And the sun rose over the Cotswolds, painting the old stone cottage in blood-red light, while Lord P paced the creaking floorboards, phone silent in his pocket like a loaded gun.
He hadn’t texted her since yesterday’s exchange, the one where she’d pushed for his address and he’d slammed the door shut with that single, infuriating “soon.” The cottage smelled of wood smoke from the dying fire in the grate and the faint, bitter tang of his untouched whiskey on the side table.
Support helps me create the kind of stories that breathe fire, raw, emotional, and unafraid of desire. My goal is to write with honesty, explore the depth of power and surrender, and build a space where readers who crave intensity feel seen. Every bit of support lets me go deeper into the world I’m crafting… and stay committed to telling the truth of these characters.
Write a comment ...