Dirty Dark Desire: A Dark Erotic Standalone Read online

  MORE BY LACEY ALPHA:

  THE DARKER SIDE OF CANE SERIES

  The Darker Side of Cane

  CANE: The Darker Side of Cane (Jonah's POV)

  The Darker Truth of Cane

  CANE Volume 2: The Darker Truth of Cane (Jonah's POV)

  The Darker Touch of Cane

  CANE Volume 3: The Darker Touch of Cane (Jonah's POV)

  The Darker Love of Cane

  The Darker Shades of Cane

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  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Dirty Dark Desire is the first book separate to my debut series The Darker Side of Cane. I hope my beautiful fans will enjoy this as much as you have enjoyed my previous books!

  I must personally thank Melisa Dare for this one as Clarissa Sinclair would not be the character she is without a discussion we had.

  This is for you Dream Team – I couldn't do this without you all!

  Melisa Dare, Lisa Boltiador, Mirela Kombic, Irma Elena Sage, Margaret Stephenson-Ritchie, Camilla Thomsen, Christine Raine Jalili, Melissa Boldig, Kriss Theibault, Kris Bookhagen, Fran Reading, Rachel Lynn Miller, Arc Blue, Samantha Livingston, Beth Edwards, Laura Lee, Michelle Poe, Angela Swisher, Jennifer Wong, Elizabeth Jones, and Maria Hunt.

  Dirty

  Dark

  Desire

  By

  LACEY ALPHA

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the author. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Published by Lacey Alpha 2017

  Copyright 2017 Lacey Alpha

  All rights reserved

  Lacey Alpha has asserted her right under the copyright, designs and patents act, 1998, to be identified as the author of this work.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  I was in the darkness,

  so darkness I became...

  ETHAN

  The girl stands before me, screaming, fire consuming her body, devouring her Hepburn-pale skin, her cherry-red lips. The last thing that remains are her eyes, scorching into my soul, accusing.

  You did this. You did this. You did this!

  I wake, sweat pouring down my bare back, the sheets damp.

  I roll out of bed, trembling, my fist clamped around the 9mm pistol I had on me that day: army issue, L1171A.

  I drop it onto the bed and it bounces once. I should have gotten rid of it.

  'Shoulda, woulda, coulda', my dad's favourite phrase chimes in my ear. Funny how some things never leave you. Even if you haven't seen the person who spoke them in nine years.

  I walk across the large room, light streaming through the Victorian sash window.

  Mid-morning. Spring sunlight. It burns my eyes.

  I sit at the desk beneath the pane, glancing down at the road. Londoners mill about, grabbing coffee, taking hurried phone calls, darting left and right through the street. The hum of the morning commute is in the air, car horns beeping, people pissed off about going to work and pissed off over the shitty lives they have to go home to. They don't know anything about real misery.

  I bite the inside of my cheek, grating my teeth against the gum, wearing it away until it aches.

  Picking up a pen, I flip open my journal.

  I saw her again. You. It's the same every time. I have to remind myself of what's real and what's not. You're still here. You're probably on your second cup of tea this morning. You don't like coffee. But sometimes you drink it at that shitty cafe on the corner of Devon Street.

  I wonder if you're there now.

  I want to go there, to check. But I won't. I know I shouldn't.

  ⊱✿ ✿⊰

  “How did it make you feel? Seeing her like that?” my therapist, Clarissa Sinclair, asks, crossing a leg over her knee. She has a short skirt on today. It's distracting. I don't want to sexualise her but it's difficult when she looks like that. Especially when we're talking about her: Annalise.

  “What do you think? I felt like shit.” I scrape a hand through my hair. It's getting overly long again. When did I last cut it? Annalise cut her hair three weeks ago. I didn't like it. It was too short, nearly above her shoulders. But it's growing out again already.

  “What ran through your mind when you woke up?”

  I tongue at the welt I ripped open in my mouth this morning, the pain giving me some reprieve from the guilt. “I wanted to see her.”

  “But you didn't?” she checks, stern for half a second.

  She worries, Clarissa does. She has to report any criminal activity on my part to the police. I've had to lie to her. A lot. I need this therapy, that's why I came to her in the first place. After it got out of control, I knew I needed help. But so far, she thinks I've abided to the promises I made on day one.

  “No,” I confirm, leaning back in my seat, the casual lie tasting bitter on my tongue.

  “I want to propose something to you...” She taps a pen on her bare knee.

  Is she doing it on purpose?

  “What?” I grunt, pushing my hands down my trouser legs to distract myself.

  “I'm in a difficult situation when it comes to you, Ethan.”

  I regard her, tilting my head to one side. What is she getting at?

  “The girl needs to be informed of your interest in her.”

  I shift in my seat, my gut churning. “No. That wouldn't be appropriate.”

  “I'm afraid you don't get to decide what's appropriate.” She raises a strawberry-red brow, stern again. I don't think she's supposed to judge me, but I see that she does. Her puddle-green eyes give away everything she thinks. She likes me. She'd like to fuck me, I think. I guess it's the allure of the taboo.

