I need to find out who this guy is and fast. I won’t be able to move past any of it unless I do. My gut is reeling over it.
I reach for the phone on the bedside table and dial the manager’s office. Roland answers on the second ring. “Morning, Glory Inn.”
“Roland, it’s Hudson.” I pause briefly, allowing the dots to connect in his addled brain. His breath hitches. He is remembering the stack of fifties I left on the counter at check-in. I purposely overpaid for my room. It wasn’t just the location I wanted, but the privacy as well.
“Is he back?” His weasel voice sneers across the line. If I didn’t know any better, he might actually sound concerned, but men like Roland don’t like confrontation. Fact is, he doesn’t want to deal with a mess and the cops.
“Thankfully, no. I want to know who is staying in the room he was trying to access,” I say. I don’t play games, don’t believe in them. They’ll get you killed if you’re not careful. Besides, it’s best to get straight to the point with men like him.
“I can’t give you that information.” He’s bullshitting me of course, we both know it. He’ll give me the information and anything else I ask for, if the price is right.
“How much?” I ask straight up. Whatever the fuck he wants, I’ll pay it.
“I’m insulted...”
“How much?” I interrupt him, this time putting steel into my voice.
“I can’t...”
“Roland, my patience is thin and you don’t want to know me when it runs out. Stop fucking playing games with me. We both know you’ll give me the information I want, the only question is, how much will it cost me?” If there is any game left in the old man, he needs to know not to push me any further.
“I’m sure President Grant will cover it,” his voice is different now. It’s not quite fear, but close enough.
Fucking bottom feeder, you better be scared. I’ll fucking rip out your throat.
“Done, now give me the name.” The urge to follow through with my silent thought is strong. It is a good thing he only exists through the phone line right now.
“Just a second.” He places the phone down on the counter. I can hear him rustling through some papers before coming back on the line. “Jane Doe.”
“You’re fucking kidding me?” I groan.
Jane-fucking-Doe!
“Afraid not, it’s what the card says,” he answers, and I swear loudly. It’s smart she didn’t use her real name, but Jane Doe? Really? “No credit card on file, paid cash daily for her stay, and no other contact information.”
This shit is seriously bad news; I can feel it deep. Using this name in particular worries me. Does it mean she doesn’t know who she is? Or is her use of it more psychological? Choosing a fake name and backstory isn’t hard to do, and I wonder why she hasn’t been more creative.
Jane Doe stands out in record keeping. It puts a bigger target on her back, making it that much easier to track her. I can only hope she used it this once and if not, she is at least using a different backstory wherever she goes.
“Anyone come in asking about her?” I don’t have to elaborate. Roland isn’t completely addled. He knows whom I mean.
“Not on my watch, but I’d have to check in with Norma. She’s on tonight,” he sniffs. Norma, his wife, is one scary bitch. I doubt I’ll get anything out of her. She doesn’t like questions.
I hang up the phone without saying goodbye and reach for my cell. I want to call this in, but it has nothing to do with the job I’m here to do. King won’t appreciate the distraction I found. He’ll probably send one of the guys down here to check on me if he gets wind of this shit.
I can call Sneak. He owes me a favor or two and will keep quiet about it as long as I provide him with a mountain of moon pies. I flip open the phone but stop short. I don’t have a name to give him. Jane Doe isn’t much to go on.
Fuck!
I resist the urge to chuck the device at the wall and instead flip it closed. It lights up and begins to ring in my hand. I look down at the caller I.D. It’s the call I’ve spent the last few days waiting for. I take a breath and allow myself to slip into character.
Back to work.
“Hey Devlin,” I say into the phone after I quickly flip it open. “I’ve been waiting for your call, man.”
Tracie Douglas
Author Bio:
Surviving on caffeine most days, Tracie Douglas lives in Southern California with her husband, two children, two dogs and one really fat cat. She spends her days chasing children and fur babies, all while maintaining the illusion of sanity.
Her nights are spent toiling away at the keyboard, creating a world filled with hot men and strong women. She loves to read and write all types of book but tends to lean on the darker side of the spectrum. She’s pretty handy with a crochet hook too.
Tracie loves to hear from her readers!
Author Links:
Facebook: www.facebook.com/authortraciedouglas
Reader's Group: http://bit.ly/2t7iPIr
Amazon: http://amzn.to/2t7wGyl
Goodreads: http://bit.ly/1RuenWm
Email: [email protected]
Brooklyn Blues
by R.E. Hargrave
2017 Golden Flogger Award FINALIST, Audible Bestseller
SYNOPSIS:
By day, Brooklyn Crenshaw goes to work and does her job. She’s a working girl who follows orders and stays off the radar. Oh, and she might have a crush on WILLIAM K. BAXTER from across the hall. Each time she passes his office—with his polished name plate on the window—her gut clenches with desire at the sight of him. But he never looks up, can't possibly know who she is, and even if he did, her needs would send him running. Because they always ran.
