Make Me: Twelve Tales of Dark Desire

by Aleatha Romig

  I couldn’t believe it. Staying with the guys. It’s what I’d wanted, but not like this. And not forever.

  “Could I keep buying the Paris Hilton quilts?” I asked. “And leaving little messages? It would give them hope. Especially if I said a lot of stuff about Paris Hilton’s dog. We were always really focused on her dog. They would know it was me and they’d be cool about it.”

  Zeus exchanged glances with Odin. “No guarantees,” Zeus said. “We’d have to proceed very carefully, and know your sisters were being cool.”

  “They would be,” I said.

  “We would allow it if we all agreed.” Odin arranged my bathrobe lapels to be equal.

  “Then I stay,” I said.

  I caught Zeus’s eye. He waited, watching. He didn’t trust it.

  “Have I not been saying all this time that I want to stay?”

  “Saying you want to stay and being forced to stay are two different things,” Zeus said.

  “Nobody wants to be told they can never go home again,” I said. They knew better than anybody.

  “You’ll miss them,” Thor said.

  “You’ll help me,” I said. “We’ll all help each other.”

  “We will,” Zeus said. “We’ll help each other through this.” And right there I realized something: that I knew what it felt like to be on the receiving end of his affection. I’d been there all along, in a way.

  Odin broke the spell. “It’s natural to want to stay, of course. After a couple days with us, what woman wouldn’t want choose this? We live in the most luxury. We give the most fucking-g pleasure.”

  “We have skills,” Thor said. “As you know. Utterly unmatched.”

  “Plus, humility.” I leaned back on Thor’s shoulder, enjoying being in a kind of nest with my Peter Pans. “And I’m Isis. What the hell else would I choose?”

  Odin scowled. “And you’d have to continue to obey our rules and perform the duties.”

  I smiled. “Would the duties be erotic?”

  “Very,” Thor whispered.

  “And the punishment would be severe, yet exquisite,” Odin said.

  “Then we’ll kill her,” I said.

  I caught Zeus’s green gaze. Thor kissed the top of my head. Odin smiled his devilish smile.

  I felt so free in that moment, barreling into the unknown.

  I nestled more deeply into Thor’s shoulder, looking richly forward to spending endless days and nights with my guys, and seeing their hideouts and learning the bank robber trade, and helping them with it; I was determined to find a part to play. We would help each other. We would be okay.

  We all just sat there together and watched the swirls on the watery surface of the hot tub, four badass peas in a pod.

  The End

  Thanks so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed The Hostage Bargain.

  Book #2 of Taken Hostage by Hunky Bank Robbers, entitled The Wrong Turn, is now available. Warning: there is a bank robbery involving the gang wearing kilts, and tons of dirty parts, too!

  If you want to stay up on my new book releases, please feel free to hop on my newsletter list. I love hearing from readers.

  Visit

  http://annikamartinbooks.com

  or email me at

  annika@annikamartinbooks.com.

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  Acknowledgements

  I’m so grateful to my fabulous friends who have offered me their support and smarts along the way: Claire, Eva Clancy, Jeffe Kennedy, Jill Myles, Denise Townsend, and Penny Watson.

  About Annika

  Annika Martin is a writer working a stone’s throw from the Mississippi. She loves to read and write dirty stories. She also writes urban fantasy, romantic suspense and more under the pen name of Carolyn Crane. She lives with her husband and two cats in a tiny condo full of plants, sunshine and books.

