Exchange of Souls
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Introduction
Mary always had one thing in common with the leaves on the pine tree...they both moved where the wind wanted them to—adjusting her sitting position on the wooden seat, which seemed to be just in the right place at the corner of the yard far away and hidden from the judgemental eyes of the occupants of the ten-bedroom mansion. The grand splendor of the house couldn't be denied, built-in details many years back by the first lords of Scotland, the pioneers whose contributions to the growth of the nation's wealth as they established strong trade relationships with the British empire in the 1700s, conquering gold mines in the Eastern lands of the Arabic nations. The Winstons have held their own.
Mary ran her hands through her faded cotton gown, which used to be a vibrant yellow, now only a shadow of itself ...how could she have the blood of the Winstons? a soft sigh escaped her thin pale lips that looked cracked and dry. Mary knew her only redeeming feature was her big baby blue eyes, as told to her by Michael, the son of the gardener who was only ten years of age. People might find it funny that she believed a child, but there was no time she could remember Michael telling a lie. The little lad was always honest to a fault which landed him in trouble most times. At least he had his father, who was the gardener and mother, the head cook to shower him with love; she never had that.
She was born to a prostitute mother who set her eyes on the Winston heir 20 years ago, leading to her being born out of wedlock. Her mother, whose name she would instead not remember, tried to get her hands on fortune using her as a pawn, but she had bitten more than she could chew. Word was she was strangled while entertaining a customer who was relatively unknown around the area. Her death has been covered up as a suicide.
Mary never knew her mother the only memory she has of her was the hate-filled gaze that chilled her to the bone any time she stumbled upon her into the brothel home where the prostitutes stayed. Even at the young age of three, she remembered the nights out in the cold, not eating for days only to be rewarded with a slap for every tear she shed. It was a good thing they lived in a public place as other courtesans took pity on her from time to time and let her eat their scraps. Shaking her head, Mary got up from the chair as if it would shake off the terrible scars from her soul, not minding the visible scars on her body.
She walked into the garden, running her hands through the flowers, and for a while, it seemed like the perfect escape until she realized she had walked too far. The gardens had an outlet that connected to the forest. Turning back, she began to retrace her steps. It was never a good idea to be here alone.
Mary ran her hands through her faded cotton gown, which used to be a vibrant yellow, now only a shadow of itself ...how could she have the blood of the Winstons? a soft sigh escaped her thin pale lips that looked cracked and dry. Mary knew her only redeeming feature was her big baby blue eyes, as told to her by Michael, the son of the gardener who was only ten years of age. People might find it funny that she believed a child, but there was no time she could remember Michael telling a lie. The little lad was always honest to a fault which landed him in trouble most times. At least he had his father, who was the gardener and mother, the head cook to shower him with love; she never had that.
She was born to a prostitute mother who set her eyes on the Winston heir 20 years ago, leading to her being born out of wedlock. Her mother, whose name she would instead not remember, tried to get her hands on fortune using her as a pawn, but she had bitten more than she could chew. Word was she was strangled while entertaining a customer who was relatively unknown around the area. Her death has been covered up as a suicide.
Mary never knew her mother the only memory she has of her was the hate-filled gaze that chilled her to the bone any time she stumbled upon her into the brothel home where the prostitutes stayed. Even at the young age of three, she remembered the nights out in the cold, not eating for days only to be rewarded with a slap for every tear she shed. It was a good thing they lived in a public place as other courtesans took pity on her from time to time and let her eat their scraps. Shaking her head, Mary got up from the chair as if it would shake off the terrible scars from her soul, not minding the visible scars on her body.
She walked into the garden, running her hands through the flowers, and for a while, it seemed like the perfect escape until she realized she had walked too far. The gardens had an outlet that connected to the forest. Turning back, she began to retrace her steps. It was never a good idea to be here alone.
Chapter 1
Mary always had one thing in common with the leaves on the pine tree...they both moved where the wind wanted them to—adjusting her sitting position on the wooden seat, which seemed to be just in the right place at the corner of the yard far away and hidden from the judgemental eyes of the occupants of the ten-bedroom mansion. The grand splendor of the house couldn't be denied, built-in details many years back by the first lords of Scotland, the pioneers whose contributions to the growth of the nation's wealth as they established strong trade relationships with the British empire in the 1700s, conquering gold mines in the Eastern lands of the Arabic nations. The Winstons have held their own.
Mary ran her hands through her faded cotton gown, which used to be a vibrant yellow, now only a shadow of itself ...how could she have the blood of the Winstons? a soft sigh escaped her thin pale lips that looked cracked and dry. Mary knew her only redeeming feature was her big baby blue eyes, as told to her by Michael, the son of the gardener who was only ten years of age. People might find it funny that she believed a child, but there was no time she could remember Michael telling a lie. The little lad was always honest to a fault which landed him in trouble most times. At least he had his father, who was the gardener and mother, the head cook to shower him with love; she never had that.
She was born to a prostitute mother who set her eyes on the Winston heir 20 years ago, leading to her being born out of wedlock. Her mother, whose name she would instead not remember, tried to get her hands on fortune using her as a pawn, but she had bitten more than she could chew. Word was she was strangled while entertaining a customer who was relatively unknown around the area. Her death has been covered up as a suicide.
Mary never knew her mother the only memory she has of her was the hate-filled gaze that chilled her to the bone any time she stumbled upon her into the brothel home where the prostitutes stayed. Even at the young age of three, she remembered the nights out in the cold, not eating for days only to be rewarded with a slap for every tear she shed. It was a good thing they lived in a public place as other courtesans took pity on her from time to time and let her eat their scraps. Shaking her head, Mary got up from the chair as if it would shake off the terrible scars from her soul, not minding the visible scars on her body.