  I rub my jaw, shifting again. “No, Clarissa. Really. That would make things very difficult for me. We agreed I'd keep five hundred meters from her. And I have.”

  I haven't.

  “Perhaps we should discuss increasing that, too.” She drums her pen on her knee again. The tapping noise irks me, thrumming in my ears.

  I grind my teeth. “But I'm getting better, aren't I?”

  “You must stop thinking of this as an illness you can recover from.”

  I frown, pain spiking through me. “So I'll always be like this?”

  “Yes, Ethan. You'll always be like this.”

  I don't think she's supposed to make assumptions like that about me. It gets my back up. She has no right. I know I can get better. I wasn't sick before I was deployed to Iraq. I can be that man again. I have to be.

  “I'd like to see another therapist,” I say, staring at her evenly.

  Her jaw hardens and that eyebrow lifts again, degrading me. “Are you sure that's a good idea? Another therapist might report your obsession to the police more readily than I would.”

  An ache claws at my chest and I know I'm backed into a corner.

  She's right. I
can't risk being exposed. Much as the woman frustrates me on occasion, she's honoured my confidentiality. And I can't take that for granted.

  ⊱✿ ✿⊰

  Evening.

  It's dark, rain pummels the windows. My favourite kind of weather.

  No one's outside. No one will see me if I take a walk.

  I just want a look. Just to see her, to confirm that her heart still beats. That's all. Maybe it'll keep the nightmares at bay tonight.

  I work out for an hour, trying to fight off the urge to go. My therapist advised me against the coping strategy. But it works for me. Clarissa doesn't always know what's best, though she likes to think she does.

  When I'm dripping with sweat, I eye myself in the large mirror hanging on the exposed brick wall.

  I finger the bullet hole scars: one over my ribs, one in the dip between my abs.

  You should be dead. You deserve to be dead.

  I'm choked. Smoke fills my nostrils, the putrid smell of burning flesh overwhelming me.

  I jerk away from the mirror, snatching a sheet from the bed and tossing it over my reflection.

  A word repeats in my ear in a hiss.

  Monster, monster, monster.

  I drag on a raincoat and head out the door, snatching my keys from the hook.

  Five hundred metres. That's how far away Clarissa tells me to keep from her.

  I pull up my hood, heading into the rain. It's cool on my skin, the flecks peppering my cheeks.

  I begin to jog, the pounding of my feet on the tarmac juddering through my body. The rhythm soothes me as I grow nearer. It's like a drug, moving closer and closer to the moment I'll take that hit.

  I remember when I thought this was love. It eased my anxiety for a while. I was just a man in love, what was so wrong with that? But I don't know what love is, according to Clarissa.

  Heading up the street, I duck my head as a couple pass me, giggling and kissing each other.

  I glance over my shoulder at them. Is that love? Is that what it looks like?

  I dart across the road, my shoes splashing through the puddles, headlights catching in the sheet of rain around me.

  Through the park, across the street, down the alley. It's as easy as it's always been.

  I slip into the darkness of the alley, moving to the rusted old fire escape and raising my hands to pull it down. I'm tall, tall enough to jump and grab it by my fingertips. It takes two goes -it's slippery from the rain.

  It screeches, metal on rusted metal; the sound rips to my core. I remember the first time I did this. My pulse pounded in my ears, adrenaline spiking through me. But nothing compared to the moment I saw her.

  I'm anxious, hoping she's in. I need to see her. Just for a second.

  Climbing the ladder, I ascend to the third floor.

  And there she is. Stealing my fucking breath as always.

  I crouch low, gazing across the gap between the old tiled roof directly into her living room. She's watching TV, the lights are off so the flickering colours dance over her body. Blue, purple, pink, green.

  She's curled up under a blanket, sipping tea. Her hazel hair is scraped into a messy bun, her lips parted, captivated by whatever she's watching.

  Pink, white, blue.

  My chest compresses as I watch. I stare and stare, absorbing her. She's alive, and real, and safe. And that's all I need to know.

  Creep.

  I shudder as rain slides beneath my collar, a single icy droplet travelling directly down my spine, growing warmer as my skin heats it.

  This isn't love. This is obsession. That's what Clarissa told me. Clarissa with her PhD. She knows me better than I do.

  Yellow, red, yellow, red.

  I fall backwards, gasping, desperate. I'm there again, seeing the fire, her body burning.

  I slip, my shoes unable to grip the wet metal. I reach out at the last second, snatching the railing, the sharp edges digging into my palm.

  I grunt, hanging, trying to clamber up.

  You should drop. Let go. Three floors. That'd kill you. Or break your back.

  I pant, scrambling upwards, forcing the voice away.

  And suddenly I'm on my knees, shaken but safe.

  ANNALISE

  I shouldn't do this. But here I am doing it anyway: watching another romance film. It's The Notebook tonight. Again. I'm a sucker for it. But it's bittersweet, I usually end up in tears or ripped apart by my own loneliness.

