Hot off the press (and my keyboard), a brand-new excerpt from Unholy Intentions is live on my Patreon! 😈🔥

For those of you who’ve just joined the party, let me catch you up: Unholy Intentions is my latest work-in-progress, where a brooding warrior priest is sworn to protect the daughter of a ruthless tycoon from her stalkers. The line between duty and desire blurs. Forbidden attraction, anyone?

This is a peek into this latest chapter, but if you want to be kept on the edge of your seat, then you’ll want to hit that Become a Patron button on my Patreon. 🔥💀

So head over to Patreon, join the dark side, and savor Unholy Intentions chapter by chapter. Enjoy the ride! 💋

***

Hailey

The quarterback has been drunkenly nibbling at my ear for ten minutes. I would have pushed him off me by now if not for the dirty stuff he’s whispering. I like that shit. But the whole club spins with me, and when I-Forget-His-Name’s squeezes me against him, all those cocktails start coming back up. I’m this close to throwing up all over his expensive, sheen-white shirt, but then he grabs my hair, tugs my head back, and sticks his tongue into my mouth.

He’s a big, fleshy guy, and I usually like them that way. There’s a sense of comfort to a generous layer of fat over muscle, even though I know the snugness is fake. I-Forget-His-Name is as much a bully as his friends, who are probably filming this as we speak, and will be laughing about it on campus tomorrow. 

I know, because this isn’t the first time I’ve sneaked out of Bobby’s gilded cage to make out with a guy at a club. But daddy dearest’s people always track me down before I can go all the way. 

I had some hopes tonight I’d outpace them.

If at least What’s-His-Name were sober, maybe he’d see the deed through. I’d sure as hell let him. It’s not like I dream about love stories like in Hallmark movies anyway. No, I fantasize about getting (full content on Patreon) all over my (full content on Patreon) like a hentai slave with eyes tearing up from the thickness of a paying customer’s (full content on Patreon). No one was supposed to know that I fantasized about having (full content on Patreon), or to see the drawings I made of it.

But Bobby found them. Actively hunted my secrets. 

He took those secrets from me, and it felt like rape.

That’s what started this whole shit storm. 

No. If I’m honest, it started the day Stella met him.  

I was only two years old when my mother turned from a rock band groupie into the wife of a boxing star. When she got her very own American Dream. I can still see her in my mind, spinning happily among falling confetti with a flute of the most expensive champagne in her hand.

Too bad it didn’t last, just as her trysts with famous crackheads didn’t last. I still wonder which one of those eccentric dogs sired me whenever the clock app pushes fan accounts of theirs up my feed. I’ll probably never stop longing to know, but curiosity killed the cat.  The knowledge would only roll in an entire snowball of questions and frustration, and better let sleeping dogs lie. Therapy is what I should have done, but Bobby would never allow it. Too big a risk of our fucked up family secrets to be dragged out into the public eye, and there’s no way in hell Bobby will allow any damage to his public image.

It took Stella ten years to understand that’s all he cared about.  She might have seen it earlier, but she spent them so high on status and fame that she didn’t notice when his declarations of passion turned into abusive insults. But I do remember being ten when I first saw the bruises just above her elbow. I also remember the first time he looked at me differently. I kept my head down for years, hoping it would go away. I tried to stay a child for much longer than I actually was one in the hopes that he’ll become the Bobby I knew when I’d been little. I mourned that Bobby. But he never came back. Instead, during a family photoshoot, his hand slipped low down the small of my back, the tips of his fingers grazing my ass.

The smile froze on my face, turning into the grin of a little shark. I knew that I had to do something at this point. Shit was getting serious.

So I told Mom. She listened to me patiently, the glass of champagne stiff in  her hand. She had this direct, fixed stare that made me feel seen, so I started crying, letting it all out, telling her that I knew he was going to do far worse to me than just put his hand in the wrong places. I thought that her silence was focus, which is why I kept talking like a fucking waterfall, but then she struck me across the face. 

“You lying little bitch.”

I’ll never forget those words.

They echo in my head right now, probably because that’s what I-Forget-His-Name is calling me. Little bitch. While he keeps sloppily nibbling at my earlobe. 

You should have him lap at your clit while he’s still halfway capable of doing it, Hentai Hellcat whispers in my head, her face emerging from the shadow.

“Hoo ‘bout we take dis to da back of my car?” he stammers. 

I blink against the club lights, letting his proposition run through my mind. I don’t have much time until Bobby’s people find me, and chances are I won’t be able to get out again next week. This might be my last chance. I could spread my legs on the hood of his car and let him do me right there in the parking lot. No doubt his friends will be filming it, but who gives a fuck at this point. Just thinking about how it’ll damage Bobby’s image, how the tabloids will be screaming, gives me a kick.

I nod, giving the quarterback the green light.  

He pulls away enough to run an arm around my lower back, and I rest my hand on his shoulder to keep steady. I must resemble a ragdoll hanging on a drunk bull, which is what he looks like with those Thor horns on top of his head. He’s a big guy, and I’m on the small side, even though I’m told that I look taller in pictures. I did running back in high school, which endowed me with lean limbs that create the optical illusion, so maybe that’s why.

I miss the running track. The freedom coursing through my veins, the wind rushing through my hair. It was my favorite thing in the world until Bobby confined me to the house, arguing that I needed to polish my grades for college. It was just an excuse to keep me in, of course, to isolate me from my friends, from people I might talk to about the inappropriate ways he touched me. My grades were absolutely fine, I’d made sure of that because they were my ticket away from Bobby. But he wanted me to go to Norrington, The Order’s very own university, so I’d be trapped under his roof. He wanted me to remain, I quote, his “well-behaved little pussycat”. Never drawing attention to myself, always at his disposal.

That’s when it hit me—that’s exactly what I needed to do. Call attention to myself, as much of it as possible, as quickly as possible. I hated the spotlight, but I desperately needed it to keep his hands off of me. But the feat was hard to achieve, considering he kept me locked in.

So I dropped the graphic novel I’d been working on, the one thing I found refuge in, and went online. Things got out of hand fast, but at least Bobby won’t dare lay his hands on me now with so many eyes fixed on my channel, on us, on our family.

“Thank you for helping the young lady,” a male voice says, close enough that it’s louder than the music. “I’ll be taking over from here.” 

I raise my head, slowly. My eyes move from a pair of polished black shoes up legs in black, to a torso with broad shoulders and a face I can’t make out with the club lights shimmering behind it. 

“Back off, Father,” the quarterback grunts.

Father?

The quarterback tries to push past the newcomer, but the man slides his shoulder out of the way, causing my date to stumble forward. The bastard grabs my shirt in the process of falling flat on his face. He’s pulling me down with him, but a strong arm blocks my fall by catching me at the waist. I-Forget-His-Name ends up a heap of limbs on the floor all by himself. 

“What the fuck,” he grunts, scrambling to get back up to his feet, and failing like he’s trying to gain his footing on ice. I burst into laughter, which earns me a mean glare, his eyes gleaming in the club lights. His face screams ‘I’ll get you for this, bitch’, but I guess I’m too drunk to care. Dizziness still clouds my head but, miraculously, the nausea is gone. Maybe it was his smell. He smelled of cologne when the night started, but then he began to sweat and the stench of onions and dank clothes crept in.

Very much unlike the gentleman whose arm is now wrapped around my back, keeping me close to his body that feels like a wall of muscles against me. His scent brings back a feeling—or a memory, maybe? Of autumn leaves and pumpkin-spiced stories about sexy villains and their secrets.

I look up, finally bringing his face into focus, and—you gotta be shitting me…

***

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