Page 1 of Monsters of Desire and Nightmares of Passion

PROLOGUE

He would stand there, in the corner of my room, and watch me sleep.

I would open my eyes and stare into his. They were burning pits of fire. Then they would change into something else, something darker, something that pulled me into a world of passion I couldn’t describe without getting out of breath and sweaty as if I had just run the marathon.

Was it a memory or a dream? I wasn’t sure.

Draw was there, in this dark form. His big red eyes glowed in the darkness. Tendrils of midnight reached toward me. His huge, strong, muscular, human upper body leaned on his scorpion legs. A giant stinger grew on his back.

I should be scared. I should be shaking. But all I wanted was for him to come closer and touch me. His long horns extended over his forehead and curled backward. His fangs glistened white in the moonlight.

This was his body, or rather, his true shape. The torso was that of a man, with muscles strong and defined, like an armor of dark flesh draped over a strong bone structure. From the waist down, his body was that of a scorpion, stinger and all. There was not an inch of that perfect body I didn’t crave to touch and commit to my memory.

I fell on my knees in front of him, worshipping him like the god he was. His cock was already hard as soon as I dropped in front of it. Bigger than anything I have ever seen in movies or read about in books. It was shaped differently than a human cock. The head looked like a bulbous mushroom, but the body had knobs and spikes growing from it with a large knot at its base. Remembering how it felt when that knot was buried deep inside me made me swallow hard.

My mouth watered as if I knew this was the only cock that could ever satisfy me the right way.

The tendrils of darkness wrapped around me, ripping my clothes off and leaving me naked, kneeling, shivering. My eyes rose to meet his gaze. Licks of desire tortured my body. Watching myself in his eyes was an addiction I didn’t want to get over.

We didn’t need words. A part of my soul knew Draw and trusted him implicitly. However, the human fight or flight mechanism activated each time I was near him. The primordial fear that he brought to life in my soul had me tethering on the edge. What if he sunk that huge, black stinger into my chest, ending me?

His hand stroked his cock. The tendrils of darkness touched me, wrapping themselves around my breasts, kneading them to the peak of pleasure. My nipples became so hard I could barely stand them.

“Draw.” My lips wanted to taste his name as it slipped out of my mouth.

He leaned closer, licking my earlobes with his split tongue. Playing with it the same way one of the tentacles growing from the darkness played with my clit. The tentacle pulling on my clit milked it for every ounce of pleasure until it became hard, filled with tingling and need.

I wanted to press my legs together again, but he flipped me on my belly.

“You’re a good girl, Ivy. You’ll take my cock.”

The shape of his large member felt exactly the way it looked—hard, hot, and so good.

As soon as his head pressed inside my tender, wet pussy, I called out, desperate for more, desperate for it to be in deeper. It was the kind of need borne somewhere inside my brain, and only his monstrous flesh could satisfy it.

I awoke sweaty, gasping and needing more.

As I sat up in my bed, I pulled a pillow between my legs and tried to calm my crazy heartbeat. Pressing my palm on my chest, I closed my eyes again, took a deep breath, counted to ten, and exhaled slowly.

When I opened my eyes again, I turned to the nightstand and took my notebook that served as my journal. The Kindle was next to me on my pillow. I was tempted to open it again and read a few more pages. Instead, I took out the pen and scribbled down my dream.

This is my dream journal, the one the older therapist told me to use to record my dreams. My sex dreams with men and monsters. Dreams that make me shiver and that, if I ever publish them, would put a lot of the books I enjoy reading to shame.

My journal opens at a dream titledThe Phantom of the Opera.It was from last year when I read regency romance novels.

I found myself inside an old-fashioned theatre, seated in my box, alone. Red velvet chairs and curtains surrounded me. The surface of the passion-colored fabric felt incredibly sensual to the touch. I wore a silky, cherry-red gown with a corset. My breath was shallow.

My gaze was averted; my face was half-hidden by a silk and feather fan. The corset pulled my waist together and pushed up my breasts, making them spill over the lace trim of my blue silk gown. His presence was potent. I felt it long before I gathered the courage to lift my gaze and face him.

I felt need, and he was there, next to me.

The voices of the actors filled the opera house. All the people around watched as the main character fell in love.

The man who sat next to me was not a man. He was... something else. I could feel it. I always can. I know my monsters, the ones that love to be tormented by me, no matter what disguise they choose to hide their true shape. This one is no different. He’s here to make me feel crazy, to make me gasp, to make me burn and crave something that can’t be real, something that’s a figment of my sick imagination.

His true form appeared for a heartbeat, enough to give me a glimpse of the horror that expected me. He was dark with long horns that grew from his forehead and curled toward the back of his head.

“I want to make you scream louder than the singer on stage,” he whispered to me. My nipples puckered painfully, pushing against my corset. It was wrong. I should stand up and scream, but I felt paralyzed. This happened in all my dreams. I knew what was happening. A part of me wanted to call for help, while another delighted in the dark debauchery.

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