This is peace. Surely, this is love? That word was important to her.
I’d burned the suitcase, returned her precious name, and I was making good choices.
I drew a deep breath. My chest movement must have disturbed her. Her forehead creased and her lips moved in silent protest.
I would kill anyone who tried to hurt my soft little creature, my ex-CIA analyst, Red.
The same fate was due for anyone who hurt the dog.
I could mull on this forever, or I could sleep. I settled lower and closed my eyes.
What do you create… what do you add to the human existence? That is what matters. Eddie Izzard was right. At the very least, I figured I’d done something good. I’d made a happy Red, a happy me, and a very happy dog.
The End
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Wicked Ways on Amazon
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An Excerpt from
CLOCKWORK STALKER follows
What if the storybook hero becomes the villain?
She is my arch enemy’s niece.
I’m an arrogant, controlling bastard, an excellent detective, and women are turning up dead and bound, with strange marks on their bodies.
This is the least appropriate time for me to fall in lust with the enemy.
Obsession is the sign of a man who is losing control.
Be punctual for this appointment Miss Moriarty.
I have things I need to do. Filthy, perverted things.
This is an erotic Sherlock Holmes romance with a hint of Cthulhu and horror.
With his shoes barely making any sound as he placed them on each tread of the stairs, Sherlock descended the last two steps. From the top, he’d seen what was down here—Willa, nude, blindfolded with red cloth, and bound to a rectangular table. Her hands were tied together at the wrists and above her head, while the ropes leading from her ankles pulled apart her thighs, for they were tied to separate table legs.
This threatened to take his breath away, to leave him swimming in lust like some uncontrolled beast. He was a man, not an animal, and a better example of a man than most of those outside on the streets.
Yet her presence had swallowed him and the room.
Nothing existed except her and the warning drumbeat of his heart, and so he made himself stop and look.
The house above was safe. He should be deliberate and precise, he had plenty of time.
No one would be coming to disturb him.
He made himself take in everything here, as if this were an average crime scene: the stains and moisture on the plastered walls, the small, waist-high table, the healthy pinkness of her feet and hands…
The coolness of the air that made her nipples jut upward in the center of her areolas.
The neat triangle of her scarlet pubic hair, and the line of her slit where even now moisture glistened… and the smallness of her toes.
Sherlock inhaled, exhaled, and shut his eyes. Listen to the beat of the blood. Make the body obey. Turn the eyes elsewhere.
He pressed his lips together.
Except this was not an average crime scene. He had her naked, helpless, and alone.
The room was dominated by this massive elephant of a table that you’d need a lorry or four men to shift. The floor beneath was stained where the stone tiles met. Sherlock knelt and scraped a dark red substance from the grout into a bottle and stoppered it. If human blood, the Uhlenhuth Test would detect it.
On the table between her spread legs was a large wooden dildo and for a second he was angry—at the men and what they must have contemplated doing to her, and at himself for how tempted he was. He moved on.
The small, round table held a tray with a hypodermic syringe and a vial. He paused to read the label, check the level of fluid, and to collect himself. The languid rise and fall of her breasts said she was under the influence of the drug, as did the bleb of blood at her inner elbow. With the blindfold on, she couldn’t know how intently he stared, nevertheless this was a beginning, and he refused to begin in any way except perfection.
With a gentle touch, he rolled down the blindfold, enough to let him lift an eyelid and see her pupil. It was constricted more than normal considering her eyes had been covered. He loosened the cloth, slid it aside, and still she barely stirred.
A chair waited in a shadowed corner. He carried it closer, beneath the dangling electric light then untied both her feet but left her hands bound. It should not take long for her to rouse. Already she moved, showing signs the sedation was lessening. In that respect, her laudanum habit was to her advantage.
The edge of the table was cool under his palms as he leaned over her body.
Such lush beauty. The swell of her breasts and sweep of her hips and waist stirred him carnally.
He would not touch her.
He would not.
CLOCKWORK STALKER on AMAZON
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Cari Silverwood is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling writer of kinky darkness or sometimes of dark kinkiness, depending on her moods and the amount of time she’s spent staring into the night.
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