Till Abandon
Authors: Avril Ashton
Total-e-bound
www.total-e-bound.com
Copyright ©2011 by Avril Ashton
First published in 2011
Till Abandon
ISBN #978-0-85715-728-7
(C)Copyright Avril Ashton 2011
Cover Art by Posh Gosh (C)Copyright October 2011
Edited by Rebecca Hill
Total-E-Bound Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author's imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2011 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL, United Kingdom.
Warning:
This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a
heat rating
of
Total-e-burning
and a
sexometer
of
2.
Book one in the Paranormal Security Council Series
All the power and killer instinct she possess can't protect her from the claiming of one determined wolf.
They call her ‘The woman in white,’ whisper ‘Death-Bringer’ with their last breath, but no one knows exactly what she is. Not even Voltaire herself. The deadly magic within her is a living thing, able to crush anyone and everything with a blink. Abandoning the blood-soaked world she's used to, Voltaire seeks out the one constant in her tired life-the green-eyed wolf in her dreams. She's ignored the wolf's call for years, afraid to surrender, but danger haunts her mate. He needs her.
Wolf-shifter Blake Montez is in the middle of a war, battling the usurpers intent on taking over his territory. Unfamiliar magic hums in the air, unnoticed-it seems-by everyone but him. He finds the source already under his nose, in his home. The delicate woman in white knows things no one should know, and the heat simmering between them is unlike anything he's ever felt. His wolf recognizes her as his mate, though Blake remains unsure he can trust her.
Voltaire sets out to prove herself with time running out. Enemies are on the prowl, some foreseen, others remaining cloaked in shadow. She and Blake team up, fighting side by side, but in the end Voltaire might be the biggest threat to their love.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Zanotti: Giuseppe Zanotti
Lorenzi: Gianmarco Lorenzi
Ducati Monster: Ducati Motor Holding S.p.A
Ford F150: Ford Motor Company
Magli: Bruno Magli
"Will you fucking die already?” Voltaire pressed the right heel of her gold Zanotti's into the bullet hole in the man's neck. The idiot keeping her from her date struggled—a futile effort, if she did say so herself. His cobalt-blue eyes stared up at her from his position on the floor, pleading for mercy while his body twitched. Wet sounds gurgled in his throat, then he coughed. Dark red blood flew everywhere, dotting the back of her heel and running like a red stream down the corner of his mouth. Pink tears leaked from his eyes.
"Damn it, now look what you've done.” She lifted her foot off his throat to inspect the damage to her shoe. “I bought these today, specially for this occasion, and you go and fuck them up."
Men. Can't train them, or horsewhip them in the middle of the street. What the hell is there left to do? Kill ‘em.
She knelt beside the man, who was getting bluer by the minute, and shook her head. “You know, that colour does great things for your skin tone.” She grabbed the sleeve of his white shirt and wiped off her heel. Blood pooled under him, sinking into the plush, grey carpet. She glanced up at the digital clock on his desk. He had some fabulous things in this office—she'd take a tour of the house if she wasn't so damned strapped for time.
Hah
,
strapped
.
A dull buzzing started on the left side of her skull, annoying as a mosquito.
"Will you stop already with the fucking mind control? You've been trying it all night, and has it worked?” She lifted an eyebrow and projected her thoughts to him.
Obviously not. You pissed off the Council and they've marked you for extinction.
She bared her teeth. “Unfortunately for you, they gave you to me as a going away gift."
Tugging the bowie knife from her ankle strap, she slashed his throat with a flick of her wrist.
"That's for taking up so much of my goddamn time."
She fished the disposable cell phone from the back pocket of her jeans and pulled off her black gloves with her teeth. Hitting the redial button, she straightened and stepped delicately over the body on her way to the door.
"Yes?"
"It's done."
Voltaire paused at the threshold and took one last look over her shoulder to admire her handiwork. Damn, sometimes she astonished even herself. The married father of four hadn't batted an eye when she'd sent him a drink at the bar then offered herself to him for the night. She gave him bonus points for not taking her to his marital home. Apparently Mr Moneybags kept an apartment downtown for his nightly hook-ups.
Fucking men. Is nothing sacred anymore
? Sure, she'd been paid a couple of mil to kill him, but still.
