As I promised readers, here is another excerpt from “Exit Strategy” Book Two of The Ghetto Girl Romance Quadrilogy, but first I want to give you some book release news:
I’ve shared with some of you that I suffered a fall on my job at the end of January and injured my right (dominant) hand and left shoulder. Together with some knee scrapes and elbow contusions, I was a hot mess for a minute. I visited my Workers Comp doctor today and she tells me that I’ll be undergoing physical therapy so I can get my full range of motion back beginning in about a week.
What this means for book two is that it might be late. I was in the middle of doing some major rewrites to get it completed (the original told from only Keisha’s POV, was being re-written to include Tristan’s POV), but I have fallen behind. I am currently, and will be, working hard to get it to you as closely to the promised publish date as possible. However, once I’m done, I’ll have to get it to my editor, and then my formatter, so please, bear with me
In the meantime, Book One is, as I write this, being prepped to go onto Nook, Kobo, iBooks, Smashwords, All Romance eBooks and the whole gamut of formatting venues. Please tell your friends with other platforms they can now read from the comfort of their own devices in the next couple of days!
(This is a scene that occurs almost immediately after Keisha safeworded at the end of book one. And please remember, this is unedited.)
Tristan is right on my ass invading my personal space. “You’re not leveling with me, Keisha.”
I walk out of the closet, and he follows as I get my purse and make a beeline for the stairs. I’m taking two steps to his one trying to get down the stairs and out of there before I lose my composure. His next question hobbles me.
“Why were there so many domestic calls to your parents’ home the six years before you went to college?”
I stop in my tracks in the middle of the stairway and round on him.
“Did you do a fucking background check on me without my permission, or something?”
“It’s standard procedure when I take on a new sub. It was in the NDA which–if you recall–you didn’t read very well.”
I don’t know what comes over me, but I have a Scarlet O’Hara moment and raise my hand to slap him, but he grabs my wrists like a vise and won’t let go. He pushes me against the wall and traps me with his body and holds my hands immobile above my head. I’m pissed that he’s apparently been snooping into my background, and perhaps already knows much more about my family history than I would care for him to. I use sarcasm to downplay the severity of what went down in the Beale home all those years.
“My parents fought. Houses are close together in the hood, and the goddamn neighbors were nosy. Satisfied?”
I struggle to get away. He releases me but dogs my steps down the rest of the stairs.
“Domestic abuse has been known to be the cause of PTSD for children in that situation. Aren’t you going to tell me what your triggers are, Keisha?”
I turn and push him so hard he falls back against the stairs. He grabs me and brings me with him as he falls taking the brunt of the impact, and we lay splayed on the stairs, a jumble of arms and legs together. I scramble to get up and off him, but Tristan holds me firm. I struggle, but he won’t let me go. He holds me with the strong band of one arm across my back and one large palm across my ass, and I feel that he’s aroused, and I’ll be damned if that doesn’t make me get wet on cue. I sag against him, betrayed again by my wanton body.
As I’m about to look into his eyes and acknowledge my defeat, I see the arrogant smirk on his face. He waggles his eyebrows. “Even now, you want me, don’t you, Baby?”
He laughs, and that ticks me off to the point that I seriously begin to fight him. Somehow, he maneuvers until he’s on top of me, prying my legs open with his knees and holding my arms down with his own. He kisses me in that way he has of exploring my mouth as if it’s some mysterious uncharted territory. I am not going to give up easily, so I fight him with everything in me, even as I kiss him back. Talk about conflicted in the extreme.
I fight him like Maria Bello fought Viggo Mortensen on the stairwell in the movie A History of Violence. Tristan anchors me with his mouth, and holds me down with his body while he takes a leisurely stroll over my flesh with his hands. He tweaks both my breasts until my nipples are hard enough to cut through the fabric of my clothes, then his hand moves over my torso to caress my stomach down to the apex of my legs where he finds my underwear drenched. He pulls his lips away for a moment, and his blue eyes bore into mine.
“Your body hasn’t decided it’s ready to leave me, yet,” he says and slips two fingers under the seat of my underwear and buries them in me to his knuckles.
“You—Ugh! Let me go.” I struggle in earnest again.
Tristan silences me with another kiss until I give in, stop struggling, and kiss him back with an urgency that is ridiculous given how hard I was fighting him just moments before. He rips my underwear down my legs, tearing them in the process, undoes his pants, and he’s inside me. All I can do is pull him down, and take all of him because that is what I want more than anything else. I am going to leave him later today, and I won’t be back. This will be our last good fuck—right here on his stairs, half-dressed, rutting like we didn’t just do this the night before.
Our breathing is ragged, almost savage as we strain into one another on the stairway. I can feel the carpet burning into my exposed flesh, but I don’t want him to stop. There is a dull ache inside me from the previous night’s activities. I don’t mention it, so Tristan shows no mercy. He gives it to me like he never has before, and I take it likewise. I will probably feel this for a couple of days, but that’s okay because afterwards, all I’ll have will be memories. I am going to miss the way he takes command of my body and makes me feel like my bones are going to liquefy. I give myself over to him, and it isn’t until after he’s orgasmed that I gasp in panic.
“Mrs. Naven . . .”
“Is visiting . . . family in Evanston . . .” He pants, and continues to thrust into me, stubbornly, his blue eyes boring into mine. “How . . . can you leave this . . . Keisha?”
“Watch me,” I say. I hold his gaze as long as I can until he exacts an orgasm from me as powerful as his own, his kiss stealing the scream that rips from my throat.
Tristan rolls us so his body isn’t pinning me to the stairs, but he doesn’t let me go. He holds me so fast and so close, the tears that have threatened begin to fall. I wrench away from him before he sees me, and stumble Mario Bello-style up the stairs to clean myself up.
“Please wait until morning to leave,” he says. “I’ll have Mrs. Naven pack your things, and Moses will deliver you home safely.”
When I get to the landing, I look back to see him still sprawled on the stairs, his eyes closed, practicing what looks like the breathing exercise my psychologist taught me. It takes everything in me to leave him there.