Author: Kitty Thomas
Genre: Adult Contemporary Romance
Publication Date: September 17, 2019
Description:
“A twisted darkly erotic story that only Kitty Thomas could tell.” – Willow Winters, USA TODAY Bestselling Author
“With Twisted Fates, Kitty Thomas is at her best, creating an intensely emotional dark ride you won’t want to get off.” — Anna Zaires, New York Times Bestselling Author of Twist Me
When Lindsay Smith brought her to the house, it was to train and sell her. They both knew it. She’d agreed to this arrangement. She wanted to belong to someone. But Lindsay wanted her to be his.
Three days into her stay at the pleasure house, Shannon Foster’s life is forever destroyed by a sociopathic monster. Lindsay saved her life that day, but the scars bind her to the house without a future.
Now, eight years later, Lindsay saves her once again, only this time he’s playing for keeps.
NOTE: The books in the Pleasure House world are interlocking standalones. Each book has a full and complete ending with no cliffhangers and focuses on a different couple. These books can be read in any order the “series order” is the order of publication.
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The rest of the Pleasure House series can be found here!
Less than an hour ago, they’d been sitting at the kitchen counter, him asking her this same question. She wasn’t going to tell him. She wasn’t going to fuck him. But he wasn’t playing fair. The cream was a very persuasive tool. It had a way of making you see the world differently—of changing priorities in an instant.
Pain and arousal. Twin catalysts the house used to get whatever it wanted. What was it exactly that the doctor wanted from her to break out these tools?
“Tell me,” he said.
“I need to be touched.”
“It’s not just the cream,” he said. “We both know that. You’ve needed me to touch you for a long time. It practically radiates off you.”
Shannon shook her head, somehow finding the will to resist him, however limp the effort.
“No. Not you. Never you.”
The cane sliced through the air and came down hard on her ass.
“Ow! Motherfucker!”
“That’s for lying,” he said. There was another short painful snap of the cane against her thigh. “And that is for the language. You call me Sir. Not Lindsay. Not motherfucker. Are we clear?”
“Y-yes, Sir.”
“Good. I remember the way you used to look at me when you came to visit my office in the city. I remember you used to wear those too-short skirts and heels. Your legs seemed to go on forever. And then when you sat and crossed your legs, the silk skirt slid up your thighs exactly the way you wanted my hand to slide up them. Isn’t that right? Did you imagine that whisper of fabric moving up your leg was my fingers teasing you? Did you think about it when you were alone in your bed at night after our sessions?”
Shannon felt the blush creep up her neck and into her face. “That was then,” She said, fighting the need even as she continued to writhe and squirm against the table, seeking contact that just wasn’t there.
“And earlier tonight? When you got out of the shower? What was that hungry look about?”
“Your imagination,” Shannon said, knowing she was playing with fire. This wasn’t the Lindsay she thought she knew, and yet she couldn’t let herself admit the truth to him. She didn’t trust him.
Suddenly that large warm hand was pressed between her legs, exactly where she’d always wanted it. It felt as good as she’d imagined it would—better even. Especially after such a long stretch of denial.
“Tell me to stop, then.”
Shannon pressed harder against his hand. Her hips began to move without her conscious effort.
He pulled his hand away, leaving her humping the air. “You’re right. We should stop. It’s
inappropriate and you said you didn’t want…”
“Please.” The word came out desperate and strangled. Not her finest moment if she wanted to resist him.
Lindsay picked up the cane again and moved to the front of the table. “Lick.”
She licked the length of the cane, not sure where he was going with this. A moment later it landed in a sharp wet sting across her ass. Oh. That was where. It had been too long since she’d played this way with someone. She could barely remember how any of it was done. The rules. The protocols. The creatively nasty signature styles and habits of the master in question. The personal private rituals, unique to him—to the two of them ensconced in their own private world. A world she used to live in.
Slowly he ran his fingertips over the welts he’d left. How disappointing it must be for him to have so little fresh unmarred skin to play with. If he flogged or whipped her back, he’d be competing with another man’s marks in a game he could never win.
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