She walked into the garden, running her hands through the flowers, and for a while, it seemed like the perfect escape until she realized she had walked too far. The gardens had an outlet that connected to the forest. Turning back, she began to retrace her steps. It was never a good idea to be here alone.
‘Ahh-' Mary felt bile rise to her throat as grease-filled hands cut her screams...not that anyone would help. But if only today could be an exception, Mary thought as the attacker whose strength she could not surpass grabbed her neck with one hand, the other fumbling through her dress. She laid on the ground fighting, desperately wishing for a savior.…
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Why does being near him make my skin feel too tight, like I’m wearing a sweater two sizes too small?
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“I thought we discussed this earlier, Weakness? I warned you. His death is on your hands.”
“I thought you said you were done chasing me?” Gen mocked.
“I am done chasing you.”
Before she could formulate a witty remark, Matteo threw her down. She landed hard on her back atop his dining room table. She tried to sit up when she noticed what he was doing. His hands were working on his belt. It came free of his pants with a violent yank. She collapsed back on her elbows, her mouth gaping open at the display. His face was a mask of sheer determination, his eyes were a dark gold swimming with heat and desire. His hands wrapped around her thighs and pulled her to the edge of the table. He glided his fingers up her thighs and hooked several around the inside of her panties. His knuckles brushed her dripping sex.
“You’re soaking wet, Genevieve. Tell me, was it me that made you this way or him?” his voice told her to be careful with her answer. His knuckles slid down through her folds and she threw her head back as she moaned. “Weakness?”
“You…” she breathed.
Genevieve loses a bet she can’t afford to pay. In a compromise, she agrees to convince any man her opponent chooses to go home with her that night. What she doesn’t realize when her sister’s friend points out the brooding man sitting alone at the bar, is that man won’t be okay with just one night with her. No, Matteo Accardi, Don of one of the largest gangs in New York City doesn’t do one night stands. Not with her anyway.
“I thought you said you were done chasing me?” Gen mocked.
“I am done chasing you.”
Before she could formulate a witty remark, Matteo threw her down. She landed hard on her back atop his dining room table. She tried to sit up when she noticed what he was doing. His hands were working on his belt. It came free of his pants with a violent yank. She collapsed back on her elbows, her mouth gaping open at the display. His face was a mask of sheer determination, his eyes were a dark gold swimming with heat and desire. His hands wrapped around her thighs and pulled her to the edge of the table. He glided his fingers up her thighs and hooked several around the inside of her panties. His knuckles brushed her dripping sex.
“You’re soaking wet, Genevieve. Tell me, was it me that made you this way or him?” his voice told her to be careful with her answer. His knuckles slid down through her folds and she threw her head back as she moaned. “Weakness?”
“You…” she breathed.
Genevieve loses a bet she can’t afford to pay. In a compromise, she agrees to convince any man her opponent chooses to go home with her that night. What she doesn’t realize when her sister’s friend points out the brooding man sitting alone at the bar, is that man won’t be okay with just one night with her. No, Matteo Accardi, Don of one of the largest gangs in New York City doesn’t do one night stands. Not with her anyway.
The Hunter and The Hunted
5.1k Views · Ongoing · Sashalouise Prior
My skin heats with each thrust of his fingers, and each forceful lap of his tongue, and i cannot stop the moans of pleasure tearing through my slackened jaw. My hand is wrapped in his hair, giving the impression that I have control, but I don’t. I control nothing, and I like it.
Mihai’s hand slowly slides up my stomach, his fingers wrapping around my neck as he cuts of my ability to breathe, black spots clouding my vision, and yet, I am not afraid. I want more. I want everything that he can give to me.
He slowly inserts a third finger, the intense fullness that I feel teetering me over the edge of a cliff I cannot even see, and then he sucks and pulls at my clit. Sparks erupt throughout my body, the orgasm shaking my soul, and destroying what was left of my resistance.
She was the Daughter of a Hunter, he was one of the creatures that her family had sworn to destroy, what could possibly go wrong?
When their worlds collide, who will be left standing, will it be the hunter or the hunted, and which is which?
Mihai’s hand slowly slides up my stomach, his fingers wrapping around my neck as he cuts of my ability to breathe, black spots clouding my vision, and yet, I am not afraid. I want more. I want everything that he can give to me.
He slowly inserts a third finger, the intense fullness that I feel teetering me over the edge of a cliff I cannot even see, and then he sucks and pulls at my clit. Sparks erupt throughout my body, the orgasm shaking my soul, and destroying what was left of my resistance.
She was the Daughter of a Hunter, he was one of the creatures that her family had sworn to destroy, what could possibly go wrong?
When their worlds collide, who will be left standing, will it be the hunter or the hunted, and which is which?
The Game of Claiming
12.7k Views · Completed · Billie Patsy
When Lila Moreno stepped into the Romano mansion, she didn’t expect to be caught in the middle of a silent war. The four infamous Romano brothers rule the city’s underworld with blood and money—yet the moment they see her, their power turns personal.
A drunken bet becomes their private game: win the maid.
The rules?
Don’t let the others know you’re falling for her.
And never, ever let her leave.
But each brother plays differently—
The eldest buys her obedience.
The second steals her breath.
The third corners her in the dark.
The youngest ruins anyone who touches her.
Lila isn’t sure if she’s a player in their game… or the prize they’ll destroy each other to claim
A drunken bet becomes their private game: win the maid.
The rules?
Don’t let the others know you’re falling for her.
And never, ever let her leave.
But each brother plays differently—
The eldest buys her obedience.
The second steals her breath.
The third corners her in the dark.
The youngest ruins anyone who touches her.
Lila isn’t sure if she’s a player in their game… or the prize they’ll destroy each other to claim
