dark, erotic journals that I had no business reading. Once I started, I couldn’t stop. I read on obsessively, living out fantasies through her words that I’d never dare experience on my own, compelled by the three men in her life, none of whom had names. I read onward until the last terrifying dark entry left me certain that something had happened to this woman. I had to find her and be sure she was okay.

  Before long, I was taking her job for the summer at the art gallery, living her life, and she was nowhere to be found. I was becoming someone I didn’t know. I was becoming her.

  The dark, passion it becomes…

  Now, I am working at a prestigious gallery, where I have always dreamed of being, and I’ve been delivered to the doorstep of several men, all of which I envision as one I’ve read about in the journal. But there is one man that will call to me, that will awaken me in ways I never believed possible. That man is the ruggedly sexy artist, Chris Merit, who wants to paint me. He is rich and famous, and dark in ways I shouldn’t find intriguing, but I do. I so do. I don’t understand why his dark side appeals to me, but the attraction between us is rich with velvety promises of satisfaction. Chris is dark, and so are his desires, but I cannot turn away. He is damaged beneath his confident good looks and need for control, and in some way, I feel he needs me. I need him.

  All I know for certain is that he knows me like I don’t even know me, and he says I know him. Still, I keep asking myself — do I know him? Did he know her, the journal writer, and where is she? And why doesn’t it seem to matter anymore? There is just him and me, and the burn for more.

  Inside Out Series Reading Order

  If I Were You

  Being Me

  Revealing Us

  His Secrets

  Rebecca’s Lost Journals

  The Master Undone

  My Hunger

  No In Between

  My Control

  I Belong to You

  All of Me

  Check out the Inside Out series:

  http://lisareneejones.com/connected-books/inside-out-series

  Character Profiles

  Sara McMillan

  AGE: 28

  HEIGHT: 5’4”

  HAIR COLOR: Long dark brown

  PROFESSION: High school teacher turned Art dealer

  RELATIONSHIPS: Best friend is Ella Ferguson, One serious prior relationship with Michael Knight which ended badly.

  FAMILY: Father alive, and a controlling man. Mother died of massive heart attack when Sara was 22

  AUTOMOBILE: Silver Ford Focus

  FAVORITE THINGS: Art, White Chocolate Mocha.

  OTHER ATTRIBUTES: Master of Art from The Art Institute, Unsure of herself, Curious, Intrigued by Rebecca’s life, Her past still affects her.

  Chris Merit

  PROFESSION: Famous contemporary artist who comes from a wealthy family

  AGE: 35

  HEIGHT: Over six feet tall

  HAIR: Longish light blond hair, light blondish brown hair, longish dirty blond hair, as long as his chin

  EYES: Intelligent green eyes, flecks of gold shimmer in them, glisten green and gold in the sunlight

  LOOKS: Incredibly good looking, not classically good looking but more raw male hotness no so sophisticated and debonair, more raw and earthy like his scent

  TATTOO: Brilliant colorful dragon tattoo covers every inch of his right arm etched with such detail and skill, he could have drawn it himself

  ATTIRE: Casual: jeans, t-shirts, leather jackets, biker boots

  VEHICLES: Porsche 911’s, collects Mustangs, and Harleys

  Mark Compton

  PROFESSION: Owner, Manager—Allure Art Gallery, family owns the largest auction house in the world. Allure is the largest, most prestigious gallery among San Francisco’s many. The gallery is a four-thousand-square-foot wonder. The entryway opens to the main showroom of glistening white wonder. The walls are snow white, the floor glistening like white diamonds. The shiny divider walls curve like abstract waves, and each of them is adorned with contrasting, eye popping, colorful artwork.

  AGE: 34

  HEIGHT: Over six feet

  HAIR: Neatly trimmed blond hair

  EYES: Silvery gray eyes, more pale blue than gray

  LOOKS: Tall and confident, an air of ownership about him classically handsome, something raw and sexual about him, something almost predatory

  ATTIRE: suits, impeccably dressed

  VEHICLES: Sporty silver Jaguar

  Favorite Chris & Sara Excerpt

  The Window Scene

  The eleva
tor is right off of the fancy lobby and past a security booth. Chris punches the button and the doors open immediately. I follow him inside, and watch as he keys in a code. The doors shut and he pulls me hard against him.

