by LP Lovell
I stand in the doorway, watching as the doctor stitches Evie's shoulder. Her gaze fixes on the ceiling, her eyes unfocused.
I should walk out. I should leave her here. Both our lives have gone to shit since the very first time I took that belt to her. She's become my fucking addiction, and I've become her coping mechanism for all the shit she's been through.
She asks me to hurt her. She wants me to break her, and for what? Because she thinks she deserves it. She thinks she will be forgiven by her god, and welcomed into heaven with open arms. I've always said that Evie is insane, but I guess it's no wonder. She is conditioned into believing that she is something wrong, unworthy, that she is nothing and no one, when the truth is, to me she is everything. I've never wanted to possess a woman before, but I want to own every-fucking-thing about Evie. I want every tear, every breath, her hopes and dreams, her fears and desires. Everything she is is mine. My world is potentially about to fall apart, and I should let her go, but I won't. I'm obsessed with her to the point I don't care what is best for her, only that she is with me. She should have walked away when she had the chance, before I fucked her before I killed for her. Twice.
So I will run, and I will take my little killer with me.
The nurse finishes dressing Evie's shoulder and straps her arm into a sling before leaving, offering me a small smile.
"What happens now?" Evie asks, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. She seems lost, and I don't know whether her question is for me or more for herself.
"Now, we go to Russia."
She turns her face towards me, a small frown marring her forehead.
"Because of what Zachariah said about prison?"
I nod. "I have powerful friends there. Untouchable friends."
We landed in Moscow an hour ago, and a Bentley brought us to this house. Ezra promises this man can help us. Us. Because I'm his now. The dim room fills with thick cigar smoke, and there are several men gathered around a kitchen table, rifles slung over their shoulders, playing poker. Every few seconds one of them shouts something out in Russian and the others laugh and yell back. Although I feel uncomfortable, I know Ezra will keep me safe because my tears belong only to him.
The large man sitting in front of me make my stomach kink and twist. If I thought Ezra was the devil, I was wrong. This man looks elegant, almost like a king sat on his throne. His posture is perfect, his suit fitted just right, but calculated evil plays out in his bright blue eyes. Everything about him is cold. And I know, this man must be the devil. His eyes hone in on me. He smirks as he gently takes my hand and drags it towards his lips. My hand trembles when he kisses over my knuckles. His eyes stay trained on me, his lips still touching my skin. "I'm Ronan, my sweet little lamb." His accent is so harsh, so thick.
I nervously glance at Ezra, his fingers tapping against his thigh. "Don't make me hurt you, Rone," he growls.
Ronan chuckles. Smiling at me, he drops my hand. "Such temper." His gaze cuts over to Ezra. "So, how you kill Zee?" he asks, his broken English causing the hairs on my arm to stand on end. The devil would have a Russian accent. "Did you gut him? Spill his blood all over floor? Tell me you cut his sagging balls from his body and ram them down his throat, eh?" He laughs, and that laugh rumbles the floor.
Ezra chuckles, smiling as he takes a drag of his cigar. "No time, my friend. No balls in throats this time." Ezra glances at me, his eyes tracing over my shoulder as though looking for signs of weakness. It aches, but I don't care because that pain means I am his, and because of that, I will willingly take any pain Ezra inflicts on me.
Ronan's nostrils flare, the anticipatory grin fading from his face. "Pity," he mumbles as he grabs the bottle of vodka from the side table. He turns it up, and I watch bubbles form in the neck as he sucks in gulp after gulp. When he pulls the bottle away from his lips, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then shoves the vodka in my direction. "Want a drink?" he asks, laughing.
I shake my head and scoot closer to Ezra. One of the men playing poker pushes back from the table, the legs of the wooden chair scratching over the floor. My pulse quickens as he moves toward us. He stops beside Ronan and leans over his shoulder, whispering something in Ronan's ear.
Ronan's eyes flicker, and he nods. "MI5 know. They look for you as we speak." He shakes his head. "But they are no concern to me. I handle them. I kill them. Like dirty gnat on my food." He slams his thumb down on the table and wiggles it. "Smash them into the table."
