The Big Bad Wolf and His Little Red: A Masked Stalker Erotic Romance (Part 1)

A 7.5k word erotic romance (part 1 of 3, with a HE in part 3).

Georgie wakes up after a night of partying… only to find herself gagged and bound in some creepy basement, with a masked stalker for company.

A man who knows everything about her, a man whose face she can’t even see.

A man who’s killed for her.

He claims he won’t touch her against her will, except he enacted a fantasy she’d written about in her diary… a fantasy she’d never meant to make reality.

No, Georgie’s masked stalker won’t touch her again until she’s absolutely begging for it.

And he won’t let her go until he’s claimed her willing body, mind and soul.

But, she knows herself. She won’t beg for it. She’ll never let him win. 

And yet…

Will she be able to escape his clutches and return to her burdened college life as if everything is still normal? Or will this little pole dancer give in to all the little repressed dark desires she’s always secretly craved?

Tropes: Touch her and die, he falls first, enemies to lovers

Trigger warnings: Kidnapping, DC, mentions of murder and violence, unhinged MMC.

EXCERPT:

It was dark, wherever I was.

Dark, cold, and wet. As I stirred, groaning a little, I began to realize just how much my head was pounding. It felt like someone had taken a hammer to my temple. I tried to lick my lips, but my tongue felt heavy, my throat parched and croaky. I desperately needed a drink of water.

Ugh, I really needed to stop going to the clubs—or have better control over my alcohol consumption.

I tried to blink, but it was difficult to tell whether my eyelids were in fact moving or not. I couldn’t tell the difference between the underside of my eyelids and my surroundings—that’s how dark this place seemed to be.

I cringed, the pain radiating out from my scalp once more. This didn’t feel like a run-of-the-mill hangover. Had I really gone that hard on the gin-and-tonics? Normally, I cut myself off at three, and, in the last three months, I hadn’t blacked out so badly I couldn’t remember a thing.

The fact that I couldn’t remember last night was really starting to weigh on me. It nibbled at my fingers. I tried to roll onto my side and sit up, but the world seemed to lack dimensions. I couldn’t tell which way was up from down, which direction was left or right. I was being tumbled around in a great silent washing machine.

All alone, skin against metal.

I slipped out of consciousness once again—or, at least, I thought so. 

A minute passed—or maybe three hours, or even a day. If it was a year, I wouldn’t be able to peg it, not in this impenetrable darkness. All I knew was that I was so stiff. My neck had a terrible crick from being bent at an angle. I groaned as I tried to lift it, but my head felt too heavy.

Then, I realized why I couldn’t move it. As I tried to rotate my head, I felt my jaw catch on something lodged in my mouth. Something large and round, tough and slick. My teeth gnashed at it, trying to chew through it, but it was too big.

Panic flared in my chest. Why couldn’t I close my mouth? My teeth wouldn’t connect with each other, no matter how much I tried to bite whatever was in my mouth.

That was when I realized that I was dripping saliva all over myself, the wet, sticky, warm liquid running in rivulets down the corners of my lips, cascading off my chin and pooling on my chest. I moaned, trying to move my hands so I could wipe myself. What kind of hangover was this, where my jaw felt numb as if someone had injected anesthetic in my cheeks?

But, my arms wouldn’t respond to my will. I furrowed my brows, trying to tug my arms up towards my chest, but the most I got out of them after several seconds of trying was a meek little flutter. They felt so heavy, reminding me of the few times I’d experienced sleep paralysis in my life. Those were the most horrifying mornings, the times when I shifted into lucid dreaming, knowing that I was awake and still stuck in a nightmare, unable to get myself to move even though my mind was panicking and alert.

Whatever was happening to me right now was worse than all those times combined. I still couldn’t see, and every cell in my body felt like lead. Something was seriously wrong with me. Had I been in an accident? Had someone rammed into my drunk ass in a hit-and-run and fled cowardly, leaving me to my certain death? My thoughts unleashed a new diatribe of panic within my head, stirring me to struggle more.

That’s when something weighed on me, pressing down on my thighs.