  Also by Annika Martin

  The Wrong Turn (Book #2 of Taken Hostage by Hunky Bank Robbers)

  Coming up 2014:

  The Deeper Game (Book #3 of Taken Hostage by Hunky Bank Robbers)

  Also by Carolyn Crane

  Romantic Suspense

  Against the Dark (The Associates: #1)

  Off the Edge (The Associates: #2)

  Urban Fantasy

  Mind Games (Book #1 of the Disillusionists)

  Double Cross (Book #2 of the Disillusionists)

  Head Rush (Book #3 of the Disillusionists)

  Kitten-tiger and the Monk, a Disillusionists novella (2.5) in Wild & Steamy, an anthology

  Devil’s Luck, a Disillusionists novella (3.5)

  Paranormal/cross-genre

  Conjuring Max (Mr. Real prequel novella) in Fire & Frost, an anthology

  Mr. Real (Code of Shadows: #1)

  THE MAN WHO HOLDS THE WHIP

  SHOSHANNA EVERS

  When Grace discovers her gorgeous ex-boyfriend Ian broke her heart three years ago so he could pursue a career as a Dom on a BDSM internet porn site, she never expected to be intrigued…and aroused. Ian looks damn good holding that whip. But can a girl who’s always considered herself “vanilla” fire up her kinky side for love?

  To find out, she’s going to audition for a chance to play Ian’s sexual submissive—and maybe find her way back into his heart.

  “You get the rare chance to see inside someone’s head as they work through a myriad of feelings and thoughts from the base and depraved, to mortal humiliation, to mere curiosity, to sexual excitement and more…. I felt like I was there with Grace and Ian as a happy, comfortable, invisible bystander, marveling at what occurred page after page.”

  —The Jeep Diva Reviews

  Copyright

  The Man Who Holds the Whip

  by Shoshanna Evers

  Copyright © 2012 Shoshanna Evers

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover art by Rob Sturtz www.SelfPubBookCovers.com

  Electronic book publication December 2012

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead or places, events or locations is coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the ebook store of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Chapter One

  ‡

  Grace Pontaine didn’t bother to change out of her scrubs when she stomped in the door—a top priority, usually. Tonight, a glass of merlot needed to come first, followed by a bath, perhaps, or some long-overdue meditation. Anything to erase her hellish day. In her whole five years of nursing, Grace had never felt so demeaned by a doctor as she had today.

  It shouldn’t bother her, since he probably had a miserable life anyway, but it did. She knew what she was talking about and being yelled at like a child in front of her patients was just…screw it.

  Wine.

  The merlot in the bottom of the cabinet had a twist cap and no cork, so she wasn’t expecting a fine wine. But it didn’t need to taste good, it just needed to work. Grace didn’t bother giving the red liquid a chance to breathe—or whatever it was she was supposed to do before taking sip—preferring to drink a full glass while still standing at her kitchen counter, contemplating her options.

  Quit work? I wish.

  Get drunk and forget about it? More likely.

  Text Ian.

  No. No. No. She always texted him when she was upset or drunk, as if he hadn’t broken her heart—smashed it into a million little pieces when he dumped her three years ago. Taking another fortifying gulp of the wine, Grace pulled her phone out of the side pocket of her scrub
pants, the cargo-pants style she preferred because it afforded her the ability to carry a ton of stuff on her at work.

  At least Ian always texted back. They never chatted about who they were currently dating (no one for her right now), or about getting back together. They just connected so easily when they texted each other back and forth, as if they were friends. Friends who would never see each other again—his rule. She knew if she saw him she’d throw herself at him, beg him to take her back, and she was too proud to bring herself so low.

  The wine glass was empty, as if by magic. She refilled it and continued sipping. Since this only happened once in very rare while, she’d pay for it tomorrow with a hangover. Hell, maybe she’d call in sick. She deserved a sick day, especially after that stupid, arrogant asshole of a doctor—

  Her fingers flew over the keypad on her phone, texting Ian before she got herself into more of a downhill spiral.

  Is it too late to talk? I’m drinking terrible wine. Wish you were here.

  Ian replied a full five minutes later, as if hadn’t had a response to that quite ready. Not surprising since she’d never even suggested breaking his rule before, at least not after the first year. They were supposed to be done with each other, but he wouldn’t tell her why.

  His text said: Stop, Grace. you know we can’t see each other.

