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Lover Unbound
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  1. Lover Unbound (Black Dagger Brotherhood, book 5) by J R Ward
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  3. Lover Unbound: A Novel of the Black Dagger Brotherhood
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Maybe he should just try one on for size. For a couple of days.

As he thought about what was happening, his blood heated even as shame made his skin go Popsicle. With a curse, he walked over to his leather jacket and took out a cell phone. As he dialed, his chest was warm as a meat locker, but at least he felt as if he was doing something about this obsession of his. When the female voice answered, V sliced through her husky hello. You know what to wear, and your hair will be off your neck. What do you say to me? V hung up and tossed the cell phone on the desk, watching as it bounced and came to rest against one of his four keyboards.

And he was going to deliver. Fuck, he truly was a pervert. Down to the marrow. A confirmed, unrepentant sexual deviant…who was somehow famous within the race for what he was. Man, it was absurd, but then, the tastes and motivations of females had always been bizarre. And his fancy reputation was no more significant to him than his subs were. All that mattered was that he had volunteers for what he needed sexually. What was said about him, what the females needed to believe about him, was just oral masturbation for mouths that needed to be otherwise occupied.

As he went down into the tunnel and headed for the mansion, he was thoroughly bitched. She waved the knife in her hand over the roasted turkey she was working on. Okay, this was the last thing he needed. Better to be buried alive than sit alone in the kitchen with her as she prepared food for him with her beautiful hands. He complied because in spite of the fact that he came from a warrior bloodline and he was a member of the Brotherhood and he outweighed her by a good hundred pounds, he was lame and weak when it came to her.

After sliding a plate over next to hers, he sat down across the granite island and told himself not to look at her hands. I can barely get my pants on anymore. As she fished around inside, the knife made a rattling noise, like a coin being shaken up and down. Phury remembered what her blood tasted like and looked away as his fangs elongated. And what was doing on his end was definitely not reciprocated.

Lover Unbound (Black Dagger Brotherhood, book 5) by J R Ward

It had not been because she was driven to sustain him or because she craved him. No, all of that was for his twin. Shot it off to get Z away from that sick bitch Mistress of his. The sacrifice had been worth it. Just like the sacrifice of his happiness was worth Z being with the female they both loved. Bella topped the sandwiches with bread and slid his plate across the granite. While swallowing, he was struck with a sad joy that she had prepared this food for his belly, and she had done it with a certain kind of love. Wiped her mouth with a paper towel. Warm, funny.

And by extension, neither was Phury. Table manners were very important, but this conversation had to end before his head exploded. Blessed evening, Bella, beloved mate of mine twin, Zsadist. Halfway down the thirty-foot-long table, he ran out of gas, pulled free a random chair, and dropped into the thing. When he looked up, Vishous was standing on the other side of the table, staring down at him. With his blue-rimmed ice white irises, his jet-black hair, and his angular, cunning face, he might have been considered beautiful. But the goatee and the warning tattoos at his temple made him look evil.

Not at all. Said we need some R and R. V arched his brows, looking smarter than a matched set of Einsteins. The guy spoke sixteen languages, developed computer games for kicks and giggles, and could recite the twenty volumes of the Chronicles by rote. The brother made Stephen Hawking seem like a candidate for votech. Ah, yes. Man, he and Vishous were on such opposite ends of the sexual spectrum: Him knowing nothing, Vishous having explored everything, and most of it on the extremes…the untrodden path and the Autobahn.

Come to think of it, the two of them had absolutely nothing in common. Oh, God. He could be lighting up right now. V stroked his goatee. It was a stormy day…yeah, lots of storms. But when you took a cloud from the sky and wrapped it around the well, the rain stopped falling. How can anyone wrap up a well? I just had to say it. Half an hour and a turkey sandwich later, V materialized to the terrace of his private downtown penthouse.

The night was a bitch, all March cold and April wet, the bitter wind weaving around like a drunk with a nasty attitude. He supposed he was similar to a long-standing coke addict.

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The high had once been intense, but now he serviced the monkey on his back with no particular enthusiasm. He was all need, no ease. Planting his palms on the terrace ledge, he leaned way over and got sandblasted in the face with a rush of icy air, his hair blowing back all fashion-model and shit. Or maybe…more like in superhero comics. Yeah, that was a better metaphor.

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He realized his hands were stroking the flat stone they rested on, caressing it. The ledge was four feet high and ran around the building like the lip of a serving tray. He knew firsthand how sweet that free fall was. How the force of the wind pushed at your chest, making it hard to breathe. How your eyes watered and the tears streaked up your temples, not down your cheeks. How the ground rushed up to greet you, a host ready to welcome you to the party.

