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Casey moved quickly, rushed his body over hers again,
straddling her hips. He sat atop her, pinning her into the mattress. His silken
shaft lay out across her abdomen and was more than ready for round two.

He looked her in the eyes. “And that is why we have
all day and all night, even the rest of our lives, to get to know each other.”
When she was about to argue, he furthered it with, “The
real
us, Sara.”

“But,” she started producing; a hasty finger set to
her lips silenced the remainder.

“No, Sara. The real you: all of you, all your secrets,
all your lies, all your memories, and every second of your pain.”

Sara closed her eyes.

Why?
Why
would he want to know these things? To what purpose would that serve him?

What heartache would it only give her, in the end?

A gentle brush of his mouth against hers reopened her
lids.

“I know what I had to be told to understand you, Sara.
But I want you to tell me the truth now. It is in you, somewhere. Let it come
out, tell me the truth about who the real Sara Rogan is.”

Sara took a deep breath and held it. She knew she had
to make her thoughts into words, but it was so damn hard while he was staring
at her.

“Sara has no truth. She never did. She never will,”
she said, allowing the slow tears their freedom.

In that one brief instant, reality took hold and
slammed the door shut to destiny; a destiny that could have been great.

Sara Rogan was truly nobody. Love did not pull her
into one being—as she’d expected it could. Love shoved her apart, creating
another…to live out another lie, another being, another to be hurt again—as she
knew it had too. She was Sara
Nobody
, not Sara
Somebody
.

Sara Rogan died in a locked closet twenty years ago.
The authorities found the body of an unidentified child, when new tenants moved
into the apartment six months later, and to their horror discovered the
skeletal remains.

Sara Rogan was not real.

But what was real? This? Love? Being able to spend
stolen moments in the arms of a man you desired? Or simply stealing those
moments when they’d never been yours to begin with?

Reality was only a faked falsehood to whoever needed
it most—when needed most.

Right now, Sara needed whatever would hold her
together as a person. As a woman the glue was for her to be loved by a man. A
shadow, a ghost of what she once was, she had to let go her past. She’d done
what she had, given no other choice.

Unfortunately, those choices were real and real was
only make-believe.

In Sara’s world, real was the shadow cast from the
darkest recesses of one’s tragically altered mind.

Chapter Twelve

F
orty days
later…

Casey watched Sara close her eyes. She didn’t look as
if she was at peace with herself, or with what they’d done. She was staring out
the kitchen window, her hands clamped to the counter, a blank expression on her
face.

Yet, neither was he harboring any real peace.

Dammit!
He
knew he’d pushed her too far, over the edge, and once falling off that cliff,
Sara couldn’t come back to him as he’d expected she would.

She was now someone else. She told him her name was
Beth, that she didn’t know any woman named Sara, and worse…
who the hell was
he
?

Better yet,
why the hell was she naked and in his
bed?

He gotta hand it to her, she had the worse timing
imaginable.

A brittle, fragile being, Casey knew he shouldn’t
desire her as much as he was, yet Beth couldn’t go anywhere else, so he’d
curbed the desire culminated over the years, at least for the time being. He’d
done this to her so now he had to ride it out.

Casey had to correct his mistake before he lost her
completely.

He loved the real Sara far too much not to correct
what he destroyed.

He set a gentle hand onto her shoulder.

Sara jumped, turned to face him. “You scared me!” Her
wide eyes pulled him into her tangled web.

“Sorry. I thought you heard me come in.” Casey set
down the bag of groceries he’d carried from the garage.

He wasn’t going to tell her he’d contacted a
psychologist and that the man recommended an in-home visit, under the radar of
course, and would be here within the hour.

Casey was going to introduce Doctor Pensch as only a
friend. Neither man wanted to scare Sara into becoming someone else, nor a
person Casey couldn’t keep under his control. This visit would be a preliminary
contact, at best. The doctor would look for signs of total mental burnout, DID
over-burn, and then give Casey a plan he could put into motion.

Right now, he was taking one day at a time, one minute
at a time; watching a woman destroy herself.

“Did you get the spinach?” she asked, digging through
the grocery bag.

“Yes. It’s in there,” he muttered, heading to the
refrigerator. Thank God he still had beer in the house. Thus far, most of his
drinking was done at the club, behind closed doors.

Sara/Beth had demanded he remove the pole from the
mirrored room. He’d done as asked, yet hadn’t thrown the pole away. If all went
well with the visit from the psychologist, the old Sara would be back by the
end of the day.

Casey couldn’t wait. Nothing of
Beth
stirred
his loins. She wouldn’t wash her hair, didn’t care about her clothing, refused
to take showers; most of the time he had to drag her into them, kicking and
screaming, and then tended to come out with bruises in places never meant for
bruising.

She found the spinach and grimaced, then glared his
way. “What the hell is this?”

Casey popped open the beer can and took a huge
swallow. He shrugged. “Last I looked, it was raw spinach.”

“It’s not supposed to look like this. It’s supposed to
be green!”

