Indecent Cravings

Part Three

of

a super-dirty Coming of Age tale

with lots of

kinky submissive fun

By

S.K. Cross

(WARNING: If you are a prude, or even remotely prudish, delete this book right now! It’s not for you. You’d better be 18+ too. Not to mention open-minded.)

Copyright 2015 D2Rev Publishing / S.K. Cross

First Edition

August 20, 2015

Editing: Missy Borucki (missyborucki.com)

Cover design: Letitia Hasser at Romantic Book Affairs (designs.romanticbookaffairs.com)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

All characters depicted in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The actions the characters sometimes take are often based on very bad decisions and should never be applied to real-life situations. Be safe.

Dear Readers

This is an ongoing series, an experiment in organic storytelling.

Each book is approximately 125 pages and priced at $2.99, a new “episode” released approximately every three weeks.

Here’s the deal: This is YOUR story. YOU have control. I’ve started it, but I want YOU to tell me where to go.

So, sit back, pour yourself a delicious beverage of your choice, check your lube and battery supply, kick your shoes off and get comfy, and then read on.

Once you’re done, get on my VIP list:

http://skcrossbooks.com/get-on-the-list/

where I will be posting Top Secret updates, as well as having contests with prize giveaways.

Then, visit my Facebook Page:

https://www.facebook.com/skcrossauthor

Or . . .

Email me at:

skcrossbooks@gmail.com

. . . and tell me what YOU would like to see happen next!

Episode 3:

“Control”

Chapter 1

The entire courtyard is a blur as I run toward the limo.

“Drive!” I say as I leap into the front seat next to Trevor.

He’s about to bite into a hamburger. The fast food bag next to him on the seat reads Checkers. He freezes in a slack-jawed expression with open eyes as I slam the door shut.

“Drive!” My voice comes from deep within me, from a part of my soul that’s still an animal, not yet human.

“What happened?” says Trevor, his eyes assessing me and checking around for signs of any movement. One hand replaces the hamburger in the bag while the other goes under his jacket.

“I need you to drive! I need you to fucking drive right now!”

“Talk to me, Smudge. What’s going on?”

“Just drive!” I’m in tears now.

“Abigail, I’m not going to leave your dad here. I work for him. He pays me, remember? If he’s in trouble, I need to go rescue him.”

I so want to poke holes in his argument because I’m so fucking pissed off.

His eyes go wide like he’s figured something out. “Oh no.”

I bite my nail as my eyes fill up. “My father . . . and my . . .”

“Yep, say no more. I get it. Be right back. Just want to do a quick wellness check. Stay here. I’ll fix this.”

I nod.

Trevor is good at fixing things. Lord knows he’s done it enough times in my life. His expression assumes the commanding presence I know so well.

I watch his strong frame as he darts up the stairs. I wipe some tears from my eyes and check my phone. The battery is still dead.

A few seconds later, Trevor comes bounding back down the stairs to the car.

He leaps inside, starts the engine, and puts the limo in gear.

We drive in silence for a while, my fingers in my mouth as I bite off my nails. I push the image emblazoned in my head out and away from me. I can’t deal with it right now.

Trevor picks up his cell phone and dials a number.

“Rodrigo,” he says. “Hola, viejo amigo. Sí, estoy aquí en Miami. Sí, lo sé . . . sí . . . no, no, recuerdo . . .” He laughs. “Su nombre era Adriana, pero se olvidan de ella. Eso se terminó. Mira, Rodrigo, necesito un favor. Necesito una habitación. Discreta. Ahora. No nombres . . . sí, la disposición habitual. Bueno, voy a conocerte en el frente.”

I got some of that. He asked Rodrigo, whoever that is, for a private and secure room somewhere. Something about the usual and meet him out front.

The usual? What does that mean?

Trevor navigates the Miami streets with the assurance of a driver who has traveled them many times before. We take I-195 out to the Beach. As the sun disappears behind a row of thick black clouds, we drop down 40th Street onto Pine Tree Drive. Same route as the bus that takes me to work. Hm, Trevor‘s taken many vacations. One must have been here.

“You saw that, huh?” he finally says.

“Yes, I saw that! How could I not see that? Her cock was in his goddamned mouth! Why the fuck do you think I ran to the goddamned car?”

He sighs and looks out the driver’s side window. “Yeah.”

He takes several turns, and we end up on a street a block over from Collins Ave near 18th Street. Lots of boutique Art Deco bed-and-breakfasts interspersed between taller condos. He pulls over in front of a white, two-story, concrete building nearly hidden by tall, thick shrubbery. Standing out front is a Latino man with a pockmarked face in a service uniform smoking a cigarette.

Trevor gets out, greets the man with a hug. A hug? And they talk. The man offers Trevor a cigarette and he lights up. That’s weird. I’ve never seen Trevor smoke. But then again, I’ve never heard him speak a word of Spanish before, either.

My world is getting stranger by the day. I bite my nail some more. The wind kicks up, and the sky grows ominously dark.

The man hands something to Trevor; they hug again, and Trevor scrambles back into the limo.

“You’re staying here for the night,” he says. “It’s not the most glamorous place, but it’s safe.”

“How do you know?”

Trevor turns to me with that look I’ve seen so many times before, one that tells me shut the fuck up.

I get a stirring down below.

His look and tone are brutish. They remind me a little of Lukas Thorn. I feel myself shrink into place.

“Okay,” I hear my voice say with a tremble.

He gets out. I don’t wait for him to come around and open the passenger side door. I just get out and follow him.

The sign over the door says Redmond Apts.

There is a low courtyard out front, hidden from the street by an incredibly tall hedge. Trevor types a code into the lock on the latticed door, and I follow him inside just in time. The rain pours down outside almost the very second our feet hit the tile floor.

My room is apparently the first one on the left. Trevor swipes an electronic key while placing his hand under his jacket. That must have been what the Latino man with the pockmarked face handed him.