Captured: Wrecked Virgin: Angie the Sailor

By Q. Zayne

The Hunt: Perverted billionaires chase a virgin though the jungle. The taker will take her.

You don't know what you're capable of until your world rests in one man's hands. You don't know how far you'll stretch, how low you'll go, or where your snapping point into your own darkness lies--until someone pits you against real evil with someone else's life hanging in the balance.

I'm Angie, a 19 year-old sailor sailing around the world solo to save my dad's life. Until a storm wrecks me on a private island and a mysterious, too-hot older man makes me a proposition no one should have to consider.

Excerpt:

He looked like an ad for menswear for a super expensive magazine, or someone you’d see on the cover of an adventure novel: strong, tanned face, crinkles around the eyes — outrageous eyes the color of the sea when it’s that unbelievable blue-green that looks like it goes on right to the bottom where the treasure ships wait.

His thick beard made him timeless, like a ship’s captain from another century. The pure masculinity of it drew my eyes, and it seduced me into imagining his mouth and chin naked, the way a striptease artist plays on what’s hidden more than on what’s revealed.

"I won't bite," he whispered.

CAPTURE is a standalone futuristic Dark Fantasy Erotica novella, the longest yet in The Billionaire's Club series. No cliffhanger. For Mature readers 18+. Trigger warning. This is not a formula read. It's dark and dirty. Don't look inside or download it unless you want all-out hard and unprotected erotica with interracial love. I write for adventurous readers.

Enjoy.
Q.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Q. Zayne
• Release date: Mar 10, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370626212

Q. Zayne

Q. Zayne often appears on top 100 author lists. Q. minored in Classical Archaeology and has an MFA in Creative Writing from SFSU. After teaching at the university, working as an editor, and freelancing, the author embarked on a wild digital publishing adventure. Thanks to fabulous readers, super promoters, and unflagging supporters, Q. writes fiction for a living from the Yucatan, Central America, and the California coast.Check out the Quin Zayne books for dirty, high-heat romance, and Q. Zayne for Erotica and naughty fairy tales.

Book preview

Capture

Wrecked Innocent

Sailor Angie

The Billionaires Club Interracial BDSM #5

For D & for T.

And for my readers, with special thanks to those of you who write reviews of my books.

Copyright

DRM-free for readers, DCMA-protected to penalize pirates.

Do not post any of our stories on any site.

Copyright ©2017 Hughes Empire. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this publication may be copied, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the express written permission of the author except for brief excerpts in a review. Cover photo ©Deposit Photos, and photographers, all rights reserved. The use of these photos does not suggest endorsement of this work by the photographers nor the models, nor does it imply anything about the models’ characters or lifestyles.

Electronic book publication: March 2017, 2nd edition.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual businesses, entities, creatures or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All people and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. This work is for mature readers 18+. All characters are consenting adults over 18 and the acts contained herein are pure fantasy. The fantasy displays unconcern with consequences of unprotected sex. Stay safe and sexy.

Around the World

The supply chopper receded into a speck. The pilot’s wave and wink slid into memory, the last human contact I’d have for days. Shading my eyes, I looked out to sea: Nothing in view of The Chameleon but deep green swells. I felt a contentment like nothing I’d ever known. The deep shadow of my father’s illness receded, made bearable by the vast sky and sea, the tender rocking of my sailboat.

My objective: to sail around the world and beat the world’s record. A solo effort, and Chameleon’s maiden voyage. I’d just turned 19. It took me three years to raise the money to buy her. I still smelled the kitchen grease from the ocean-front diner where I waited tables to raise the money.

I’d always wanted to do this, and I had a life or death reason to fulfill my dream. Dad’s whiskery kiss on my cheek stayed with me. If there was truly any force for good in the universe, I’d make it.

The sunset cast deep red across the waters. Clouds the exact shade of raspberry sherbet turned blood-blister red.

The wind came up in a rush. I lunged for the supplies. The boat pitched and I slammed against the mast with bruising force. The supplies slid overboard. Damn.

