Secrets of Chalice Bay

By Yuwanda Black

PROLOGUE

 

Taz

 

A twisted marriage.

A secret inheritance.

A new love.

 

Will Taz survive her painful past long enough to embrace a promising future?

###

 

The Escape

 

After four months of starving myself, I wonder if I'll fit. I have to, I reason, as I look at the square box that is the downstairs bathroom window.

 

Eight thousand and twenty-three square feet encompassing three floors in one of the most exciting cities in the world: New York. Seven bedrooms and eight bathrooms of Italian marble flooring; Brazilian teak-wood cabinets; and ornately-carved, black-iron staircases. The townhouse's luxury is endless in my gilded prison, except for the one luxury I crave: love.

 

Until I met him, I had never thought of love as a luxury. I breathed it as easily as I breathed air. It was always in plentiful supply — my parents, my friends, my cousins; I was always surrounded by a free flow of love.

 

So when he came into my life, it didn't occur to me that he wasn't just a further extension of the circle of love I'd always known. After all, he had my family's approval. He was handsome. Successful.

Respected. Ruthless. But the kind of ruthless that was accepted in society. You know, the kind that made people money. Lots of money.

 

He was everything a girl like me could want. And I did want. Oh how I wanted; more than wanted.

 

I lusted.

 

I craved.

 

I adored.

 

Him.

 

I was the luckiest young woman alive. Until ...

 

I learned to read the signs of the universe. For almost as soon as he appeared, my circle started shrinking. Until one day, there was only him. And love was nowhere near what was in his heart.

 

Did he even have a heart?

 

Seven years had answered that definitively for me. Something beat in his massive chest; the chest I'd lain on, loved on, cried on, been soothed on. But nowhere in that cavernous span of muscle was what one would call a heart.

 

I learned that too late.

 

Way, way too late.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inkwell Editorial Publishing
• Release date: Feb 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393536147

Yuwanda Black

I've been a reader of romance novels since I was a pre-teen. I've read hundreds of them. "Everybody wants to be loved." This is the enduring theme of all romance novels. We all want to be loved and accepted for exactly who and what we are. And that's the beauty of love – it keeps the hope alive in each of us that there is someone out there, somewhere, who will love what is unique about us. This is what keeps me reading romance, after romance, after romance. Professional Background I've been a freelance writer – for businesses – since 1993. More about my businesses can be found below. A Romance Writer Is Born I wrote my first romance novel in 2013 (3 Weeks 'til Forever). I decided to give this type of writing a try because the title popped into my head one day and just wouldn't let go. After finishing up several more romances, I realize that I've finally found my calling. I love reading – and now writing and publishing – love stories. In 2014, I formed Inkwell Editorial Publishing to bring as many stories to readers like you as possible. I hope you enjoy reading these novels as much as I enjoy bringing them to you – whether they’re written by me, or by one of our ghost writers. My Businesses New Media Words (http://NewMediaWords.biz) is my online writing company. I also publish http://InkwellEditorial.com, the leading web portal for info on how to start a successful freelance writing career. I've self-published over 50 non-fiction ebooks, mostly on the business of freelance writing, self-publishing and internet marketing. My writing online writing courses can be found at http://InkwellEditorial.Teachable.com. My fiction titles (romance) can be found at http://InkwellEditorialPublishing.com.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Taz

A twisted marriage.

A secret inheritance.

A new love.

Will Taz survive her painful past long enough to embrace a promising future?

THE ESCAPE

After four months of starving myself, I wonder if I’ll fit. I have to, I reason, as I look at the square box that is the downstairs bathroom window.

Eight thousand and twenty-three square feet encompassing three floors in one of the most exciting cities in the world: New York. Seven bedrooms and eight bathrooms of Italian marble flooring; Brazilian teak-wood cabinets; and ornately-carved, black-iron staircases. The townhouse’s luxury is endless in my gilded prison, except for the one luxury I crave: love.

Until I met him, I had never thought of love as a luxury. I breathed it as easily as I breathed air. It was always in plentiful supply — my parents, my friends, my cousins; I was always surrounded by a free flow of love.