  You know you're screwed when even your friends stop setting you up. I think my most recent date was sometime last June. Organised by my mother (yeah. That happened). He was cute, nice, had a good job, ticked all the boxes on paper. But where was the spark?

  I'm like a broken record, I know. My friends roll their eyes when I say I broke it off with another guy because 'there wasn't a spark'.

  But it's only fair, isn't it? I deserve the spark. Didn't they have the spark with their partners? Not like I'd ask them, just in case they didn't.

  Maybe it's all these films that's causing the damage. I should write to Disney to complain.

  Dear Mr Disney,

  You can't go telling little girls their whole lives that a handsome prince will sweep them off their feet if it's not going to happen.

  I tuck the blanket higher under my chin, sipping my tea. It's pouring with rain tonight, battering the window. I like the sound, making me feel snug and safe inside my flat. I always leave the curtains open when it rains, I like watching the droplets splatter the pane, dancing across the glass, on winding little journeys as if they have minds of their own.

  I pretty much spend all my weekends like this. Since the last of my single friends got a boyfriend I've had to get used to 'alone time'. And I've gotten really good at it. As in, I barely think about it any more. It's only in those odd moments when I'm reminded of my perpetual singledom that it actually hurts.

  The triggers aren't predictable either, sometimes it's the sight of a friend's husband tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Other times it's the more trivial stuff: him asking what she'd like for dinner, did she have a good day, that kind of thing. The sort of question no one has ever asked me in a way that said: 'I love you and I care'. Well, not unless you count my parents. Which, at the ripe old age of 28, is pretty bloody sad that they're still the only ones I can honestly say love me unconditionally.

  Sometimes I can watch these films with a cold disconnect. But tonight doesn't feel like one of those nights and I'm soon reaching for the tissues, dabbing my eyes.

  My chest aches, a knife twisting into my heart.

  I'm always going to be alone.

  God it's pathetic. I'm not always this sad. But in the privacy of my home, sometimes I just need to come apart. So I'm stronger for another day.

  And alright, if I'm really looking at myself under a magnifying glass, this could potentially have something to do with the fact that my friend Kat got engaged today.

  She called me from Peru – Peru for fuck's sake! – I want to go to bloody Peru. And I would settle for doing it alone and without coming home with a diamond ring on my finger.

  But I beamed at her over Facetime, my gums stretched so wide it hurt. “Congratulations!” I'd screamed- practically breaking my jaw, looking like the Cheshire bloody cat.

  It's selfish, I know. I should be happy for her. Fuck it, I am happy for her. But Jesus Christ, when you've seen every single friend, acquaintance and high school drug addict get hitched throughout your twenties, it kinda takes a toll on your heart.

  I sip my tea, inhaling deeply.

  I've got to stop doing this. I should go out. Hang out at bars. 'Meet people'.

  It's just harder now. Doing everything by yourself is exhausting. I remember what it was like to get ready for a party with the other single girls at university. It was so much fun.

  Urgh. Got to stop complaining. Mum says my prince charming is on his way, he just won't stop to ask for directions. Then she laughs and says, typical men. I've heard that joke a hundred t
imes. It's still not funny.

  I pick up my phone, glaring at the Tinder app I downloaded an hour ago, my thumb hovering precariously over it.

  Oh god. What's become of me?

  I chuck it onto the sofa, tucking my feet further beneath me.

  Gotta have faith in romance. Like my dad does. He's always had that infallible kind of faith in fate and destiny, all that stuff. I try to be like him. But sometimes it's hard to be.

  I finish my tea, placing it on the coffee table.

  What's that saying again? The love of your life shows up when you're least expecting it?

  Well hey, I'm in my living room in Christmas-themed pyjamas in March sobbing my eyes out. If this isn't least expecting it, I don't know what is.

  CLARISSA

  “You'll refer to me as Mistress Ginger, understand?”

  My new sub is keen, too keen. I want him on his knees, I want him begging. He's never done this before. And I'm not going to go easy on him. His skin is dark and glistening, his chest a perfect untarnished canvas, awaiting the rip of my nails.

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  He's tethered to the metal frame in my basement, his cock already hard. Some men are too easy to arouse. I adore a challenge and that's why he's in the back of my mind: Ethan. The fucked up little stalker. He's definitely a challenge. And I'm in need of one.

  I've convinced a therapy client into my basement before. But he had mother issues, easy prey. He wanted me from the moment he stepped into my office. And it was only a matter of time before I grew bored.

  “What's your name?” I ask, running a tickler up between my sub's hard pecks. I always start softly, letting them think this is about pleasure, not pain.

  “Jeremy.”

  I run the tickler down to his cock, circling until he's throbbing.

  “You no longer have that name in here. You'll respond to the name Pet, are we clear?” My voice rings high and clear into the cool air of my basement, a feeling of absolute power washing over me. It's the high I crave on a daily basis. The only thing that can provide it, is this.