  Grace glared at the phone. Are you married? Did you get someone pregnant while we dated and that’s why you jettisoned out of my life? She misspelled the word jettisoned in her tipsiness, but autocorrect worked in her favor for once.

  Grace waited for his response, knowing already what he’d say. She’d asked him this before. He always told her that there was no one else, but he needed something more that she couldn’t give him, and so he was moving on.

  He’d even quit his job at the law firm, and never told her where he’d taken a position instead. All he ever made clear was that everything changed, and that included his relationship with her.

  As in, there would be no relationship with her.

  Grace poured herself another glass of wine, filling the cup to the top, which basically made it two glasses. Since drinking wasn’t normally her thing, the first drinks has already taken hold of her around the edges, blurring the harshness of the day—and the harsh reality of what she knew Ian was in the process of texting her.

  His text popped up on her phone. I can’t keep hiding who I am from you.

  She started to text back, to ask him what he meant, but another text from him came in first.

  I pussy out telling you the truth because I don’t want what little connection we still have to go away.

  She gasped. Did he just come out of the closet to her via text? Wait, how was Ian gay? It didn’t seem possible. Sure, he never seemed satisfied with their sex life, but…really? And he used the word pussy, not as a noun, but still quite out of character for the Ian she thought she knew.

  I feel like an idiot, she replied. I’m still your friend, even if you’re gay.

  I’m not gay, he texted back. I’m a Dom.

  IDK, she wrote. She didn’t know what that meant.

  This is me, his next said, next to a hyperlink. I’m into BDSM. Still wish I were there? Or have I scared you off forever?

  Dom. BDSM. And a link that looked like something she might want to avoid opening on her smartphone.

  TTYL, she replied, since her fingers were feeling too clumsy to type out ‘talk to you later” and she knew he’d know what she meant. There was some research to do before she responded to him about things she knew nothing about.

  So he finally had given her an answer. A real answer, after three long years of making her choose between infrequent texts that were always about her, never about him, or nothing.

  The computer screen lit up as Grace logged on; she ignored the lure of Facebook and email. She opened a private browsing tab, because if anyone ever saw the things she was about to Google in her computer history, she’d die of embarrassment. She turned off the recommended “safe-search.”

  Grace hadn’t even been sure what BDSM stood for until Google spelled it out for her. Bondage. Domination. Submission…or Sadism… and Masochism. People who got off on hurting others and on being hurt. It made no sense to her. Apparently, this was what some people did for a living, too. Get beaten for videos on a BDSM porn site—the hyperlink Ian had sent her.

  The website filled her screen, a professional-looking set up with crisp photos of naked women, bound and gagged, with marks all over them filling the borders of the site. A big Subscribe Now pop-up obscured an obscene picture of a reddened ass.

  Ugh. She didn’t want to give these people her credit card. She x’d out the pop-up and saw a list of the videos available for immediate viewing…short clips, under ten seconds long, designed to entice the viewer to pay to see the whole thing. She clicked one that showed a still of a pretty girl’s face, eyes wide, a ball gag in her mouth.

  Slutty Nikki gets whipped with a vibrator tied to her pussy. Download now.

  The fingers on her right hand seemed to click the mouse of their own accord, despite the dizzying lurch in her stomach at the sight of the image and its description. Or maybe it was the wine, since her overly-full glass was now empty. The clip played, showing Nikki bent over some sort of black ramp, a long white back massager attached to her upper leg with rope, the door-knob sized end of it pressed against the junction of her thighs. The vibrator.

  A man came into the camera’s view, but she could only see his arm—a lean, muscled arm clad in what looked like a black T-shirt. He was holding a whip.

  Is that really Ian?

  It looked like how she remembered Ian’s arm, or maybe he’d been playing a joke on her when he texted her that hyperlink. Trying to trick her into watching porn, something she’d never done before.

