Dead Daze – Pitch-Black Second Chance – Story Fodder Read Online J.A. Huss

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Dark, Insta-Love Tags Authors: J.A. Huss Advertisement

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I nod slowly, watching him struggle.

"And then there's the… the dominant guys. The ones who take charge. Who make decisions. Who—" He clears his throat. "Who want control. But not in a toxic way. In like, a—a structured way."

The buzz intensifies. Just barely.

"And then there's—there's somewhere in the middle, I guess. Guys who adapt. Who can be whatever their partner needs." His fingers resume drumming. Stop again. "Or guys who pretend to be one thing because they think that's what women want, but they're actually⁠—"

He cuts himself off, breathing harder.

I wait.

"What's your type?" he finally asks.

The question hangs between us.

I tilt my head. "Are you asking if you're my type?"

Marty shrugs. "Well, I'm not sure if that's what I'm asking. Actually, no. That's not what I'm asking because you don't know me, so how could you possibly know I'm your type?"

I let out a breath and lean back in the booth. OK. I guess this guy wants to have some real talk. Unexpected, but not entirely unwanted. "So… what are you asking?"

"Well…" he looks me straight in the eyes. I'm talking, locked the fuck on. "I'm asking which one you prefer. Do you like soft guys?"

"Like you?"

He laughs. "Am I soft?"

I shrug. "You look a little soft."

"Why? Because I take yoga?"

"Yes. Mostly. But also… I dunno. You've got that golden-retriever energy."

He smiles. "Golden what?"

"Golden retriever. You know, in romance books—" But I stop. Because I'm not a romance writer anymore and I don't want to explain these things to him.

"Oh, right," he says. "Yeah. I've heard of that."

"Heard of what?" I scoff.

"Tropes. Dark romance."

"What?" My mouth is hanging open.

"What? Why are you looking at me that way? I stumbled into Booktok one day last year and…" he blows out a breath. "Never quite recovered from what I saw."

Now… I'm intrigued. My voice lowers too. "What did you see?"

Marty shifts in his seat. His fingers drum the table again, then stop. He looks down at his salad like it might save him from this conversation.

"I mean—" He clears his throat. "I saw... videos. Of women talking about books. Dark romance books. Really dark ones."

I just stare at him.

"Like, not the billionaire CEO kind of dark. Not the 'he's brooding but secretly has a heart of gold' dark." His voice drops lower. "The... the actually dark kind."

My mouth falls open.

Marty's face is flushing now. Red creeping up his neck. "The kidnapping kind. The—the Stockholm syndrome kind. The—" He stops. Swallows hard. "The kind where the guy is legitimately fucked up and does fucked up things and the woman⁠—"

He can't finish the sentence.

I lean forward. "And the woman what?"

"Wants it anyway." The words come out strangled. "Even though she shouldn't. Even though it's wrong. Even though every part of her knows it's wrong but she—she still⁠—"

He cuts himself off, breathing harder now.

"You watched videos about that?" My voice sounds strange. Distant.

"I fell down a rabbit hole." He's looking anywhere but at me. "For like... three months. Just watching these women talk about their favorite dark romance books. About mafia bosses, and stalkers, and—and monsters. Literal monsters sometimes. And they'd get this look in their eyes when they talked about it. This... this need."

My pussy clenches.

Just once.

But I feel it.

Marty finally looks at me. "So I'm asking. What's your type, Scarletta?"

I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out.

My brain is scrambling. Trying to construct something. Anything.

What's my type?

The question should be simple. It's not.

Marty watches me for another few seconds, then sighs heavily and leans back in the booth.

"Never mind. Forget I asked." He picks up his fork, stabbing at his salad with more force than necessary. "You're not my type anyway."

My stomach drops. "What?"

"I mean—" He shrugs, not looking at me. "You're too independent. Too... strong. I can tell just from talking to you for like twenty minutes. You've got your shit together. Your own career. Your own apartment. You don't need anyone."

The words hit wrong. Like he's describing someone else entirely.

"I like—" He stops. Clears his throat. "I prefer more demure women. Quieter. Softer. Women who actually want to be taken care of instead of..." He gestures vaguely at me.

I should feel insulted.

I don't.

Because heat is pooling between my legs. Slow and insistent.

Demure. Softer. Women who want to be taken care of.

"I'm only asking because I don't want to waste your time." Marty's still not looking at me, just pushing lettuce around his plate. "Or mine, honestly. I know that sounds shitty but I'm just—I'm desperate to find someone I can actually connect with. Someone who wants what I want. And you clearly don't."

My face is burning now. My thighs press together under the table.

I try to speak. "I—I might⁠—"

"It's a stupid question anyway." He cuts me off, waving his hand dismissively. "Forget it."

But I can't forget it.

Because my pussy is throbbing. Actually throbbing for the first time in six months.


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