THE FOUND
Crow City #2
By Cole McCade
Genre: Dark Erotica/Contemporary Romance
Cover Design: Cole McCade
Release Date: August 22, 2016
Synopsis
Witness to a
murder. Kidnapped by a monster. Life hanging on a whim. Willow Armitage’s world
was already falling apart; between getting fired and caring for her chronically
ill father, she’s had little room for anything but survival. But that survival
hangs in the balance the night she stumbles into a back alley – and watches a
stranger die at the hands of the most beautiful man she’s ever seen.
Lethal. Powerful. Unstable. Terrifying. The contract killer known only as Priest is a dangerous unknown, and when Willow wakes tied to a chair in his hideout, the only thing she sees in his fox-gold eyes is death. Yet for Priest, Willow is a dilemma: an innocent, a saint among the sinners he cuts down in the streets of Crow City. His code of honor forbids shedding innocent blood. Releasing her will send her straight to the police. The only answer is a warped game, and his promise: that he will find the darkness inside her, expose it, and prove that deep down, everyone is just as monstrous as he…and just as worthy of death.
Yet he unearths not a monster, but a smoldering and secret desire – one that has always terrified Willow, and may be her undoing. His touch sets her alight. His strength burns through her like flame. And his control melts her each time he binds her virgin body, possesses her, teaches her the strength in weakness and the passion in submission. But that passion may be her damnation, and in the end Willow must choose: Priest’s love, or her own life.
When his every kiss is pure sin…can she resist damnation long enough for Priest to find his way to redemption?
TRIGGER WARNING 18+: This story contains content centered around non-consent, bodily autonomy, sexual assault, bodily functions, and violence. Please focus on self-care above all, and don't be afraid to put the book down if you need to in order to protect yourself. You come first, always.
Lethal. Powerful. Unstable. Terrifying. The contract killer known only as Priest is a dangerous unknown, and when Willow wakes tied to a chair in his hideout, the only thing she sees in his fox-gold eyes is death. Yet for Priest, Willow is a dilemma: an innocent, a saint among the sinners he cuts down in the streets of Crow City. His code of honor forbids shedding innocent blood. Releasing her will send her straight to the police. The only answer is a warped game, and his promise: that he will find the darkness inside her, expose it, and prove that deep down, everyone is just as monstrous as he…and just as worthy of death.
Yet he unearths not a monster, but a smoldering and secret desire – one that has always terrified Willow, and may be her undoing. His touch sets her alight. His strength burns through her like flame. And his control melts her each time he binds her virgin body, possesses her, teaches her the strength in weakness and the passion in submission. But that passion may be her damnation, and in the end Willow must choose: Priest’s love, or her own life.
When his every kiss is pure sin…can she resist damnation long enough for Priest to find his way to redemption?
TRIGGER WARNING 18+: This story contains content centered around non-consent, bodily autonomy, sexual assault, bodily functions, and violence. Please focus on self-care above all, and don't be afraid to put the book down if you need to in order to protect yourself. You come first, always.
Excerpt
His fingers grazed
the curve of her waist. With a gasp, she snapped her eyes open. He met her
gaze, fox-gold turned hot as melting amber, fierce and animal and stripping her
more bare than that exposed, naked flesh. She felt like a butterfly pinned to a
board, held by his gaze, her limbs going slack and her struggles stopping
against her will. She hardly felt it, when he hooked a fingertip under the
bunched edge of her tank top—then ripped with such effortless
strength, the threads of the side seam snapping apart one after the other,
until there was nothing left of her tank top but rags of cloth. No, she hardly
felt that…but she felt it when he teased those rags from underneath the
ropes, as every scrap of cloth stroked and washed against her skin until she was
nothing but a trembling tangle of sensitivity and frozen breaths building
tighter and tighter in her chest.
And she felt it
when that taunting, teasing fingertip hooked in her panties, slipping into the
opening just above her thigh, and she realized just what he intended to do.
“Don’t touch me.”
Suddenly she could
move again—and she writhed against the ropes, fighting to squirm away. But she
had barely an inch of slack, nowhere to go but against the ropes, hanging in
midair and so fucking helpless she would scream with sheer rage if she didn’t
want to cry with sheer hopelessness. Was he enjoying this? Enjoying watching
her struggle? Enjoying how her skin tightened and pulled and her nipples
swelled and her breaths came shallow with every touch, her fucking disobedient
body whispering dirty thing, dirty thing, give me more of that dirty thing
while her mind and heart screamed no, no, not like that, never like that?
