Don't Let Go (Dark Erotica) Read online

  I pulled back. His fingers tightened in my hair, not letting me go too far. Then I plunged down again. And again. Over and over I took him deep in my throat, still breathing, not gagging. So far, so good.

  Martinez, though—damn. I glanced up, trying to see the man, but Carlos’s arm blocked my view. All I could see was a strong jaw obscured by a few days’ scruff and a low-pulled cap. It couldn’t be him. Martinez was a common enough name. He was long gone, but the memories rattled in their cage.

  Hey, little girl. Whatcha doing out here?

  Nothin’.

  You should do nothin’ inside then. It’s not safe out here.

  The man in my memories hadn’t known it wasn’t safe inside either. Or maybe he had known, but pretended he didn’t. He wouldn’t have been the only one to turn away. The long-buried memories escaped their tight confines, flooding my mind. They had no place in my life now. Every whore had a sob story, but no one wanted to think about it—least of all the whore.

  Maybe Carlos could tell I was distracted because he clamped his hand behind my head and shoved it all the way down. His cock popped into my throat with a sickening gurgle. I worked at a swallow, but I couldn’t help it—I gagged. Panic swept over me, tossing me, drowning me. Can’t breathe, let me go.

  I forced my arms to remain by my sides, where he wanted them. I’d rather pass out than suffer a punishment. At least, my mind knew that. My body squirmed and jerked in tiny pleas for mercy. Finally, thankfully, he pulled back my head just enough to pop his cock out of my throat. I sucked in deep breaths through my nose—grateful, so grateful—until he shoved it back in again. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, but somehow it was, every time. The ache, the burn, the horror that I’d let this happen to me yet again.

  His cock filled my awareness, until all I smelled or felt or could think of was the thick flesh in my mouth. When it was in, I was in pain, I couldn’t breathe, I must not move. When it was out, the sweet rush of air breathed consciousness back into me.

  His movements became jerky. His hand tightened painfully in my hair. I imagined his face pale and tight as it was right before he came, but my nose was buried in his crotch and my eyes were full of tears.

  He yanked my head far enough back that only the tip of his cock was in before he spewed his load into my mouth. I knew he wanted me to get the full impact of the spray, the full salty flavor of his come that wouldn’t have happened if he’d been deep. Even swallowing was degrading, a voluntary act.

  Unlike other men I’d seen, and the few I’d serviced, Carlos barely ever made a sound when he came. Mostly he was silent, tense and contained even in his crisis. When he released me, I staggered back onto the floor. He wouldn’t hurt me, not so soon after he’d come, so I lay there, sprawled and heaving, waiting for my eyes to dry and my breath to catch.

  When the shadowed office came into focus, I looked away from the sight of Carlos tucking himself into his pants and peeked at the other guy. Martinez. Light brown hair, almost a sandy blond that belied his surname, and a strong jaw. He looked up at me. Blue eyes seared mine like a blinding summer sun.

  Oh God. I knew him. It wasn’t a coincidence. He was my Martinez, though the ownership was only in my delusions. Tyler Martinez, my childhood neighbor, the golden boy of the barrio. I’d had a massive crush on him. He’d barely noticed me, though in his defense, he was older than me, which was a big deal when I was twelve and he was eighteen. Then he’d left for the military, I heard, and I never saw him again. Until now.

  Those blue eyes widened as he looked at me, mirroring my own shock. His lips formed my name, Mia, but thank God, no sound emerged. I couldn’t believe he recognized me. It had been—what?—ten years. I couldn’t believe he even remembered me.

  I must look different, all grown up. And—oh God—I’d just sucked a guy off in front of him. Not just any guy, a crime boss with a penchant for whores. Tyler knew who I was, what I was. My stomach knotted, trying to turn my body inside out. I wanted to die. My self-hatred, which I would have thought peaked years ago, climbed another notch. Bad enough that this was my life, bad enough this had always been my life, but for him to know, for him to have seen me this way, was too much.

  Want to read more? Trust in Me is available now.

  WANDERLUST

  Evie always dreamed of seeing the world, but her first night at a motel turns into a nightmare. Hunter is a rugged trucker willing to do anything to keep her—including kidnapping. As they cross the country in his rig, Evie plots her escape, but she may find what she's been looking for right beside her.

  “Skye Warren will take you into the depths of depravity but bring you home, safe in the end.”

  - Kitty Thomas, author of Comfort Food

  Excerpt from Wanderlust:

  I felt tiny out here. Would it always be this way now that I was free? Our seclusion at home had provided more than security. An inflated sense of pride, diminishing the grand scheme of things to raise our own importance. On this deserted sidewalk in the middle of nowhere, it was clear how very insignificant I was. No one even knew I was here. No one would care.