The gale had risen without warning. I knew better than to take calm conditions for granted, I’d been sailing as long as I could walk. I should have stowed everything as soon as the chopper made the drop. Several days worth of food and fresh water gone.

I imagined Dad’s disappointment. No, he’d forgive me that mistake. It was done. I pushed my hair into my anorak and raised my hood to keep the whipping strands out of my eyes.

My radio sputtered. I grabbed the handset and pushed the button.

May day, may day. Coast guard, do you read? Anyone, this is Chameleon, do you read? Last known position… I tried to pull the latitude and longitude out of my numbed brain but I couldn’t. It was no good. The light was off.

I pressed the button over and over, but not even static returned. The radio died, the transmission didn’t send. No one knew where I was. No one got that May day.

The coast guard would know my last position, but that was hours ago. I’d been blown off course.

The rigging snapped. I held the mast, grabbing for the rope to control the main sail but the wind whipped it out of my hand, burning my palm.

I fought the storm gripping the last sail.

The belly of the most massive wave I’d ever seen came at me. Oh, hell. The Chameleon couldn’t take that. I took a deep breath. There was no time to grab a life vest or my air tanks, even if I dared let go of the mast.

The wall of water hit me, ripped me loose of the The Chameleon, slammed me under the sea, and down into the dark.

I fought my way through the heavy water. My arms and legs felt like saturated tree trunks. I could barely move, and my lungs burned. Colors burst in dark blotches behind my eyes. Was I going to die? No, no way. It doesn’t end like this.

I surfaced gasping, eyes and mouth stinging with saltwater. A big mass blocked the setting sun. I swam for it. My Chameleon, bottom-up, bobbing like a buoy. At least she wasn’t sunk. I grabbed on and another wave crashed into us, drove us like a kid’s toy in a rushing creek. The water moved impossibly fast. I couldn’t see, couldn’t swim, could only cling to my broken craft.

Chameleon ran aground with a crunch. I felt the destructive force as though it tore my body instead of hers.

No, no! She took the brunt of the violent landing, saving my far more vulnerable prow from jagged rocks. My breasts ached in sympathy pain for her.

She was everything to me, all my hopes rode on her. Now she lay grounded, gashed by huge, horrible fangs. I let go and dropped to the hard-packed sand. My ankles stung from the shock.

The damage looked even worse than it sounded. Light showed through the gaping hole in the prow. The jagged hole looked like a megalodon took a bite, one of those giant prehistoric sharks. Nothing remained to repair it, only splinters where once there’d been a sleek, wave-slicing hull.

I collapsed to my knees on the beach and covered my face in my hands. My hair blew over my shoulders. The sea-soaked strands whipped my fingers and back. It was long when I started sailing weeks ago and grew longer.

This was bad. This was super bad.

This could be the end. I’d put everything into this trip. All my savings from waitressing, all my skills and hopes and dreams.

I’d lost my stores and wrecked my boat.

Think, think, Angie, think.

I squared my shoulders. I wouldn’t quit. If Dad survived the cancer, he’d be proud I won. Even if I couldn’t beat the record, I could at least finish the trip, make it around the world solo. That was the plan, the only plan. Maybe if I did that much I could at least get some endorsements to pay for his treatment. I’d wear any brand of sneakers, drink any sports drink, whatever they wanted, to pay for the treatments that might save Dad’s life.

Getting to my feet made me groan. Now I knew how Dad felt getting out of a chair when he sat a long time. Unfolding my knees hurt. No doubt from fighting the storm, and maybe the impact of the crash. My body felt thrashed. I pressed my palms against my thighs and stretched my back. I straightened and took a look around. Palm trees, jungle, a long white-sand beach with lots of huge boulders like the ones at my crash site. No signs of habitation, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any inhabitants.

I’d heard rumors of pristine places that remained out of reach of the Western plagues of consumerism and processed food. Sounded like paradise to me. Darker stories, reached