Was he enjoying
having her at his mercy, unable to escape his every touch?
His fingers dug
into the fabric of her panties. Clenched it against his fist. Pulled.
Cloth creased, bit, burrowed into her dirty, dirty thing, her
wet dirty thing, her pulsing dirty thing, and she was a fucking dirty thing
when she arched off the seat and cried out and whimpered and mewled, as he
dragged the cloth against her and all she felt was sweet-rough friction and that
slickness, sickness, wet and running like a licking tongue.
“D-don’t,” she
cried again, and yet he only pulled harder, the panties so much worse than
the rope when every fold and crease molded to her flesh like liquid fire and
left nothing untouched. “Don’t!”
He paused, held
that steady pressure, keeping her on the end of a taut-stretched wire. “Are you
a virgin, firefly?” he growled.
She spat in his
face.
Panting, body
heaving, she drew back and spat in his face, and watched with a sort of foggy,
dazed satisfaction as it landed in a wet streak on his cheek, dripping down his
bronzed skin like a tear. He remained unmoved, watching her steadily, waiting,
holding her dangling from the one hand as if he hardly felt her weight and
those damnable fingers pulling her panties against her flesh.
“My body is not
your business,” she hissed.
“Right now, your
body is my property.” He slid a fingertip down into the crease between her hip
and thigh, the place where the seam of her panties normally cut in whenever she
sat, moved, shifted; there was something too personal about that
touch, so close and yet so far, a threat that made her shrink back even as that
feeling inside her nearly exploded, that hollow feeling that seemed like a
rapacious beast, a dragon with an open maw and empty gullet that was hungry, so
hungry to be full. “I want an answer.”
He bunched her
panties into his hand again, curling the fabric in stretched wrinkles against his
palm—and this time when he pulled he gave no quarter, a single sharp rip and
a sound of cloth tearing like tape pulling off the spool, high and shrill.
There was a moment’s painful bite, a muted cry welling in her throat, and then
the pressure eased as the tatters of her panties fell, forgotten, to the floor.
Still he watched
her. And she, naked with nowhere to hide, curled into herself; she felt her
nudity like a presence, like a thing touching her and twisting over her
flesh to force her to feel every moment of her exposure, every moment of her
vulnerability and helplessness. Priest said nothing. He didn’t need to. He
never needed to. When he wanted an answer, he got one, and would wait her out
as he had before, implacable and unmoving and relentless. She had always
imagined men like him to be all force, all bluster, all violence and snarling
and threats.
She was quickly
learning that silence—silence and careful, metered application of just enough
strength to drive his point home—was just as effective as force.
And just as
frightening.
Dangling from his
grip like a puppy, she hung her head. Anything not to meet those piercing eyes;
anything not to feel the shame of giving in to the quiet demand in his gaze;
anything to make this end, so he would stop tormenting her and leave her alone.
“…yes,” she
mumbled. Still he didn’t speak, or put her down. Defeat sparked into
frustration, and she glared at him from under the fall of her hair. “Yes, all
right? Are you happy? Is that what you fucking wanted to know?”
“Yes,” he said
simply, and lowered her to the floor.
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Meet the Author
Cole McCade is a
New Orleans-born Southern boy without the Southern accent, currently residing
somewhere in Seattle. He spends his days as a suit-and-tie corporate consultant
and business writer, and his nights writing contemporary romance and erotica that
flirt with the edge of taboo—when he’s not being tackled by two hyperactive
cats.
He also writes genre-bending science fiction and fantasy tinged with a touch of
horror and flavored by the influences of his multiethnic, multicultural,
multilingual background as Xen Sanders. He wavers between calling himself
bisexual and calling himself queer, but no matter what word he uses he’s a
staunch advocate of LGBTQIA representation and visibility in genre fiction. And
while he spends more time than is healthy hiding in his writing cave instead of
hanging around social media, you can generally find him in these usual haunts:
EMAIL: blackmagic@blackmagicblues.com
He’s recently launched the Speak Project, an online open-access platform where anyone can anonymously or openly share or read stories of abuse – a way for survivors to overcome the silencing tactics of abusers to speak out against what was done to them, and let other survivors know they’re not alone.
He also runs an advice column called Dammit, Cole, where he occasionally answers questions about everything from romance and dating to the culture of hypermasculinity, from the perspective of a male romance author:
Looking for more? You can get early access to cover reveals, blurbs, contests, and other exclusives by joining the McCade’s Marauders street team at:
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