At night, in private, she turns on her laptop so that her Sir can turn her on. Brooklyn’s never seen His face, but she knows His voice and the magic of His words. The arrangement works for her. Mostly.
As the office holiday party approaches, Brooklyn starts receiving Secret Santa gifts which suggest more than casual interest, Sir reveals his fondness for exhibition and voyeurism, and WILLIAM K. BAXTER finally looks up at her, and waves.
Brooklyn begins to question everything. Does she continue to follow the orders of a man who hides behind technology, but is always there, or does she take a chance on the man right in front of her who’s seen her at long last? Then there is the Secret Santa who seems to know what makes Brooklyn tick. So many decisions.
‘Tis the season… to be kinky.
Read Brooklyn Blues here:
eBook: https://www.books2read.com/BrooklynBlues
Audible: http://ow.ly/HM2d30dxKyR
Prologue
Brooklyn Crenshaw was doing about four things at once, which was normal for her. Multitasking was her strong suit after all. Socializing and peopling, not so much.
Pulling a file, talking on the phone, and transcribing notes from the last office meeting, she was also trying to retrieve the information Ms. Lynn had requested for a presentation. They were trying to land an up and coming publishing house as a client, so Brooklyn needed to gather data on which genres were leading the current literature trends. Distracted as she was, the blonde administrative assistant wasn’t paying attention when she clicked the first link. Having no idea her keystrokes for literature had auto filled to literotica, she had to swallow a shriek when first looking over at the screen.
Why in the world was that in the search history at work? At her computer no less.
As shocking as it was, Brooklyn couldn’t look away. While her eyes absorbed and processed the words and images before her, something inside shifted. Heat washing over her, she mumbled her apologies to the person she was speaking to while disconnecting the call. Her pulse was racing.
Brooklyn closed out of the site she’d gone to on accident, and then cleared the cookies while glancing around the office to make sure no one had seen her screen. Rushing to the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face and tried
to steady her breathing. There were words burned into her retinas now. They could not be unseen: Bondage, Discipline, Sadism, Masochism, Domination and Submission.
There was no denying the fresh dampness in her panties. Or that the more she thought on the mishap, the wetter they became.
She was pretty much useless the rest of the afternoon.
The moment she got home, Brooklyn locked the door and stripped naked so ready to explode all she had to do was swipe a fingertip through her slickness and she was gasping through an orgasm. A trembling mess, she stumbled into the shower from there.
Fresh and clean, and under a little more control of herself, she poured a glass of wine then booted up her computer. That night Brooklyn began exploring the world which would change her life in the coming months.
Black leather and silk ropes. Rosy, pink, intimate flesh. Mouths parted in ecstasy or stuffed with gags and cocks. The peaceful look of surrender on those who knelt. However, the adoration on the faces of those worthy to be above the kneeling was the hardest to ignore.
This was what Brooklyn wanted, what she had been looking for without knowing it. The delirious rush she was getting while imagining these things happening to her, knowing this world existed, gave her hope. It would only be a matter of time before she found a Dominant. She was sure of it.
The curious woman dedicated her nights to research while work became an inconvenient place she had to go so she could pay the bills. Getting to ogle Baxter, the alluring older gentleman across the hall from IT who struck her fancy and tickled her fantasies, made the hours at work less painful at least. Brooklyn read as many stories online as she could find in the BDSM genre—original fiction, personal blogs written by submissives and Masters alike, even fanfiction—until her dreams were being frequented by what she coveted most, a faceless Sir or Master to call her own.
When those sources started running thin, she ventured online to Facebook, finding herself in a secret group of smut loving women who were a wealth of information. They were shameless, which she loved. The collective of their self-confidence was inspirational and informative, but after a while, it wasn’t enough anymore.
She needed a physical understanding.
During a long weekend, Brooklyn got up the nerve to enter an adult store. She left with several bags filled with all kinds of goodies—videos, clamps, plugs and beads, cuffs, gag, and a blindfold. Even a leather paddle and a soft fur flogger had found their way into her basket.
Though the experience itself was humiliating, feeling like every person in the store was analyzing her selections and judging her for them, she walked out feeling more alive, more confident, than she had in years.
Arriving home, Brooklyn dumped her purchases across the bed before unwrapping and cleaning each one that needed it. Then, envisioning what it would be like to have someone using the various items on her, she tested them one by one until she was a sticky mess. Flushed and breathless, and feeling brave, she logged into a chat room for the first time. On a fetish site. One way or another she was going to do something about the longing, the need burning inside her.
Brooklyn set up a screen name she thought cute, using lowercase letters to show her respect from the submissive side: bluebunny. It also happened to be her favorite ice cream. She was polite when participating, but for the most part, she watched the interaction, trying to get a feel for who was serious and who was curious. It all seemed harmless and safe, for a week or so. Then He messaged her one night, and Brooklyn found another door opening.
WillUBelong2Me: Good evening, bunny.
bluebunny: Good evening.
WillUBelong2Me: How new are you?