  My hands settle on his hard chest, inside the line of his jacket, and warmth spreads through me. “What just happened?” His hand brands my hip.

  My breasts are heavy, my nipples aching. “I don’t know what you mean?”

  “Yes. You do. Second thoughts, Sara?”

  I scold myself for being so transparent. “Do you want me to have second thoughts?”

  “No. What I want is to take you to my apartment and make you come and then do it all over again.”

  Oh…yes please. “Okay,” I whisper, “but I think you should feed me first.”

  His lips curve into a smile, his eyes dancing with gold specks of pure fire. “Then you can feed me.”

  The bell dings and the doors begin to open. Chris wastes no time pulling me to the edge of the elevator, and I watch in surprise as a gorgeous living room appears before me, rather than a hallway. Chris has a private elevator and I am entering his private world, a world very unlike my own.

  Chris releases my hand, our eyes lock, and I read the silent message in his. Enter by choice, without pressure. On some level I sense that once I enter his apartment, the decision to do so is going to change me. He is going to change me in some profound way I cannot begin to comprehend fully. I think he might know this and I wonder why he would be so certain, what is etched with such clarity to him beneath the surface.

  He has misplaced doubts of me in this moment, as he’d doubted me at the gallery. I can see it in his eyes, sense it in the air. I refuse to allow his lack of confidence in me, or anyone else’s for that matter, to dictate what I can or cannot do ever again. I’ve been there and I ended up on the sharp edge of a cliff, about to crash and burn. I’d recovered, and I am beginning to see that locking myself in a shell of an existence isn’t healing. It’s hiding. Regardless of what happens at the gallery, I’m done hiding.

  My chin lifts and I cut my gaze from Chris’s and exit the elevator.

  My heels touch the pale, perfection of glossy hardwood floors and I stop and stare at the breathtaking sight before me. Beyond the expensive leather furniture adorning a sunken living room with a massive fireplace in the left corner is a spectacular sight. There is a ceiling to floor window, a live pictorial of our city, spanning the entire length of the room.

  Spellbound, I walk forward, enchanted by the twinkling night lights and the haze surrounding the distant Golden Gate Bridge. I barely remember going down the few steps to the living area, or what the furniture I pass looks like. I drop my purse on the coffee table and stop at the window, resting my hands on the cool surface.

  We are above the city, untouchable, in a palace in the sky. How amazing it must be to live here, and wake up to this view every day. Lights twinkling, almost as if they are talking to each other, laughing at me as they creep open a door to the hollow place inside me I’ve rejected only moments before in the elevator.

  I swallow hard as the song ‘Broken’ from the band Lifehouse fills the room because Chris doesn’t know how personal it is to me. I’m falling apart. I’m falling to pieces, barely hanging on.

  This song, this place with the words, and I am raw and exposed, as if cut and bleeding. Who was I kidding with the refusal to hide anymore? This is why I’ve hidden. The past begins to pulse to life within me and I am seconds from remembering why I feel this way. I refuse to process the lyrics and shove them aside. I don’t want to remember. I can’t go there. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to seal those old wounds, desperate to feel anything but their presence.

  Suddenly, Chris is behind me, caressing my jacket from my shoulders. His touch is a welcome sensation and when his arm slides around me, his body framing mine from behind, I am desperate to feel anything but what this song, no doubt aided by the wine, stirs inside me.

  I lean into him and hard muscle absorbs me. There is a strength to Chris, a silent confidence I envy, and it calls to the woman in me.

  His fingers, those talented, famous fingers, brush my hair away from my nape and his lips press to the delicate area beneath, creating goosebumps on my skin. And still, I barely block out the words to the song, and their meaning to me.

  As if he senses my need for more—more something, anything, just more—he turns me around to face him and his fingers tangle almost roughly into my hair. The tight pull is sweet, dragging me from other feelings, giving me a new focus.

  “I am not the guy you take home to mom and dad, Sara.” His mouth is next to mine, his clean male scent all around me. “You need to know that right now. You need to know that won’t change.”

  But the song does change and this time to another track on what must be a Lifehouse CD. ‘Nerve damage’ begins to play. I see through your clothes, your nerve damage shows. Trying not to feel…anything that’s real.

  I laugh bitterly at the words and Chris pulls back to study me. And I am not blind to what I see in the depths of his green eyes, what I’ve missed until now, but sensed. He is as damaged as I am. We have too many of the wrong things in common to be more than sex, and the realization is freedom to me.

