between us. I’m sweating. I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. The vodka is kicking in fast. I stumble sideways. You grip my arm.
“Feeling okay?” you ask.
The room spins and tilts. Black spots swim through my vision. “No. I need to sit.” My drink slips through my fingers and splatters on my bare leg.
“I’ve got you.” You put an arm around me and lead me toward the door. “You need some air.”
I’m blacking out and coming to, over and over again. This has never happened from three and a half vodka and cranberries before. “I need to get home.”
“I’ll take you,” you say.
“No. I…” The words won’t come. They buzz around in the darkness inside my mind searching for the light. I watch them break apart and fade.
You usher me through the parking lot. Open the door of a black car. Put me inside. “We’ll be home soon,” you say, buckling a seatbelt around my waist.
I try to grip the door handle to get out. My arm won’t move. My head lulls on my shoulder. The blackness narrows, leaving a small tunnel focused on the dashboard. Then it closes completely.
No more words.
No more light.
No more sound.
Just like that—I’m taken.
The erotic adventure takes its most turbulent turn…
See the next page for an excerpt from
Taken by Storm
One
T he soles of MJ’s boots echoing off the concrete driveway sounded like drum beats in his head. A raging, metal death band soundtrack to his shit life. He reached his car—a black ’68 Camaro convertible bought with blood money from his grandfather—and tossed his duffel bag in the backseat.
“Don’t tell me you’re running away again.”
Her voice sparked chills up his back. MJ turned and looked, but could only see a cloud of cigarette smoke lingering under the garage light. “Stay out of my business,” he said into the darkness.
Her deep, sultry chuckle sank inside his ears and made him close his eyes. That laugh. So many nights… that laugh in the dark, under the sheets. God, how he’d ached for her when she left.
“I thought you quit smoking,” he said, despite himself. Why could he never walk away from her?
Maddie slipped around the corner from the side of the garage and leaned against the door. He could just make out the faint red shine of her lips. Her dark hair loose around her shoulders. The predatory gleam in her eye. “Old habits die hard.”
MJ let out a sharp laugh. “Not all of them.” He openedthe car door and got behind the wheel. There was no way he’d stay and get lured into her bed again. No way he’d go through that kind of torture when she took off on him.
Never again.
Maddie had been his addiction, his drug, and he intended to stay clean. Clean, but not sober. The only place he wanted to be was at the bottom of a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.
He fumbled with his keys, giving her one too many seconds to cross the driveway and reach his car. “The first time you ran away,” she said, laying her hands on top of his car door, “you got as far as Coach’s house. That time it was my fault because I spent two weeks of our summer at sleep-away camp and abandoned you here alone. Is it my fault this time too?”
Jesus, she was wearing that perfume—the one that smelled like vanilla and spice.
He remembered that summer. Two whole weeks without Maddie. She was the only bright spot in his life back then. His best friend, before she became even more.
His grandfather, Enzo Rocha, The Puppet Master, had kept MJ under his care and his thumb since he was born. MJ had been shipped from nanny to private boarding school, then another boarding school and another when he got kicked out for fighting, but he was never wanted under
this
roof—his grandfather’s roof—this fucking mansion of a house where his grandfather would never even have had to see his face if he didn’t want to. MJ’s stays had been limited to short visits during summer and winter breaks.
And Maddie had always been there. The house
“Feeling okay?” you ask.
The room spins and tilts. Black spots swim through my vision. “No. I need to sit.” My drink slips through my fingers and splatters on my bare leg.
“I’ve got you.” You put an arm around me and lead me toward the door. “You need some air.”
I’m blacking out and coming to, over and over again. This has never happened from three and a half vodka and cranberries before. “I need to get home.”
“I’ll take you,” you say.
“No. I…” The words won’t come. They buzz around in the darkness inside my mind searching for the light. I watch them break apart and fade.
You usher me through the parking lot. Open the door of a black car. Put me inside. “We’ll be home soon,” you say, buckling a seatbelt around my waist.
I try to grip the door handle to get out. My arm won’t move. My head lulls on my shoulder. The blackness narrows, leaving a small tunnel focused on the dashboard. Then it closes completely.
No more words.
No more light.
No more sound.
Just like that—I’m taken.
The erotic adventure takes its most turbulent turn…
See the next page for an excerpt from
Taken by Storm
One
T he soles of MJ’s boots echoing off the concrete driveway sounded like drum beats in his head. A raging, metal death band soundtrack to his shit life. He reached his car—a black ’68 Camaro convertible bought with blood money from his grandfather—and tossed his duffel bag in the backseat.
“Don’t tell me you’re running away again.”
Her voice sparked chills up his back. MJ turned and looked, but could only see a cloud of cigarette smoke lingering under the garage light. “Stay out of my business,” he said into the darkness.
Her deep, sultry chuckle sank inside his ears and made him close his eyes. That laugh. So many nights… that laugh in the dark, under the sheets. God, how he’d ached for her when she left.
“I thought you quit smoking,” he said, despite himself. Why could he never walk away from her?
Maddie slipped around the corner from the side of the garage and leaned against the door. He could just make out the faint red shine of her lips. Her dark hair loose around her shoulders. The predatory gleam in her eye. “Old habits die hard.”
MJ let out a sharp laugh. “Not all of them.” He openedthe car door and got behind the wheel. There was no way he’d stay and get lured into her bed again. No way he’d go through that kind of torture when she took off on him.
Never again.
Maddie had been his addiction, his drug, and he intended to stay clean. Clean, but not sober. The only place he wanted to be was at the bottom of a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.
He fumbled with his keys, giving her one too many seconds to cross the driveway and reach his car. “The first time you ran away,” she said, laying her hands on top of his car door, “you got as far as Coach’s house. That time it was my fault because I spent two weeks of our summer at sleep-away camp and abandoned you here alone. Is it my fault this time too?”
Jesus, she was wearing that perfume—the one that smelled like vanilla and spice.
He remembered that summer. Two whole weeks without Maddie. She was the only bright spot in his life back then. His best friend, before she became even more.
His grandfather, Enzo Rocha, The Puppet Master, had kept MJ under his care and his thumb since he was born. MJ had been shipped from nanny to private boarding school, then another boarding school and another when he got kicked out for fighting, but he was never wanted under
this
roof—his grandfather’s roof—this fucking mansion of a house where his grandfather would never even have had to see his face if he didn’t want to. MJ’s stays had been limited to short visits during summer and winter breaks.
And Maddie had always been there. The house
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