Boy, he isn’t going to beat around the bush, she thought. The approach was almost too brash, but she could also appreciate the no-nonsense of it. Still, she clicked on his profile to check him out before talking to him further. It showed he was single and lived in Texas, like her. Brooklyn took a few more seconds to come up with what she hoped was a sexy and playful response, instead of one which would make her sound stupid.
bluebunny: A virgin, Sir.
bluebunny: to the lifestyle that is
WillUBelong2Me: I see. Do you have any questions?
She found his response nice, and pressure free. There was also something more she was sensing. I can be honest, she decided. I am hidden behind the anonymity of my computer screen. Her pulse was beginning to pick up.
bluebunny: I’ve been researching for a few months now. I’ve done an initial limits list, purchased some equipment, and am now trying to meet some real people from the lifestyle.
WillUBelong2Me: To talk to? Or play with?
bluebunny: Maybe play. Definitely talk… when I get hit with random thoughts or questions.
The cursor blinked for about three minutes before it jumped to life again, letting her know a reply was coming. She’d almost logged off.
WillUBelong2Me: Tell me, bunny, are you wet?
Brooklyn wasn’t sure how long she stared at her screen in disbelief at his forwardness and wondering if she were ready. She debated clicking out, shutting down, and continuing on living her boring, unsatisfying, safe life. Because that had been working so well for her. Then she thought about playing. For real.
What could a little dabbling hurt?
With shaking hands, Brooklyn took the plunge and typed out her answer.
bluebunny: yes, Sir
WillUBelong2Me: Good girl. What are you wearing?
bluebunny: nothing
WillUBelong2Me: nothing what?
What does he mean? Oh… She shook her head, laughing at herself. This was going to take some getting used to. On a shaky exhale she typed again.
bluebunny: nothing, Sir.
WillUBelong2Me: *smiles* You catch on quick. Would you like to have some fun, bunny? Or, if you’d prefer, we can just talk for tonight.
Her overexcited brain made it hard to recall how to word an appropriate answer, but a reply did materialize. Her finger hovering over the send button, she took a deep breath, and clicked.
bluebunny: Whatever would please you, Sir.
R.E. Hargrave
Author Bio:
Domestic engineer. Dreamer. And quite possibly certifiable.
An international bestselling author, R.E. Hargrave lives on the outskirts of Dallas, TX, where, together with her high school sweetheart, she is raising three children. She has always been an avid reader, a sometimes quilter, and now, is chasing her dream as a writer.
Along with her other hobbies, including cooking, gardening, and a love of music, Hargrave often finds inspiration in the smallest things. When in creation mode, she is fond of setting her stories—which range from the sweet to the paranormal, to the erotic and horrific, but almost always come with romance—on location in South Carolina and Texas.
Hargrave is best known for her erotic BDSM series, The Divine Trilogy. The final book in the trilogy, Surreal, was a 2015 Golden Flogger Award Finalist with BDSM Writer’s Con.
Author Links:
Blog: http://www.rehargrave.com
On Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/REHargrave
On Twitter: https://twitter.com/REHargrave
Tiny Threads: A Snapdragon Novel
By Jami Denise
SYNOPSIS
Jenna always thought her marriage was what fairy tales were made of. That was until the heels on her glass slippers snapped and left her tumbling down to reality.
But knights in shining armor tend to tarnish after twenty years, and she’s far from the wide-eyed princess she’d once been. Four kids, money problems and a crumbling marriage tend to wipe away all the shiny and bright and bring on the reality of broken dreams.
Royal Grainger knows he’s a lucky man—in theory. His wife is caring and beautiful, he has four amazing kids and his own business, and yet, he’s miserable. He’s detached, tired, and dissatisfied. No matter what he does, it’s not enough—for anyone.
The Grainger’s know they’re treading in
the deep end, and they have to work together to push through the pain, the hurt, and the monotony of a long stale marriage to reconnect again. A marriage once full of passion and consideration, becomes one full of bitterness and resentment.
The past comes back to haunt them in a way they never imagined and their happily ever after becomes a battle.
Whatever it takes. The stakes are too high to let go, and for each other, they’ll walk through fire.
Chapter 1
Building
I remembered a time in my life when I’d been a sound sleeper. As a kid, nothing woke me. I’d sleep like a log, no matter where I was.
How I wished that was still true.
It was like my subconscious was constantly on alert. Maybe it was the instincts of a mother, or just old age, but my brain knew something was wrong and when I reached over to the other side of the bed, I found that was true.
My husband wasn’t home yet.
Tired and ticked off, I threw my legs over the side of the bed and padded out of the room to find my phone. I flipped the switch in the kitchen, squinted just enough against the glare of the light to find my purse on the counter and dug around until I had my phone in hand.
I punched his number into the screen—a little harder than necessary—and waited for it to ring. It’d been almost four hours since he said he’d be home, and my heart seized with worry. He always met up with his brother Glenn on Thursday nights to watch sports, but he was always home right after dinner. I never had a problem with that. What I did have a problem with was waking up scared he was in a ditch somewhere. He knew me well enough to know I worried all the time.
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