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His name is Beat, and I should hate him.
Bound, blindfolded and bruised, I'm tied in his basement, waiting for the men who stripped me from clothes and humanity to collect his debt to them. Me.
His name is Nate and I should hate him, but I don't.
I'm not supposed to know his real name, even worse, I'm not supposed to care. He is nothing to me but means to an end. The plan is simple: break free, collect the pieces of my broken soul, kill the bastards and run away.
His name is Nathaniel Thomas Vela, and I've never seen his face, though I hear that it's beautiful.
Behind the rugged and handsome exterior, there's a quiet murderer, a killer who thinks guns are for pussies and ends people with his bare hands.
His name doesn't matter, neither does his face, but what does matter is my heart. And right now, sadly, it's his.
Blood to Dust is a standalone, full-length novel. It contains graphic violence and adult situations some may find offensive.
I suck in my cheeks so that my mouth won’t break into a shit-eating grin of the douchebag variety. My left hand is still on the wheel, while I use my right one to grab the back of her head roughly and pull it into my lap. She unzips me and I help her by lifting my ass from the seat to give her better access. My dick is swollen, stiff and ready to get to know those pinks up-close. She reaches for my boxers and strokes my cock in her hand. It jerks its appreciation in response. I’m still not sure why she’s doing this. We weren’t on good terms when we left Hussein’s house, and I was under the impression she’d let me sweat before letting me into her pussy or mouth again.
Prescott leans farther down, her hot breath on my cock. I roll my head back and fight to keep my eyes open. Crashing into a traffic light would slow us down, but it would be fucking worth it with her mouth on my dick.
Generally speaking, I’m not a fan of blow jobs. Girls usually suck (no pun intended) at knowing the pace and rhythm that works for me. And Pea’s right, most chicks can’t even get half my cock down their throats, anyway. But this is fucking Prescott Burlington-Smyth. I’d take anything she offered me. Herpes included.
I feel her tongue swirling around my tip, painful desire tensing every muscle in my body. Her mouth is sweltering and her silky locks pale, but dirty like her soul, are all over my lap like a sheet of gold. She hasn’t even sucked me yet, but my balls are already tightening, ready to burst.
“Oh, fuck, Baby-Cakes.” I fist her hair and drag her mouth deeper into my groin, lurching myself up from the seat as far as this fucking car allows me, begging for more contact. My head lolls against the headrest and I’m struggling to draw a steady breath. What is it about this girl that makes me forget how to breathe?
She opens her mouth and takes some of me in a leisured suck, then comes up for air. Then she does it again. And again.
After a few minutes of her licking and nibbling through my length, even I have to admit—she gives terrible head. The California highway is potholed, scarred with the impact of earthquakes and the blistering sun, and the car hits bump after bump. Every time it does and my dick meets the back of her throat, she gags with a ghastly sound. She sometimes moves her jaw from one side to the other. I can feel her teeth. It’s like a getting a BJ from a shark. But even though she’s exceptionally untalented at sucking cock, I don’t want her to stop. Her mouth’s on me and that’s enough to make me want to say crazy things to her. Things I’m sure I’m incapable of feeling, anyway.
Ten minutes into the blowjob, Prescott throws in the towel and straightens her posture, eyebrows pinched together. Rage lights up her face.
“You’re not going to come, are you?” Her lips are puffy and bright pink. Just thinking about the fact that they’re swollen because they were wrapped around my cock puts a dark, sinister smile on my face.
“Nope.”
“I thought you said you’re always hot for me.”
“I am.” Is it a good time to tell her she shouldn’t quit her day job as a drug dealer because she sucks like a garbage disposal? “I’m saving my spunk for marriage,” I joke. But she doesn’t laugh. She stares at me seriously, tears pulling at the edge of her eyes. I move my gaze quickly from the road to her face, back to the road. We can’t stop. It’s too dangerous. . .
Fuck it.
I swing onto the shoulder of the freeway, inches from the concrete divider, and lift the handbrake quickly.
“Yo, Pea, what’s up?”
I know she cries. A lot. Over the past few weeks, I saw her pink eyes, the puffy skin beneath her lashes. She cries, but never in front of men. Always alone and in the dark. So why now?
“This is stupid.” She shakes her head, wiping away a tear using the sleeve of my hoodie. Even now, she looks sad, but not helpless. “We need to move. We still have to take pictures for the new IDs.”
“Why are you crying?” I insist. Fuck the fucking pictures.
“It’s stupid, just start the car. We’re running out of time.”
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
She looks out her window, tapping it with her fingertips, obviously embarrassed.
“I’mscadyo mighsto likee me,” she mumbles.
“What?” I move closer, which rewards me with another hit from her stress ball, right into my groin this time.
“I’m worried you might not like me anymore!” She yells, throwing her arms in the air. “What if you decide to ditch me before we get to Godfrey and Seb, or the minute you get your new passport?”
I take her face in my hands without thinking much of it. The need to touch this girl is overwhelming in a way that fucks up every single working cell in my brain. Carefully, I bring my nose to hers, my lips hovering over her pinks, staring right back at her.
“If you think I’d ever bail on you, you’re out of your beautiful, twisted mind. And if you think just because I didn’t come, I don’t find you attractive anymore, you’re a psycho. Because there’s nowhere I’d rather be than between your legs. And if you think that you’re damaged goods because of what those lowlifes did to you, then you’re an idiot. It’s just the opposite, Pea. They built a woman who’s untouchable. So many people have tried, me included. But you’re stronger than anything, which is why we’re sitting in this stupid car right now, chasing freedom. You think I don’t like you?” I breathe into her mouth.
I’m fucking crazy about you.
L.J. Shen is a best-selling author of Contemporary Romance novels. She lives in Northern California with her husband, young son and chubby cat.
She enjoys the simple things in life, like chocolate, wine, reading, HBO, spending time with her girlfriends and internet-stalking Chris Hemsworth. She reads between three to five books a week and firmly believes Crocs shoes and mullets should be outlawed.
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