  The whip came down and a muffled squeal emanated from Nikki’s mouth. The clip stopped. It had only been ten seconds, but Grace felt breathless, as if she’d been unable to take in air while the clip played.

  Download Now, the pop-up said. Download now for $7.50, a fifteen minute video of your favorite slut getting her ass whipped with a vibrator tied to her pussy.

  Grace shuddered. It didn’t look consensual. It didn’t look fun. She had to see, was that really Ian doing those horrible things? Was there anything in the whole video that showed that Nikki was really there because she…wanted to be?

  Forget it. She couldn’t watch fifteen minutes of that. Grace stood up and turned her back on the computer, stripping out of her scrubs as she headed toward the bathroom to change into pj’s, her feet unsteady beneath her. Too much wine, but not enough. Not tonight. The scrubs went on top of yesterday’s scrubs in her hamper, the pile of laundry getting to that almost-daunting spot where she’d have a hard time lugging the bag down the hall to the building’s coin-operated laundry room.

  If she watched the whole video, then she’d know for sure that it was—or wasn’t—Ian. And if it was? Could she ever think of him the same way, knowing he was into such kinky stuff? He liked hurting women.

  That must be why he insisted we never see each other again. He didn’t want to hurt her so he got himself a job where he’d be paid to hurt other girls.

  Yeah, there were other girls on that porn site, and what about them? Other women who could be getting hurt. Grace washed her face, staring at herself in the bathroom mirror. She had to at least know if that girl Nikki really was okay with Ian beating the hell out of her. If this website was operating out of South Florida, which it must be if it’s where Ian went “to work”, then her city must have dozens of other women getting roped into being beaten for money.

  And if Ian was the man holding the whip—what then? Did he own the porn site?

  Damn it. She hung the damp towel carefully back on its rung and stepped back into the living room. Her computer had gone to sleep, so no obscene images assaulted her. But she had to see. Had to know, to be sure.

  Grabbing her credit card from the wal
let she kept in her purse, she walked back over to the computer and sat down. The movement must have jostled the mouse, because the screen came to life as if by magic.

  Now was her dinner time, but she wasn’t hungry.

  Download Now.

  Grace took a breath and entered her credit card information, half-wondering if there was some sort of FBI watch on this website. Was downloading a video of a woman getting beaten illegal? It seemed wrong. Dirty.

  A separate media viewer opened up and the video started playing. Nikki was talking to whoever was behind the camera, no ball-gag yet. When would she be gagged? The audio was terrible, but she could hear a flirty female laugh.

  Nikki smiled at someone off-screen. The man who had been holding the whip stepped into the frame fully. Ian. Fuck, it really was him. Tall, with impossibly broad shoulders and a tight black T-shirt on, just like in the clip. In her memories of him he’d always worn a button-down shirt and tie. Here, he looked sexy as hell and positively dangerous.

  Ian had the vibrator—a long white vibrator with an electric cord attached to it—in his hand this time, no whip. Did Nikki know what she was in for?

  Grace couldn’t help but stare at Ian’s face after not seeing him for so long. Handsome as ever, with a chiseled, clean-shaven jaw. His dark hair was clipped short. He seemed so… normal. Like he used to be. Not like a man who was about to leave the sort of marks on Nikki that Grace had seen in that ten-second video sample.

  And that wasn’t the worst of the samples. Some of those clips showed images of clothes pins clamped on nipples…and other places.

  Ian might be the website’s owner, or perhaps just another actor, playing the role of the Dom. But they weren’t acting. It was real.

  On Grace’s monitor, Nikki was still smiling, chatting with Ian as he tied the vibrator to her thigh. Then she jumped a bit when he plugged it in and turned it on, her expression quickly becoming one of ecstasy. It was hard to hear them when they were just chatting quietly, since neither appeared to be wearing a mike, but Nikki’s loud moans came through her speakers clearly as the vibrator buzzed. She turned the volume down on her computer, glancing at her thin walls for a second.