So when he came into my life, it didn’t occur to me that he wasn’t just a further extension of the circle of love I’d always known. After all, he had my family’s approval. He was handsome. Successful.

Respected. Ruthless. But the kind of ruthless that was accepted in society. You know, the kind that made people money. Lots of money.

He was everything a girl like me could want. And I did want. Oh how I wanted; more than wanted.

I lusted.

I craved.

I adored.

Him.

I was the luckiest young woman alive. Until ...

I learned to read the signs of the universe. For almost as soon as he appeared, my circle started shrinking. Until one day, there was only him. And love was nowhere near what was in his heart.

Did he even have a heart?

Seven years had answered that definitively for me. Something beat in his massive chest; the chest I’d lain on, loved on, cried on, been soothed on. But nowhere in that cavernous span of muscle was what one would call a heart.

I learned that too late.

Way, way too late.

Chapter 1

Taz

June. The beginning of hurricane season.

I laugh at the thought because the last seven years of my life have been a hurricane — a Category 5 with an extra measure of, lightening, rain and life-changing wind thrown in. Now that I’ve escaped the eye of the storm, I’m never going back.

Only, fate has other plans.

I DON’T REMEMBER HIS first act of violence against me.

I do remember the first time something he did registered as violence.

It was a slap. It gave me the kind of full lips Hollywood starlets and women who want what they weren’t born with pay for. Only, it was on one side of my mouth. Seven months later, I got the same ‘treatment’ on the other side. By then, of course, the other side had healed.

I put my hand over my mouth to stifle the laugh that tickles my throat. I have always had a wicked sense of humor; an ability to laugh and find joy at will, even in perilous times. Especially in perilous times. It’s what has allowed me to survive a brutal marriage, a brutal man and a brutal grip he had on me for seven years.

Right now, I’m supposed to be taking a pee and having a bath. Yet, here I am laughing about having the shit slapped out of me – twice.

Bathroom time is the only time I’m free — as free as one can be under literal lock and key. He allows me this one luxury, once a day. But even my moment of freedom is all about him.

I like clean pussy. Wash it good baby, because I’ll be ready for my feast later.

If there is one good thing I can say about him, it’s that he knows how to make love to me. It’s made me realize that you can definitely become addicted to a person. The man knows how to eat pussy; especially my pussy. He could write a book on the subject and become much richer than he already is.

Before he even starts, the nerve endings attached to my clit can feel the heat from his mouth. It’s the one hold he has over me; this physical connection. When his tongue hits that little magic piece of flesh between my legs, I forget every slap; every infidelity; and every ‘bitch, cunt, whore’ he slings my way. In fact, I become his whore; begging him to thrust deeper, suck harder, fuck longer.

It isn’t until five years into our marriage that I realize I am the one who is pussy whipped. Wasn’t that supposed to be the other way around?

I am addicted to the things he does to me ‘down there.’ He eats me so long, I cry. The way his tongue circles my clit, takes it between his teeth and sucks on, is like a physical spell — a spell from which I can’t escape.

Every time I swear I’m not going to give in. I swear I’ll remember the mountain of pain he’s buried me under. And every time, he eats it all away; his tongue slicing into the depths of me, making me come so hard I climax the pain away.

Every.

Fucking.

Time.

Then for extra measure, he slides his steel-hard cock into me just before my climax ends, whispering sweet nothings in my ear and sending me back to nirvana. He never fails to fuck me so thoroughly that all I can do is hang on like a rag doll and enjoy the ride.

And yes, I hate myself for this weakness. But that doesn’t mean it’s not there. The jumping my vagina walls do when he gets that look in his eyes is something I can’t deny, no matter how much I want to. It’s a look that declares that I’m his his and his alone, and that will never change.

The part I hate the most is the way he holds me after. So soft. So tenderly, sometimes sliding inside me from behind, his fingers slipping up and down my clit from the front as I come yet again, still nestled in the kind of warm slumber that only a good fuck can bring.

I yank myself up from the closed lid of the toilet, ignoring the warmth between my legs at the memories. I look over my shoulder at the unlocked bathroom door. I dare not lock it.

Not now.

Not ever.

It’s not allowed. And today of all days,