Well, fuck! He’d never bought spinach in all his
life—didn’t do grocery shopping if he could help it. Wasn’t it supposed to be a
little yellowed?

She threw the spinach at his head, confirming
apparently not.

“You’re useless!” she screamed, running from the room.

Casey let the disappointing salad greens fall to the
floor. He took off after her. The last time she threw a tantrum, he hadn’t been
able to get her out of the mirrored room for two full days.

Two full days she’d stared at her reflection, unable
to comprehend both their loss.

He caught up to her at the bottom of the stairs,
grabbed her by the arm, and whipped her around.

Mutiny stared back at him.

Dammit! He wasn’t going to allow any more mutiny from
this woman. There was a time and place, and those were in the distant past.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

“Aren’t you going to get that?” she jibbed.

Casey growled. “When I’m fucking ready!”

It rang again.

Sara/Beth’s wide smile pushed his buttons in the wrong
way. Yet, he gave in and released his firm grip on her arm. “Stay put,” he
warned.

Beth was more on the level of petulant child; whereas
Sara, Mecenna, and Debra had been grown women, highly intelligent, with street
smarts to back them up. More often than not,
Beth
wouldn’t listen to
whatever he said. He’d gotten stuck with the worst of her personalities.

“And if I don’t?” she asked, sticking out her tongue.

“You will,” he threatened, drawing in his ragged
breath.

Casey left her on the stairs and made his way to the
front door. He allowed Doctor Pensch entrance. “Come in, Charlie,” he said,
stating the man’s first name aloud.

Dr. Pensch said it would put more familiarity into
Sara’s head when they’d spoken on the phone. Above all else, Casey was going to
follow doctor’s orders. He couldn’t live like this, and he needed
Sara
back.

She came quickly to Casey’s side. “I don’t know you,”
she informed the older man, quite tartly. “Why are you here?”

“Honey, this is Charlie. I told you about him. He’s my
friend and we’re going to discuss business.”

“Not without me, you’re not!” she warned.

Both Dr. Pensch and Casey smiled. The use of
familiarity was working in their favor, far better than expected.

Pensch held out his hand to Sara. “Hello,
Beth
.
I’m so glad to meet you.”

She wouldn’t take his hand, looked at it as if the
man’s hand was covered in warts.

“Come in, Charlie. I’ll get you a beer.”

Dr. Pensch followed Casey inside the mansion, first
setting his briefcase on a low table near the door.

Inside the man’s case was the answers to what Casey
needed most.

Dr. Pensch was going to jar Beth into releasing Sara
back to them, before it was too late, and since Sara was carrying his child and
Beth wanted it dead, Casey was running out of time. Not only was he losing her,
he was losing his firstborn.

Dr. Pensch promised him he would gain every success
today. And Casey took that promise to heart. The diamond ring inside his pocket
burned against his thigh, awaiting this promise. For now, he simply need wait.
He had his
happy for now
, for what it’s worth, but his sole goal was
that ever-wished-for
Happily Ever After
.

Casey carried the diamond engagement ring wherever he
went, waiting for that one single moment Sara would change back to the woman he
loved. He needed her to come back to him. She’d captured his soul and every
second, every day he woke and took a breath deep into his chest, it hurt him
just a little more knowing he could have done so much more to prevent this.

His eyes darted to Sara/Beth. She was fidgeting and
licking her lips, judging the strange man in her midst. How much grief she
would give the doctor would remain to be seen. Probably a lot.

His gaze drifted lower. Everything this woman had
inside of her was what he’d been looking for his entire life—a complete and
controllable change, that had always been right at his fingertips. Nothing
more, nothing less, he had to urge Sara back to the living by getting
Beth
to turn into the woman he loved. His sigh was heavy, knowing exactly how hard
this would be.

The End

If you would like to read
other titles by Jevenna Willow

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www.jevennawillow.com
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Comments and reviews are
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And now... an excerpt from

Beneath the Lace

coming summer 2014

Chapter One

Jack Mareach eased his numb ass off the leather stool.
His plan was to maneuver every part of his body toward the woman at the far end
of the crowded bar…or die trying.

Besides the loud music thumping in his eardrums, and
the continuous clinking of glassware drowning out most of his thoughts, he had
one lingering thought stuck on the brain: forget today. What better way than
while in the company of an incredibly hot woman dressed in black lace?

It wasn’t his fault he’d squirmed like a two year old
in a stuffy, old church pew—which produced the need for stiff drink, and by the
end of his night perhaps a whole lot of them. It was just easier to blend into
the background when so stinking drunk he could barely walk. Even easier when he
was being swarmed by bodies in the same boat as he.

Too inebriated to endeavor on an easy ménage, he’d
offered two hot morsels during the past half hour his cock, and now passing
them up for something far better. Sex with a silken-clad woman he’d done
before. Used goods. He had a taste for lace. Of course, he would have to get
her permission to remove all that lace from so much loveliness. Jack figured
without, it would be nothing less than near rape.