Ezra laughs, picking up the vodka bottle. "Even you can't take out MI5, you crazy bastard."
"Ah, ah, ah." Ronan motions with his fingers. "Bring me Olga."
The man standing next to him rolls his eyes before he turns to walk away.
"For you, my friend," Ronan pats Ezra on the knee, "I can do anything."
Ezra takes another swig of vodka, grinning around the lip of the bottle. The man returns and drops a large missile with a naked woman painted on the side onto Ronan's lap.
"This is Olga," he says as he pats the missile. "She take care of the MI5."
I grab onto Ezra's arm, clutching to him for dear life because this man will kill us all. Each time his hand taps over the shell of that missile, my heart threatens to stop. "Ezra, can we leave?" I whisper.
He pats my thigh, a smile pulling at his lips. "Fucking hell, Rone, put that shit down. It's probably from the cold war." He shakes his head. "Look, I just need to stay out of the states and the UK for a while."
To Ezra, this is familiar, safe. This is his church. This is his religion.
Ronan places the missile on the table in front of him, stroking over it one last time. "You stay here. My house always open for you, my friend." His brows lift and his eyes drift over to me. "Olga keep you safe."
I swallow as I stare at this man. I have never seen such insanity. I would like to kill him, but I know I can't. I have to be a good girl for Ezra.
Ezra downs a swig of vodka, raising the bottle to Ronan before he stands. They lean in toward each other, patting each other’s backs without letting their chests touch. And Ronan turns to leave the room. He glances over his shoulder, a small smirk playing on his lips as his gaze drifts from me to Ezra. "Don't get blood on carpets. Expensive to clean. Put down towel." He walks through the doorway, laughing. "And don't break bed, eh?"
I lay on the bed, reading a book. I glance out of the window at the bleak sky heavy with snow, and I wonder whether heaven and hell exist. I wonder where Hannah is. The door creaks open, disturbing my thoughts, and I glance over.
"Evie, there's a guy downstairs with a knife through his dick and a slit throat." Ezra's eyes narrow accusingly on me as he locks the door. "Did you kill him?"
I swallow hard, and my eyes go back to the print on the pages. Ezra takes the few steps from the door to the bed, grabbing my chin and forcing me to look up at him. My heart slams against my ribs as his fingers dig into my face, and I drop the book. "Answer me," he says in a growl, lowering his face to my neck.
"He touched me."
His gaze locks with mine for a second and then his hold loosens. "Then good," he says against my throat. His teeth skim over my skin, and I sigh. I want him angry at me. I want him to punish me because that is the closest thing to love with Ezra, possession.
My lungs falter at the thought of what he'll do to me, of the beautiful ways he will beat me. "Hurt me, Ezra."
His hands roam over my body, peeling open my robe before sweeping his touch between my breast and up to my neck. I relish in the way his fingers feel as they wrap around my throat, one by one.
"No," he says, and my heart plummets.
His thigh spreads my legs apart, and I quickly unfasten his jeans and push them down over his ass. His hard cock presses against me, slipping over my wetness before he thrusts deep inside of me. The initial shock of him filling me causes my back to arch from the bed, and he groans, clenching his jaw.
"You don't need me to hurt you, little killer." His lips brush my cheek, his teeth nipping at my j
aw.
But I do. I want him to hurt me, and it's no longer for forgiveness, it's because I want to feel him love me the only way he knows how. "But I want you to," I plead. He slams into me harder, and I moan like the little slut he wants me to pretend I am.
"I don't care what you want," he says against my ear, nipping me.
"But you like to hurt me, Ezra." I lock my legs around his waist and pull him deeper inside me. "You want my tears. You want my fear." I rock against him, my fingers digging into the hard muscles of his back.
He grabs the back of my neck and rolls me over, forcing me to straddle him. He guides my hips, his grip tightening to the point of pain as he forces me to grind over him. When he reaches the deepest part of me, I throw my head back.
