FrankenDom's Monster

FrankenDom Book 2

» Blurb «

An erotic experiment gone horribly right…

The last time nurse Briana McBride showed up uninvited at the Castle of Fear, Jordan Kilmartin threatened to throw her out a window. This time Bree’s here to apologize and make sure Jordan’s not a danger to himself or others. Too bad she didn’t learn from her mistakes and call first.

Jordan thought he’d seen the last of the bratty McBride sister—until he caught her spying on him in the shower. Now he’s got Bree naked in a cage, and there’s nothing he wants more than to punish her with his bare hands and then have his way with her until neither of them can walk.

But as a stranger in his own body, Jordan can’t trust himself not to go too far. He can, however, turn Bree over to Hans Hauptman, his brutal physical therapist. Is it a smart idea? Probably not. But as long as he gets to watch them together, he’ll live with the painful consequences…

Warning: Not for the vanilla at heart. Contains a man on the edge, a nurse on a mission and a gleeful sadist with boundary issues. Also contains a wide array of kinks—including voyeurism, capture and punishment, interrogation, breath play, medical play and consensual non-con—to resolve deep emotional conflicts. Prepare to change your underwear and wipe your eyes several times.


» Unedited Excerpt «

A sound in the hall makes me sit up and stare at edge of light under the door. Is it Jordan? What would he be doing at—I grab my phone off the nightstand—almost two in the morning?

Or maybe Hans has come back?

No, he seems too conscientious to scare me this way. He would at least text me . . .

I smack my forehead. Crap, we never exchanged contact information. Maybe it is Hans out there.

Or maybe someone else knows about the key in the wall. Someone dangerous. Maybe they saw Hans using the key and are out there right now, preparing to sneak in and knife me in my sleep . . . or worse.

Jesus, I didn’t lock the door to my room! Should I call the police? Does 9-1-1 even work in Montaneva? Maybe I’ll just have to start punching buttons until someone answers. But no, that’s just as likely to get me a barber in Quebec or a pizzeria in Zimbabwe.

Cursing my overactive imagination, I throw back the covers and quietly slide out of bed, determined not to be lying there defenseless if an intruder bursts in. The old tank top and lounge pants I'm wearing beat the hell out of the nothing I usually sleep in, but I have no robe or slippers so I creep barefoot to the door, using my phone as a flashlight, and press my ear against it.

All I can hear is my own rapid heartbeat.

Lying down on the floor, I press my face up close to the door and try to see underneath, but the carpet pile is too deep.

I’m playing amateur detective…at night.

I roll my eyes. This is a fine time for the Graveyard Shift episode of SpongeBob to haunt me.

When the hall light goes off, I jerk back with a gasp, but then it goes on again.

First, the lights will flicker on and off…

Damn that quirky little sponge! If my phone rings and nobody’s there, I’m going to need some serious therapy when I get back to the States.

After a couple of minutes, I hear the click of a latch and then the sound of a light switch being flipped. The light under my door gets brighter, which means whoever it is has turned on the lights in the dungeon. Is it Jordan? Maybe he can’t sleep and wants to work out.

But when I hear nothing further, I can’t stand it anymore—I get up and turn my doorknob very, very slowly. The click of the latch still rings like a gunshot in my ears and I freeze.

I’m playing too-stupid-to-live horror movie heroine . . . at night.

Silently swearing a blue streak, I wait for a minute and then pull the door open just a sliver to peek out. I go limp with relief when I realize it’s Jordan who’s standing to me in the doorway to the dungeon, wearing track pants and a long-sleeved tee shirt. But what’s he staring at in there?

I pull the door open, squinting against the brightness of the hall. “Is everything okay?”

He turns and blinks back at me for just a second, then he walks toward me, his eyes roving from my face all the way down to my feet and up again—only to stop at my braless breasts, which makes me go breathless and hot all over.

“Jordan, what’s going on?”

He keeps right on coming, so I back up into my room.

“Why aren’t you in the cage?” he asks, stalking me in a way that makes my heart race.

“Why would I be?”

“I locked you in the cage.”

Oh hell, is he sleepwalking? “Jordan, are you awake?”

“Yes.” His eyes are still on my breasts, and he’s getting that starved look again. Dammit, he is sleepwalking, isn’t he? And I’m not supposed to wake him up, am I? Why is that again?

The back of my thighs hits the mattress and I gasp. “Um, Jordan . . .”

The next thing I know, he’s picked me up by my waist and tossed me onto the bed, making my pulse go wild and my nipples tighten into hard, tingling points.

The next thing I know, he’s picked me up by my waist and tossed me onto the bed, making my pulse go wild and my nipples tighten into hard, tingling points. Oh God, if he were awake, I’d be so into this! Only I would finally get the kind of manhandling I crave from a guy who’s sound asleep and therefore unable to give consent. I have to put a stop to this now—if his subconscious is in control, giving him what his conscious mind won’t let him have, he might have a major meltdown afterward.

Sitting up, I put all kinds of urgency into my voice. “Jordan, wake up.”

His only reply is to shove me back down and strip my lounge pants off in one practiced move, leaving me naked from the waist down . . .


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