Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 69711 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69711 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Shopping, driving, getting a mani-pedi, chilling with a book, getting coffee with a friend… none of them would ordinarily lead to this particular situation. This is real life, after all.
Then again, maybe it’s not. Maybe I’ve managed to teleport myself into some steamy monster romance novel, like an X-rated version of The Neverending Story. Lately, my book boyfriends have been more Beast than Prince Charming—minotaurs, orcs, even a Kraken—although I haven’t yet tried a demon.
If he shows up, you might get your chance, I think, then tell that cynical, resort-to-humor-in-any-difficult-situation voice to shut the hell up. This ain’t the time for jokes, as my mom used to say.
God, though, what if he does show up?
What if he doesn’t?
I’m pretty screwed either way. There’s no guarantee this Demon King won’t just kill me. His own people refer to him as His Evilness.
“We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto,” I say aloud. Maybe I’m having a nervous breakdown, like my Aunt Nettie when her husband upped and left. I used to think that whole I’m going out to get cigarettes thing was some kind of urban legend, until it happened to my family. My auntie’s husband did just that—told her he was heading to the store, and never came back. He just vanished, like he never even existed. Poof. Gone.
As crappy as Phillip was as a husband, at least he had the decency to tell me he wanted a divorce. To stay in communication with me through the whole process. We even still follow each other on social media. And in my darkest days during that separation, when I found myself sobbing in bed in the middle of the night, wondering if that was it for me romantically and I was going to die alone, I often comforted myself with that little thought: at least I was getting closure. Unlike poor Nettie.
Life doesn’t give you what you want. You get what you get, and you have to make the best of it. When life gives me lemons, I make margaritas. I prefer them with lime, but lemon is better than nothing.
I would freaking kill for a cocktail right now. My arms are beginning to ache, spread-eagled as I am, and I’m getting groggy. Dehydration? Or just exhaustion? How long have I been tied up here? What is exposure, anyway? You hear of people getting lost out in the wilderness and dying of exposure. Is that the same thing as dying of hunger and thirst? Does everyone have constant random thoughts, or is it just me?
The ground rumbles beneath my tied feet. The lake pulses like it's going to slop over its edges. I shrink back against the tree, praying the lava doesn’t flow towards me.
Lava, volcanoes, and now earthquakes. Is this hell, or purgatory? Definitely isn’t heaven.
At least I’m not tied to the top of the volcano. It’s hard enough to breathe down here.
The mini-quake subsides, and the lake’s surface has resumed its former rolling boil. A cool breeze whispers over my face.
Goosebumps prickle over the skin of my arms and legs. I squint across the bubbling expanse of the lake to the gothic-looking turret beyond.
A shadowy shape emerges from the tower and hurtles over the lake. My heart stops.
It’s approaching me—fast. And as it gets closer, my panic increases. It’s big… no, it’s freaking huge.
A monster.
The Demon King?
It’s flying on massive, black, bat-like wings, heading straight towards me.
Please faint, I beg myself. Please, please, please. Just pass out… now. But I remain agonizingly conscious. As soon as I can make out the curved horns, I do the next best thing, and squeeze my eyes shut. Please go away, I pray. I may not be a twenty-year-old virgin, but I’m still definitely too young to die.
There’s a gust of air over my bare skin and, even with my eyes shut, I can tell when the shadow falls over me. He’s close enough to block out the light, like when the sun goes behind a huge cloud.
A deep, rasping growl makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise and bizarrely, out of nowhere, a bolt of lust shoots through my lower belly.
I’m hit with the most delicious, decadent scent—leather, bitter chocolate, cigars in a humidor, with an underlying note of something musky I can’t place—and an urgent, liquid heat surges between my legs with such ferocity, I let out a gasp.
“Look at me,” a voice rasps. It’s not a request. It’s a command.
Keeping my eyes squeezed shut, I give the barest shake of my head. I can’t look. I’m too terrified. Too inexplicably turned on.
“I command you to look at me!” The raspy voice is now a roll of thunder which renders me incapable of disobedience. My heart is thumping in time with my clit.
My eyes fly open, and I meet the demon’s gaze. His pupils are black slits in a sea of mystic topaz. I’m drowning in his eyes, unable to look away.