  I curve my fingers on the light stubble of his jaw, the rasp on my skin welcome, and I have no idea why I admit what I have never said out loud. “My mother is dead and I hate my father so don’t worry. You’re safe from family day and so am I. All I want is here and now, this piece of time. And please save the pillow talk for someone who wants it. Contrary to what you seem to think, I’m no delicate rose.”

  A stunned look flashes on his face an instant before I press my lips to his. The answering moan I am rewarded with is white-hot fire in my blood that he answers with a deep, sizzling stroke of his tongue. He slants his mouth over mine, deepening the connection, kissing me with a fierceness no other man ever has, but then, Chris is like no other man I’ve ever known.

  His tongue plays wickedly with mine, and I meet him stroke for stroke, arching into him, telling him I am here and present, and I’m going nowhere. In reply to my silent declaration, his hand cups my ass and he pulls me solidly against his erection. Arching into him, I welcome the intimate connection, burn for the moment he will be inside me. My hand presses between us and I stroke the hard line of his shaft.

  Chris tears his mouth from mine, pressing me hard against the window, and I know I’ve threatened his control. Me. Little school teacher Sara McMillan. Our eyes lock, hot flames dancing between us and some unidentifiable challenge.

  Some part of me realizes the window behind me is glass, and all things glass can break. He knows this too, it’s in the dark glint of his eyes, and he wants me to worry about it. He’s pushing me, testing me, trying to get me to break. Because I slid beneath his composure? Because he really believes I am out of my league? And maybe I am, but not tonight. Tonight, as the song has said, I am broken and for the first time perhaps ever, I am not denying the truth of all of my cracks. I am living them.

  I lift my chin and let him see my answering rebellion. His fingers curl at the top of my silk blouse and in a sharp pull, material rips and the buttons all the way down pop and clamor in all directions. I gasp, in unfamiliar territory, and burning alive with the ache I have for this man.

  He turns me to the window, and my hands flatten on the glass. Wasting no time, Chris unhooks my bra, and it and my blouse, are off my shoulders in moments. He is behind me again, his thick erection fitted snugly to my backside.

  “Hands over your head,” he orders, pressing my palms to the glass above me, his body shadowing mine. “Stay like that.”

  My pulse jumps wildly and adrenaline surges. I’ve been ordered around during sex, but in a clinical, bend over and give me what I want kind of way I tried to convince myself was hot. It wasn’t. I hated every second, every instance, and I’d endured it. This is different though, erotic in a way I’ve never
experienced, enticingly full of promise. My body is sensitized, pulsing with arousal. I am hot where Chris is touching me and cold where he isn’t.

  When he seems satisfied I’ll comply with his orders, Chris slowly caresses a path down my arms, and then up and down my sides, brushing the curves of my breasts. He’s in no hurry, but I am. I am literally quivering by the time his hands cover my breasts, welcoming the way he squeezes them roughly, before tugging on my nipples. I gasp with the pinching sensation he repeats over and over, creating waves of pleasure verging on pain, and the music is fading away, and so is the past. There is pleasure in pain. The words come back to me, and this time they resonate.

  His hands are suddenly gone, and I pant in desperation, trying to pull them back.

  Chris captures my hands and forces them back to the glass above me, his breath warm by my ear, his hard body framing mine. “Move them again and I’ll stop what I’m doing, no matter how good it might feel.”

  I quiver inside at the erotic command, surprised again by how enticed I am by this game we are playing. “Just remember,” I warn, still panting, still burning for his touch. “Payback is Hell.”

  His teeth scrape my shoulder. “Looking forward to it, baby,” he rasped. “More than you can possibly know.”

  Favorite Sara & Mark Excerpt

  “This is the new-hire paperwork and some test Mark said you need to take.”

  “Test?”

  “Yes. Test. Do you have a problem with that Ms. McMillan?”

  Mark’s voice, dark and commanding, draws my gaze, and I barely stop myself from sucking in a breath at just how striking my new boss really is. He is wearing a light gray suit that enhances the unique silvery quality of his eyes, which are more pale blue in this lighting, instead of gray as I had first thought. His features are finely carved, his bottom lip full, his jaw strong. He is tall, and athletic, his blond hair neatly styled. He is . . . beautiful.