"I have your tears." He groans and my gaze locks with his. "And you have no fear, Evie."
I want to fuck him. I want to, for one moment, own him. I take his hands and force them away from my hips, working myself over him hard. His hands trail up my body, squeezing my breast before moving over my throat. Every touch, every movement bleeds through me. I no longer feel dirty. I no longer feel the need to find forgiveness because every time he touches me, I am forgiven. There is nothing I can do with Ezra that is not sacred. I can fuck him, I can kill for him, I can love him, and none of it's wrong because he rights me in every way. He is my god, and I am his sinner. And when I love him like this, he is my absolution.
His fingers wind into my hair, fisting it with enough force to cause that burn I crave. He wants to own me; he wants to possess me. And I will let him. I will be his little killer. I will be his filthy whore. I will be his saving grace—whatever he wants I will give him. He yanks my body forward, plastering my chest against his. His lips slam over mine. His hold tightens as he thrusts his tongue inside my mouth, claiming me with every stroke. His hips roll, hard and fast; his fingers claw at my waist as he fucks me from beneath. Ezra demands me to meet each of his thrusts as he is both giving and taking power at the same time. I can't help but to stare at him, into those deep, black eyes of his as he takes what he wants from me. And I let him. I let him take every last piece of me.
His teeth sink into my bottom lip, drawing blood. And I moan. He fucks me until all I can feel is him. He consumes me with every thrust, with every kiss he makes me feel pure and righteous and wanted and clean. His grip tightens, and he groans as he pulls my chest back down over him. I'm raw from being fucked, and I wince at the sudden movement. This is the pain he loves to give me—fucking me until I feel nothing but him. With every breath, every movement, I will feel him.
My eyes flutter closed, a small smile creeping over my lips as my core tightens. Heat washes over me, bathing me in the blissful fog of relief. Ezra stiffens beneath me, his fingers tearing at my hips as he comes. And here I lay, pressed against my own form of heaven and hell, breathless and pleased and forgiven.
His hands fall to his sides, and I sit up, staring down at him. He looks so beautiful beneath me— powerful and dangerous in every way. He is like a storm, angry and violent. A force that can make you find power and strength in the ugliest of places. Ezra will scar you with his presence, leave you tasting blood at his memory, and leave you a wreck, a place of utter destruction in his wake. He has forced me to find beauty in my own destruction. I know why I need him, but I can't figure out why he needs me. And I want him to need me.
"Why, Ezra?" I brush my finger over his arm, tracing my finger over his intricate tattoos. "Why did you risk the things you did to save me?"
He flattens his palm against my chest, pushing me until I fall back on to the bed. And then, he's over me, his bare body pressing between my thighs. He takes my hand in his, lacing my fingers with his as he pushes my arms above my head.
And yes, he is going to hurt me.
His lips brush mine. "Because I love you, little killer."
My breath catches in the back of my throat as I stare at him, my heart pounding in my ears. "Say it again."
He growls, wrapping one hand around my throat as he brings his lips to my ear. "I love you."
And now you own him, Evelyn. Body and soul...
The End.
Forever and Ever. Amen.
A Love so Tragic by Stevie J. Cole
Releasing February 15th
A contemporary, second-chance romance
Blurb
Promises.
We all make them. Sometimes we break them. But what happens when the promise you break haunts your dreams, when that moment of betrayal echoes within every last beat of your heart?
Love.
Love is passionate, painful, and all consuming in the most brutal yet beautiful way. How many people have you said 'I love you' to? Five, ten, maybe no one? I've said that word to two men, but only one where I felt it.
Tragic.
This word sums up my relationship with Nicolas: devastating, painful, depressing.
A first love that should have lasted a lifetime, but I ruined with a stupid decision. Nicolas is my star crossed lover, and even though Shakespeare has taught me that stories such as ours always end in tragedy, I can't not love him, even if I'm married to someone else.