  When I rounded the corner, I saw that the lights in the gas station were off. Frowning, I tried the door, but it was locked. It seemed surreal for a moment, as if maybe it had never been open at all, as if this were all a dream.

  Unease trickled through me, but then I turned and caught site of the sunset. It glowed in a symphony of colors, the purples and oranges and blues all blending together in a gorgeous tableau. There was no beauty like this in the small but smoggy city where I had come from, the skyline barely visible from the tree in our backyard. This sky didn’t even look real, so vibrant, almost blinding, as if I had lived my whole life in black and white and suddenly found color.

  I put my hand to my forehead, just staring in awe.

  My God, was this what I’d been missing? What else was out there, unimagined?

  I considered going back for my camera but for once I didn’t want to capture this on film. Part of my dependence on photography had been because I never knew when I’d get to see something again, didn’t know when I’d get to go outside again. I was a miser with each image, carefully secreting them into my digital pockets. But now I had forever in the outside world. I could breathe in the colors, practically smell the vibrancy in the air.

  A sort of exuberant laugh escaped me, relief and excitement at once. Feeling joyful, I glanced toward the neat row of semi-trucks to the side. Their engines were silent, the night air still. The only disturbance: a man leaned against the side of one, the wispy white smoke from his cigarette curling upward. His face was shrouded in darkness.

  My smile faded. I couldn’t see his expression, but some warning bell inside me set off. I sensed his alertness despite the casual stance of his body. His gaze felt hot on my skin. While I’d been watching the sunset, he’d been watching me.

  When he suddenly straightened, I tensed. Where a second ago I’d felt free, now my mother’s warnings came rushing back, overwhelming me. Would he come for me? Hurt me, attack me? It would only take a few minutes to run back to my room—could I beat him there? But all he did was raise his hand, waving me around the side of the building. I circled hesitantly and found another entrance, this one to a diner.

  Hesitantly, I waved my thanks. After a moment, he nodded back.

  “Paranoid,” I chastised myself.

  The diner was wrapped with metal, a retro look that was probably original. Uneven metal shutters shaded the green windows, where an OPEN sign flickered.

  Inside, turquoise booths and brown tables lined the walls. A waitress behind the counter looked up from her magazine. Her hair was a dirty blonde, darker than mine, pulled into a knot. A thick layer of caked powder and red lipstick were still in place, but her eyes were bloodshot, tired.

  “I heard we got a boarder,” she said, nodding to me. “First one of the year.”

  I blinked. It was a cool April night. If I was the first one of the year, then th
at was a long time to go without boarders.

  “What about all the trucks outside?”

  “Oh, they sleep in their cabs. Those fancy new leather seats are probably more comfortable than those old mattresses filled with God-knows-what.” She laughed at her own joke, revealing a straight line of grayish teeth.

  I managed a brittle smile then ducked into one of the booths.

  She sidled over with a notepad and pen.

  “We don’t usually see girls as pretty as you around here. Especially alone. You don’t got nobody to look after you?”

  The words were spoken in accusation, turning a compliment into a warning.

  “Just passing through,” I said.

  She snorted. “Aren’t we all? Okay, darlin’, what’ll it be?”

  Under her flat gaze, I turned the sticky pages of the menu, ignoring the stale smells that wafted up from it. Somehow the breakfast food seemed safest. I hoped it would be easier to avoid food poisoning with pancakes than a steak.

  After the waitress took my order, I waited, tapping my fingers on the vinyl tabletop to an erratic beat. I was a little nervous—jittery, although there was no reason to be. Everyone had been nice. Not exactly welcoming, but then I was a stranger. Had I expected to make friends with the first people I met?

  Yes, I admitted to myself, somewhat sheepishly. I had rejected my mother’s view that everyone was out to get me, but neither was everyone out to help me. I would do well to retain some of the wariness she’d instilled in me. A remote truck stop wasn’t the place to meet people, to make lasting relationships. That would be later, once I had started my job. No, even later than that, when I’d saved up enough to reach Niagara Falls. Then I could relax.

  When my food came, I savored the sickly sweet syrup that saturated my pancakes. It would rot my teeth, my mother would have said. Well, she wasn’t here. A small rebellion, but satisfying and delicious.

  The bell over the door rang, and I glanced up to see a man come in. His tan T-shirt hung loose while jeans hugged his long legs. He was large, strong—and otherwise unremarkable. He might have come from any one of those eighteen-wheelers out there, but somehow I knew he’d been the one watching me.