"Very good. I wish you'd reconsider taking off, Voltaire. You're the best we've had in—"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She waved the words away as she let herself out of the apartment. “Save the suck-up. Goodbye, Remi. Nice life and all that jazz."
Voltaire didn't bother ending the call—she snapped the cheap phone in two and dropped it on the floor of the elevator. One quick stop, then it was off to Colorado. To a green-eyed wolf who needed her. She'd been putting off going for five years, too afraid of losing herself, but the time had come. No more stalling.
"Assume the position."
Voltaire sat at the edge of the bed in the room she rented and palmed the flesh-coloured cock jutting out from between her thighs. Her long-time playmate Ken dropped to his knees before her. Blond hair fell into his eyes but he ignored the silky strands, keeping his attention on Voltaire.
It was what she wanted—
required
—in her playthings. Ken had learnt his lessons well. She felt a pang at leaving him behind, but that couldn't be helped.
He crawled to her, settled himself between her parted thighs, and took the fat cock into his mouth.
"Yes, good boy.” She surged up into his mouth and grabbed a lock of his hair.
He grunted around the dildo in his mouth, saliva dripping down the thick shaft and onto her thighs. She moved Ken's head up and down with jerky movements on the life-like, thickly veined organ. What she needed tonight wasn't gentle. Nor soft.
One more thrust up into his mouth and she pulled his head away.
"Get the lube."
He got to his feet without a word, another thing she required, and brought her the chocolate-scented lube from the bathroom.
"Put it on me,” she instructed.
Ken complied, squeezing the clear liquid down the dildo's thick frame. Then he palmed the cock, stroking it up and down with fast hands. The hurried motions tugged at the harness between her legs, squeezing her clit. Her cunt pulsed a fierce beat.
"Enough."
She pushed Ken away and he bent over the side of the bed, offering himself to her. He pulled apart those pale cheeks and Voltaire squirted lube directly in his anus. The dark, puckered rosebud contracted. She pushed one finger inside, working the lube in and all around him, then planted one foot on the edge of the mattress. With one hand, she guided the dildo to his entrance, thrust in hard, deep.
"Oomph."
Ken lurched forward but she wrapped invisible hands around him with her mind, held him upright as he dug his fingers into the mattress.
"Fuck, yes!"
Voltaire plunged the cock into him. The tight hole swallowed the fat intrusion with ease. Her movements sent friction to her pussy—the strap down there pressed her clit with bruising force. Voltaire ground her pelvis into Ken while she rode him. Grunts and the musk of their sex filled the room.
She gritted her teeth as she fed her cock to Ken. His hips rolled and he pushed back, spreading his ass wider, lifting it higher. Sinking her nails into the flesh of his hip, she plunged in and out. Her tits bounced and moisture ran down her thighs as her orgasm crept up on her.
Ken worked his left arm in tandem with his hips, jerking himself off. She didn't allow that, and normally she'd punish him by sitting on his face for the better half of a night, but not tonight. Instead, Voltaire closed her eyes and used her psychic powers to touch him there, on the smooth heat of his erection.
"Ugh, fuck!” Ken groaned.
Voltaire pushed deeper, harder into his hole as she tightened the invisible hand around his straining cock. The strap on her clit burnt so fucking good. She rotated her hips, rose up on tiptoe as the orgasm crashed over her. She rocked her hips faster and faster as she rode it.
Ken grunted, his body shook, and the smell of his seed scented the air. Voltaire bit the inside of her cheek, tasting blood as she kept thrusting into him. When finally the climax had petered out and Ken had collapsed on the bed, she pulled out of him and unstrapped the dildo.
It dropped to her unsteady feet with a thud.
Ken rolled onto his back and pulled a packet of cigarettes from under the pillow. He offered her one, but she shook her head.
"Nice parting gift,” he murmured.
"I thought so.” She pulled on a pair of jeans and looked around for her boots.
"What will you do?"
She shrugged at his question. “Anything, everything.” No one knew the truth of why she was leaving. She'd only told them she needed some time off.
Ken worked for the Council—Paranormal Security Council—as well. The PSC marshalled the different paranormal sects in the US and abroad, providing security for high-ranking Para officials, and making sure Para laws were upheld. When anyone stepped out of line and broke those laws, the PSC sent their cleaners to deal with them. ‘Dealing with them', more often than not, meant killing them. Voltaire's team of four elite agents was given the termination assignments.
