Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
I do another pass of the townhouse, clearing each room. There’s no one here. It feels empty.
So why does the back of my neck prickle like someone’s watching me?
It’s probably my imagination. The events of my life would leave me to believe murderers and monsters are lurking everywhere.
I rub the goosebumps on my arm. I could turn up the thermostat, but I don’t bother. I drop my keys and badge in the kitchen and inhale the stale air. It hadn’t been easy to find a place quickly that was both cheap enough to fit into my budget and already furnished.
I caught a break when I heard about this place. The brass sent an email that the landlord was renting it at a discount, hoping to get a cop as a tenant. It’s in a quiet neighborhood and comes with a state-of-the-art security system. It’s one half of a duplex, with a walk-up shaded by a thick hedge that shields my front door from the sidewalk and road. Even though it’s in the middle of the city, it feels private and secluded. So far, I haven’t seen or heard the person who lives next door, which suits me fine.
The place is a long way from the main police office where I’m stationed, but I don’t mind a long commute. I take the time to think. And it’s not like I have anyone waiting up for me.
If it weren’t for the personal items I just tossed onto the laminate counters and the vase with the sprig of jasmine, the place would look like no one lived here.
A normal person might go to the store and buy some food or dishes. Maybe a potted succulent and dish towels with little ducks on them or something. That would help, right? I have no idea how to make a house a home.
Maybe because I haven’t had a home since I was ten. Not since. . .
I stop that train of thought and head to shower off the day.
The scent is strongest when I open my closet door. Fresh and woodsy, it’s exactly like the mystery dom’s cologne. Maybe his cologne lingered on the lingerie I wore.
I take the satin nightie out of my hamper and bring it to my face, and it hits me like a strike of a whip, bringing me right back to my time on the cross. I can sense the dom pacing behind me. The breadth of his shoulders and the weight of his presence tells me he’s a big guy. Tall, towering over me. Dominating me without lifting a finger or saying a word.
Most of my scene partners are tops. He’s the first one I think of as a dom. The authority in his voice. The assurance in the way he flogged me. His patience and taking the time to build me up to a glorious peak.
The way he tempted me, inviting me to give up control.
I drop the nightie and grab my phone, opening the Club Empire app and scrolling. There are events tonight—a rope bondage class, a drag queen show, plus the opportunity to reserve a room for private play. I’m so tempted to book one and see if I can entice the mystery dom to scene with me again.
But who is he? On a whim, I call the club.
An employee answers, “Club Empire, how may I help you?”
My stomach seizes, and I hang up. What am I doing? I need to follow my own rules.
We had one night together. That’s all I get.
Desperate, I grab my sketchbook, and my pencil flies over the page. The figure of a man takes shape. He’s tall with brooding features and a powerful frame made to dominate.
I sketch him as I’ve imagined him—the proud face, the broad set of shoulders. I draw myself bound to the cross, him standing inches behind me.
“If I can make you come without touching you, will you scene with me again?”
I can almost feel his hot breath against the shell of my ear. The hairs on the back of my neck rise. Was that a creak of a step behind me—
The doorbell rings, shattering the silence. I leap out of bed, and my sketchbook goes flying. I pull on jeans and a T-shirt and grab my gun to confront whoever’s at the front door. The peephole shows no one there. Probably just kids doing a stupid dare.
After a cautious pause, I open the door. There’s a white bag on my stoop filled with clamshell containers. The scent of garlic and butter wafts upward, making my mouth water and my stomach cramp. I grab the bag and slam the door.
According to the receipt stapled to the top of the bag, the delicious-smelling contents are chicken masala, Caesar salad, and tiramisu from a restaurant called Paisano’s. I call the restaurant to report the incorrect delivery, and the person on the line rattles off the address. It’s mine.