  His face had been in the shadows then, but now I could see he had a square jaw darkened with stubble and lips quirked up at the side. Even those strong features paled against the bright intensity of his eyes, both tragic and terrifying. So brown and deep that I could fall into them. The scary part was the way he stared—insolently. Possessively, as if he had a right to look at me, straight in my eyes and down my neckline to peruse my body.

  I suddenly felt uncomfortable in this dress, as if it exposed too much. I wished I hadn’t changed clothes. More disturbing, I wished I had listened to my mother. I looked back down at my pancakes, but my stomach felt stretched full, clenched tight around the sticky mass I’d already eaten.

  I wanted to get up and leave, but the waitress wasn’t here and I had to pay the bill. More than that, it would be silly to run away just because a man looked at me. That was exactly what my mom would do.

  Back when we still left the house, someone would just glance at her sideways in the grocery store. Then we’d flee to the car where she’d do breathing exercises before she could drive us home. I was trying to escape that. I had escaped that. I wouldn’t go back now just because a man with pretty eyes checked me out.

  Still, it was unnerving. When I peeked at him from beneath my lashes, I met his steady gaze. He’d seated himself so he had a direct line of vision to me. Shouldn’t he be more circumspect? But then, I wouldn’t know what was normal. I was clueless when it came to public interaction. So I bowed my head and poked at the soggy pancakes.

  Once the waitress gave me the bill, I’d leave. Simple enough. Easy, for someone who wasn’t paranoid or crazy. And I wasn’t—that was my mother, not me. I could do this.

  When the waitress came out, she went straight to his table. I drew little circles in the brown syrup just to keep my eyes off them. I couldn’t hear their conversation, but I assumed he was ordering his meal.

  Finally, the waitress approached my table, wearing a more reserved expression than she had before. Almost cautious. I didn’t fully understand it, but I felt a flutter of nerves in my full stomach.

  She paused as if thinking of the right words. Or maybe wishing she didn’t have to say them. “The man over there has paid for your meal. He’d like to join you.”

  I blinked, not really understanding. The gentleness of her voice unnerved me. More than guilt—pity.

  “I’m sorry.” I fumbled with the words. “I’ve already eaten. I’m done.”

  “You have food left on your plate. Doesn’t matter how much you want to eat anyway.” She paused and then carefully strung each word along the sentence. “He requests the pleasure of your company.”

  My heart sped up, the first stirrings of fear.

  I supposed I should feel flattered, and I did in a way. He was a handsome man, and he’d noticed me. Of course, I was the only woman around besides the waitress, so it wasn’t a huge accomplishment. But I wasn’t prepared for fielding this kind of request. Was this a common thing, to pay for another woman’s meal?

  It was a given that I should say no. Whatever he wanted from me, I couldn’t give him, so it was only a question of letting him down nicely.

  “Please tell him thank you for the offer. I appreciate it, I do. But you see, I really am finished with my meal and pretty tired, so I’m afraid it won’t be possible for him to join me. Or to pay for my meal. In fact, I’d like the check, please.”

  Her lips firmed. Little lines appeared between her brows, and with a sinking feeling I recognized something else: fear.

  “Look, I know you aren’t from around here, but that there is Hunter Bryant.” When I didn’t react to the name, her frown deepened. “Here’s a little advice from one woman to another. There are some men you just don’t say no to. Didn’t your mama ever warn you about men like that?”

  Want to read more? Wanderlust is available now.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Skye Warren writes unapologetic erotica, including power play or erotic pain and sometimes dubious consent. There’s struggle in the sex. There’s pain in the relationships. Her books are raw, sexual and perversely romantic.

  Visit Skye’s website for her current booklist:

  www.skyewarren.com

  Follow Skye Warren on Twitter:

  twitter.com/skye_warren

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  skyewarren.com/newsletter

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  Other Books by Skye Warren

  Wanderlust

  Below the Belt

  Dark Erotica Series

  Keep Me Safe

  Trust in Me

  Hear Me

  Don’t Let Go (late 2013)

  The Beauty Series

  Beauty Touched the Beast

  Beneath the Beauty

  Broken Beauty

  Beauty Becomes You

  Fem Dom Series

  Sweetest Mistress

  Cherry on Top (2014)

  Dystopia Series

  Leashed

  Caged

  ISBN: 9781940518039

  DON’T LET GO

  Copyright © 2013 by Skye Warren

  Cover design by Book Beautiful

  All rights reserved. Except for use in a review, the reproduction or use of this work in any part is forbidden without the express written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The author does not condone sexual acts without consent.

 

 

 
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