Pre-order here:
Amazon:
US: http://amzn.to/1JHrRtv
UK: http://amzn.to/1MFaQzX
CA: http://amzn.to/1Pv9rT4
AU: http://bit.ly/1QY54RQ
Excerpt follows book info…
High by LP Lovell
Releasing March 14th
An erotic comedy/suspense
Blurb
I’m Blake McQueen, daughter of Miles McQueen: businessman, politician, all around upstanding member of the community. I’m told that name means something, but well, I’ve pretty much doused it in petrol, set it on fire, and taken a shit on it for good measure. I like to think of myself as a walking middle finger. My name is now synonymous with booze, parties, sex, and drugs. I have to read the newspaper in the morning just to see where I was, possibly who I fucked, and judge my state of inebriation based on how much tit or minge is splashed across page five. Judge me all you like, love me, hate me. I don’t give a fuck.
Life’s a party and you should never stop dancing. But even the sweetest of highs has it’s low. There is only so high you can go before you fall, and fall I did, right into the arms of the only man that could possibly stop me from crashing and burning. I’ve always been untouchable. I’ve never cared enough to be touchable. Until now.
Pre-order here:
Amazon:
US: http://goo.gl/KosV34
UK: http://goo.gl/kaKexZ
AU: http://goo.gl/eRt0R0
CA: http://goo.gl/awfuMY
Excerpt follows book info…
Loaded by LP Lovell and Stevie J. Cole
June 2015
This story will give you more of Ronan!
Excerpt - A Love so Tragic by Stevie J. Cole
Prologue
I’m not an author, but maybe this hurt is.
You never think you'll become one of those people you hate. You think you know how you'll react in similar situations. You want to believe you are a better person than those people.
But fate doesn't always let you be a good person. Sometimes, to end up where we're supposed to, we have to become one of those people. Heartache and guilt, insecurities can make you do things you shouldn't. And regret, well, regret makes you appreciate things you may otherwise not.
By the time you finish this story, you may very well hate me. Actually, you'll probably hate me pretty close to the beginning, but try not to look at me as one of those people, because even though I am, I'm not. And that may not make sense to you now, but maybe it will at the end. You have to take this for what it is. Wrong in every way, except one because throughout my life there has always been one part that was right, even if I let it go.
The only possible way to make you understand this is to start at the beginning, and even putting this story into words, that can't pull you into my heart, or p
lace you inside my soul. I need you to feel the magnitude of this story, of this romance, of this man. And words could never do Nicolas justice. If I could, I would let you live this, feel it, experience it the way I did, but I can't make you me. Just know that whatever you feel during the course of this story most likely isn't even a tenth of what I felt, and when you cry, it won't be as hard as I did.
Chapter 1
I watch Nicolas walk toward me and my heart sinks. He looks like he hasn't slept, and when his gaze meets mine, he doesn't smile. I can't blame him.
"So, what do we do?" he asks, stopping several feet in front of me like he knows he can't come any closer to me like he wants to prove to me that I'm no longer his.
My vision blurs behind tears and all I can manage is a shrug. There are so many things I want to say to him, but I won't. He drags his hands through his dark hair, his hazel eyes narrowing on me as he pulls his keys from his pocket and turns away. "Let's just..." he glances back at me. "Let's just go for a drive."
I follow him to his car. Even though he should hate me, he still opens the door for me. I slide into the passenger side seat and he shuts the door. I look around inside, and it's strange knowing this is the last time I'll ever sit in here. It's funny the things that gut you in moments like this. There's a Playboy bunny sticker on his rear view mirror, I stuck that there. If I close my eyes, I can picture all the times we made love in the backseat because we had nowhere else to go when we were eighteen. I think about how I was supposed to marry him, and now I'm marrying someone else. This is no longer my life, and the thing that kills me most, is that one day the life I should have had with Nicolas will be someone else's life.
Six years later
"Please, Peyton." Momma pauses, struggling to take a deep breath. "Just throw it away. Honey…” She places her hand on mine. I intertwine my fingers with hers and fight back the tight feeling creeping up my throat.