But hell, if she wanted to rape him…he was all for it.
He’d done some pretty stupid things in his life, a ton of brain-dead things for
a man who thought he knew better. What was one more not-so-bright idea to
suffer through on an evening wrought with memories and guilt?

He forced the usual come hither, no holds barred,
deep-dimpled smile upon his face, his drink clamped in his fingers lest he drop
it, then waited. Most said he looked exactly like his father; more the pity to
Jack. His father was dead.

The pallbearer duties this morning had been appointed
to those not so angry about life. Jack would have dropped the old bastard on
his head, as pissed as he’d been. Dropped the coffin, kicked it for good
measure, then gloated to suit his needs.

Jesus, more intoxicated than at first thought, he
tried to move his feet forward.
Tried.
Those movements became awkward
and unsteady. But damnit, he meant to be seated next to the delicious female
within a half minute, give or take a few bumps and bruises along the way, or
land up on his ass, seated on the barroom floor and looking the fool.

The leather stool on her immediate right had been
empty for the better part of ten minutes. Oddly enough, its vacancy didn’t
figure into his head as he continued toward her.

Everyone loved happy hour in this stinking hellhole
town; Wintelow wasn’t exactly the mega metropolis where all the fine,
upstanding citizens lived. And once inside
Mo’s
, situated on the corner
of Fifth and Main, happy hour took on a whole other meaning. Even Jack was
partial to Mo’s chicken wings during happy hour. But he wasn’t here for barbecued
chicken parts, free drinks in a smaller glass size, or the expected
socialization on a normal Friday night. Just the thought of food was making him
ill.

He was here for one thing—and one thing only. How hard
was that to understand? He needed hot and heavy screwing of someone he did not
know; someone he could forget by the morning; even if she knew or had heard of
him.

The woman at the end of the bar either came into Mo’s
to score, same as he—or she wasn’t alone, and the guy she with either in the men’s
restroom or…gone. She wasn’t frowning, so he couldn’t have left with another
hottie. Still, no one seemed to make any claim on her.

Christ! If she’d been his girl, he wouldn’t have left
so much deliciousness out of his sight. He loved long black hair on a woman. He
wasn’t partial to blondes these days; seen and done enough of those to know the
old cliché was rather true. Not always a lot upstairs. And although there were
plenty of women inside Mo’s, only the dark-haired beauties were drawing him
in.  Okay, only one dark-haired beauty was drawing him in, locked on like a
heat-seeking missile.

Sultry high cheekbones on a nearly flawless face.
Lord, she had legs running damn near to the Mexican border, from a pencil thin
waist he could easily put his hands around. Her ample chest was a bonus; near
to size DDD, if his eyesight could be trusted.

That lusty chest had caught his attention more than
twice throughout his evening.

He would hate to be disappointed, finding her
flat-chested, but the closer he got to the lacey quest, the bigger her breasts
became and the happier Jack’s cock got for making the initial move. Then again,
she could have been a nearly size A for all a hardened dick cared.

He’d found it hard enough to keep his vision within a
reasonable level of singular throughout the past half hour than care about what
pressed into his pants, almost erect.

Even their bartender looked a bit doubled, Jack
shaking his head to ward off a second image of the man.

As her head turned, pools of brilliant blue with just
a hint of teal trapped in their color flashed his way. Either her eyes had fake
contacts covering them to hide the natural beauty within, or she was one hell
of a woman . . . and he was in for one hell of a night.

He’d glue the damn things onto his eyeballs too, if
they could make him see any better.

He slithered up to her side, jostled by others trying
to claim any empty seats, reached the stool next to her unscathed, and plopped
down without proper invitation, setting his drink on the bar. A few drops of
Kentucky’s finest spilled over the rim of the glass, but he didn’t care about
that either. There was always more and if a man bought enough drinks during
happy hour, when the bell rang signaling its end, the next would come free.

Jack was on his second free drink, his eighth in
total. He wasn’t sure if any bells were rung, or it was simply the loud music
blaring from the hidden stereo speakers surrounding the entire bar. Whatever it
was, he considered whiskey an emotional cleanser and for those who thought
their shit did not stink.

Jack dragged in a painful lungful of air.
Nope!
Still smelling good. Shit doesn’t stink.
As hot as it was in Mo’s tonight,
this good smell wouldn’t last long.

“I’m Jack, Jacko, Jack-of-all-trades…and most of them
good; real good, if you get my drift. And you are?” He held a slight curl to
his lips with all his might.

This was, by far, the worst pickup line he’d ever used
on anyone, and he actually wanted to groan aloud, but she probably wouldn’t had
paid any attention to him had he made a vocalization to stupidity, or came up
with something more to his favor. Besides, he was drunk. He didn’t give a rat’s
ass what she or anyone else around him and her thought of his terrible line;
only that it ended into what he expected. Her. Him. Bed. All three not
necessarily in this order, or separated from the other until his lower
extremities were completely satisfied.