Tate and Low's story.
I'm loud, I'm proud, and I like to bust balls in my spare time. At least, that's what Low Parker would do. But, she is just a mask, one that I have perfected over years of running. I am Willow Knoxx. Master of deception, secrets, and lies. I am the girl your mother told you to stay away from, and the girl your father fantasized about. I have been running for years, always looking over my shoulder. Now, the mask that I have perfected is about to disappear, and everything I have done to keep myself hidden is about to be revealed.
“Enough room?” He growled, his brow arching at my comment. “Baby, I don’t think you get it yet. I want to consume your every thought, every movement, every desire.”
His hands suddenly cupped my face as he leaned in close, his breath caressing my lips like soft silk. My pulse skyrocketed at his closeness, as it did every time he was near, sending me dizzy with lust. I could feel the vulnerability snaking its way through my body, latching onto my crimson blood as it slowly seeped through my skin. I could physically smell my vulnerability as it permeated the air around us. I could smell it, taste it, see it.
“Okay,” I squeaked, the fear of my secrets dripping from my soft voice.
“Listen, and listen good, Low. I will consume every part of you. I will consume every thought, every movement, every desire. You won’t be able to breathe without thinking of me, feeling me, wanting only me. Am I clear?”
Oh dear god.
I could feel the lump in my throat forming, choking me with every second that passed, seconds that felt like torturous hours.
“Yes,” I replied on a shaky breath.
Words had yet again failed me. I was sprouting one word answers because Tate did something to me that no man had ever accomplished. He made me feel.
His lips suddenly crashed against my own, the power he held over me pushing boundaries I didn’t know were there. His teeth scraped against my bottom lip, pulling and tugging as if pleading for entry. My head screamed, begged, and bartered, yelling at me to stop, to push back and leave. But his lips and teeth held me captive, my heart jumping at the chance to finally overpower my head, all too willing to be his victim.
S.K. Hartley is a mother, wife and a writer. Based in the not so sunny North West of England you can find her either glued to her computer desk, in the public library (Yes, they do still exist!) or floating around her favourite authors books signings.
S.K. Hartley has an unhealthy obsession with coffee, chocolate and retro computer games and a healthy obsession of stalking indie authors.
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