Myth. Monster. Mine.
I wasn’t even a man when I took a life for the first time, although you couldn’t say I was a child. If I’d ever had a childhood, it hadn’t lasted long. My father, may he rot in hell, had seen to that. I took his life as well and that, too, happened before I was old enough to be considered a grown man. I never regretted it for a second.
That path almost led to my own grave and would have, if I hadn’t stumbled across somebody who was as different from my father as the day was from the night. Sarge had seen the monster lurking inside, so he took control, gave me guidelines, rules, so I wouldn’t be the monster my father had planned.
It worked. I restrained the worst of my rage and honed the skills that had been drilled into me—theft, stealth… assassination. The broken child ceased to exist and I became Spectre, an assassin spoken of in whispers, hired to take out the worst of humanity.
Then I was sent to kill her…and my world came to a screeching halt.
It’s taken a long time, but I finally had a nice, steady routine. I stopped trying to conform to the neurotypicals of the world and found my own normal.
Normal went out the window when I walked into my kitchen and found a strange (hot), dangerous looking (so fricking hot) man drugging my new dog.
It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to leap at him like a banshee and attack, but that’s what I did.
When my attempt to wreck the vehicle was averted, my kidnapper didn’t hurt or threaten me. In fact, he told me he wanted to protect me.
This (hot) guy had to be crazy. But if he was crazy, what did that make me? Because I believed him. More, I found myself seeing something beyond the rigid, blank mask he wore.
He kept trying to push me away, but I couldn’t seem to keep my distance. He calls himself a monster…but when I look at him, that isn’t what I see. I just see him…and I know he’s meant to be mine.
Warning: This isn’t a snuggly, comfy read. The male MC is a hired killer, while the heroine is neuro-atypical. Some dark material is involved—the hero kidnaps the heroine. There’s also violence when he goes on a rampage against those who put a contract on her. Also references of abuse (not against the heroine). Also very graphic, erotic scenes with minor bondage play.
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“Agree,” he said, his voice practically soundless. “Agree to what I asked, damn it, and call your fucking brother.”
“I’m not here to do whatever the fuck you tell me, dumbass!”
I sneered at him, a reply forming but it never made it past my lips. His hand curled around the back of my neck and I felt the impact all the way down to my toes. But there was nothing cruel or domineering about—it was…gentle. Protective, even.
But then he moved and his next action wasn’t even close to gentle or protective. He pressed me back against the wall and wedged himself between my thighs, let me feel, up close and personal, that big cock I’d noticed moments earlier.
I sucked in a startled gasp, then let out a hungry mewl before I could stop it.
“Keep pushing,” he whispered against my ear. “Just…keep pushing, Tia.”
He moved against me and I shuddered as his cock dragged over me—thick, heavy, demanding.
“Keep pushing.” He bit my earlobe. “You’re not in your nice, safe world right now with some nice, safe guy you met for drinks at the bar near the aquarium.”
He moved against me a second time, then a third.
I squeezed my eyes shut against the onslaught of sensation. Sensation too intense, too consuming.
I’d never felt anything like it.
“Those nice boys will walk away, Tia.” He reached between us then, cupping me.
I sucked in a breath as he ground the heel of his hand against me.
I tried. I tried to brace myself against the impact of what was coming. His fingers slid lower. Defenseless, I clamped my thighs around his hand and dragged my lids up, staring at him.
“I’m not a nice boy. I’m not nice at all.”
He went to pull away.
And that greedy, needy part of me wailed in denial.
Curling one leg around his hips, I moved my hips against his. “If you’re so fucking not nice…then do it already.”
Casper went rigid.
Before he could pull back, I curled my free arm around his neck and glared at him.
“Stop it,” he said.
“No.” I leaned in and kissed him. I wasn’t very good at kissing. At least, I didn’t think I was. I’d never enjoyed it before. The only time I had enjoyed it had been in the SUV with him—just hours earlier—when he’d been distracting a trucker. I wanted to pretend it was something other than what it was, but I was a lousy liar.
Not even to myself. He was right about that.
I kissed Casper the way he’d kissed me, tracing the line of his mouth with my tongue, catching his lower lip between mine and sucking it between my teeth, then biting down when I felt him shudder.
The heat between us sparked, grew, flamed. He thrust against me again and again and I was starving for more, to have him naked inside me, fucking me hard and deep.
He lifted his head and watched me, withdrawing before rocking against me again, slow and steady, letting me feel the full, heavy weight of his cock dragging over me.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” Casper said, one hand palming my ass, lifting me, adjusting the angle so that when he passed over me again, the sensations were that much more intense.
I might have bit my lip bloody to keep from responding…except I realized that was what he wanted. He didn’t want the response. He didn’t want the reaction. It was safer, for him, if he could pretend I didn’t react. Not to him. Not to this. Which made it that much more laughable. I’d never felt such a strong reaction to a man before, and everything about him made it harder to control my response.
He slid over me again and the cotton material of my leggings dragged over my wet, engorged clitoris. I sank my nails into his shoulders and shoved closer.
I wanted to come.
I dragged my lids open and stared at him, lashes heavy, body lax. “I want to come. Stop telling me what kind of game I’m playing when you have your cock wedged up against my pussy, Casper. Stop talking about…whatever it is you’re talking about unless you’re going to do something about it. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a mess right now. I can handle it by myself but it will be a lot easier if you’re not fussing at me.”
A hard breath shuddered from him.
He shoved a hand into my hair.
Then, even as I tried to center myself, he shoved his other hand into my panties. “You want to come?”
About Shiloh Walker
Shiloh Walker is an award-winning writer…yes, really! She’s also a mom, a wife, a reader and she pretends to be an amateur photographer. She published her first book in 2003. Her latest romance, Cocksure, released in November 2018.
She writes romantic suspense and contemporary romance, and urban fantasy under the name J.C. Daniels.