Dirty Bad Wrong

By: Jade West

Prologue




The chains above rattle as I jerk in my bonds. My legs quiver, knees trembling, adrenaline pumping.

He circles me. I feel his footfalls. Heavy, purposeful. I can smell him, too. He smells of sex, and sweat, and musk. He smells of sin.

He smells so damn dirty bad wrong.

The tap, tap, tap of the cane against my thighs, so gently. I take a breath. The cane comes to rest, pressing against my skin, and he’s at my side, his lips at my ear.

“Steady,” he breathes and his warm breath sends tingles down my neck.

He trails a hand up my ribs, and my body flinches. Fight or flight.

In my chains I can do neither. And I don’t want to.

The glowing heat between my legs gives testament to one simple truth.

I want him... the release he delivers through pain... the silky caress of the abyss beyond fear.

I want him to break me.

I want him to hurt me.

I want him to own me.

And then I want him to love me.

“Tell me what you need, Lydia.”

I gasp. His savage hand is on my breast. Gripping, twisting, hurting. My nipples come alive, begging for punishment, and I roll into his touch. It feels so fucking good.

I hear my own ragged breathing, the incoherent murmurs coming from my mouth.

He kicks my feet further apart, spreading me wide. I struggle to keep my balance, but the cuffs pull tight against the chains, taking my weight. Another tap of the cane on my stomach, harder this time, and then his fingers, teasing me open, grazing my clit. Fuck.

Two fingers hook inside, pushing in deep. I hear how wet I sound. He groans his approval.

My words catch in my throat, but I force them out.

“Pain... I want pain...”

I gasp again as his two fingers lift me onto my toes.

“I did not ask you what you wanted, I asked you what you needed.”

“Pain … please, I need pain …”

He kisses my neck, and I’m lost in him, swimming in his darkness.

“I’m going to hurt you now, Lydia Marsh. I’m going to mark you, and break you, and own you... and then I’m going to make you cum so hard you’ll scream my name. Will I tell you what I need? I need to see you cry, Lydia. You’re so fucking beautiful when you cry.”

I screw my eyes shut under the blindfold and take a deep breath.

I’m ready.





Chapter One


Lydia



Six Months earlier.



Sicked up onto the pavement of single and homeless at twenty-three years old. I knew I must be hurting, even though I couldn’t feel a thing. Shock, I guess. Shell shock.

My toes tapped against the suitcase wedged under my desk. It wouldn’t quite fit in the footwell, sticking out like a big red beacon for the entire office to see on arrival. LYDIA MARSH IS SINGLE, it screamed, HER LIFE JUST GOT FUCKED. I died a little at the thought. I’ve no time for tea and sympathy; the nosey intrusion of strangers in the guise of friendship. Slaverings of pity laid on thick, pitted eyebrows and there theres. No thank you.

I breathed in the empty room; soaking up the empty desks in the eerie pre-work silence. It was still dark outside, London only just stirring as the faint kiss of dawn teased the skyline.

Single. Homeless. Screwed.

My mobile buzzed in my pocket, but this time I didn’t even reach for it. I’d no need of his bullshit messages, I already knew what they’d say.

Come home, Lyds, please come home. Please don’t leave me.

A twinge of sadness pinched my insides. Home. The home we’d shared, the home in which we’d laughed and fucked and made plans together. The home I’d called ours. But it wasn’t ours, not really. When push came to shove it was all Stuart’s. His name on the mortgage, his furniture in every room, his goddamn history there before mine. It hadn’t seemed a big deal. Why should it? I figured we were in for the long haul, for 2.5 kids and a joint bank account.

I thought Stu would always be there. But no.

One drunken night at a sales conference had put paid to that. I’d been home sleeping while he’d been out fucking. Carly Winters, admin junior. Bottle blonde, with a slightly orange hue and too much mascara. The absolute opposite of me. She looked Barbie-doll fake, plastic and insincere, but I guess he didn’t think so.

I’d never have known, not if he hadn’t been too drunk to put a rubber on it.

Oh my God, Lyds, she’s pregnant! She’s fucking pregnant!

I should’ve lost my temper, lashed out and kneed him where it hurts, but anger was a no-show. I listened to the whole sorry string of apologies without so much as a whimper, no hint of breakdown. No all-consuming rage. Nothing.

Don’t do this, Lydia, don’t block me out! Get angry! Scream, Lyddie, please! Hit me! Anything!

I’d gone to bed. Shut him out and waited for tears to find me. Tears never came, just the itches. Spidery itches, dancing under my scars and begging for the razor blade. It had been years since the calling found me, years since I’d taken a blade to my own skin.

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