At the last moment, though, he dematerialized back up to the terrace. V turned away from the urge to pull another flier and unlocked one of the sliders with his mind. Not that he would have stayed here during the day even if they did. As he stepped inside, the place and what he used it for pressed into him as if the force of gravity were different here.

The walls and the ceiling and the marble floors of the sprawling one-room spread were black. So were the hundreds of candles that he could light at his will. The rest was equipment: The table with the restraints. The chains mounted into the wall. The masks and the ball gags and the whips and the canes and the chains. The cabinet full of nipple weights and steel clips and stainless-steel tools.

He took off his leather jacket and tossed it onto the bed, then ditched his shirt. He always kept his leathers on during the sessions. The subs never saw him completely naked. No one did except for his brothers during ceremonies in the Tomb, and that was only because the rituals demanded it.

Candles flared at his command, the liquid light rebounding off the glossy floor before being sucked up by the black dome of the ceiling. There was nothing romantic in the air. The place was a cave where the profane was performed on the willing, and the illumination was only to ensure proper placement of leather and metal, hands and fangs.

He went to the wet bar, poured himself a couple of inches of Grey Goose, and leaned back against the short stretch of counter. There were those among the species who thought coming here and withstanding intercourse with him was a rite of passage. Then there were others who could find their satisfaction only with him. And still more who wanted to explore how pain and sex could mix. The Lewis-and-Clark types were the ones who interested him least. He always let them go readily, though any tears were theirs to soothe, not his. Nine out of ten times they wanted to try again, but that was a no-go.

The ones who could take it called him lheage and worshiped him, not that he gave a shit about their reverence. The edge in him had to get dulled, and their bodies were the stone he used to grind himself down on. End of story. He walked over to the wall, picked up one of the lengths of steel chain, and let it slide through his palm, link by link. His sadistic side was fed by his lesser kills.

The things he did to them sexually or otherwise, the things he said, what he made them wear…it was all carefully calibrated for effect. Sure, there was pain involved, and yeah, maybe they cried from the vulnerability and the fear. But they begged him for more. He glanced at the masks.

Lover Unbound: A Novel of the Black Dagger Brotherhood

He always put them in masks, and they were never to touch him unless he told them where and how and with what. If he had orgasms during the course of a session, it was unusual and regarded by the subs with great pride. And if he fed, it was only because he had to. He never degraded those who came here, never made them do some of the nasty things he knew damn well some Doms favored.

But he did not comfort them in the beginning, the middle, or the end, and the sessions were on his terms only. He told the people where and when, and if they pulled any jealous entitlement horseshit, they were out. For good. He checked his watch and lifted the mhis that surrounded the penthouse. As the female materialized on the terrace, he turned around. Through the sliders she was an anonymous shadow of curves in a black leather bustier and a long, loose black skirt.

He opened the door with his mind, but she also knew better than to come in without being summoned. His fangs elongated, but not because he was particularly interested in the wet sex between her legs. He needed to feed, and she was female and she had all kinds of veins to tap into. It was biology, not bewitchment.

V extended his arm and crooked his finger at her. She came forward, trembling, as well she should. He was in a particularly sharp mood tonight. She immediately unzipped the thing and let it fall to the floor in a rush of satin. Underneath, she wore a black garter and black lace-topped hose.

No panties. V walked over to the wall and picked out a mask with only one opening. She was going to have to breathe through her mouth if she wanted air. They always did. Females like her always found the way to his rack. To pass the time, he took a hand-rolled out of his back pocket, put it between his lips, and picked a black candle from its holder.

As he lit his cigarette, he stared at the little pool of liquid wax at the foot of the flame. He checked on how the female was progressing.


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The two of them were as well matched as a pair of chopsticks, both thin and insubstantial, easily broken. As all pretrans were. Zsadist, the Brother who was teaching the hand-to-hand tonight, whistled through his teeth, and John and his classmate bowed to each other. His opponent said the appropriate acknowledgment in the Old Language, and John returned the statement using American Sign Language. Then they engaged. Small hands and bony arms flew around to no great effect; kicks were thrown out like paper airplanes; dodges were made with little finesse.

All their moves and positions were shadows of what they should have been, echoes of thunder, not the bass roar itself. Both John and his opponent glanced over…and abandoned their meager mixed-martial-arts attempts. And Z had just rugged the guy.

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Blaylock sprang to his feet and once more faced off like a trooper, but he was just going to get his ass handed to him again. As big as he was, Z was a giant as well as a member of the Black Dagger Brotherhood. So Blay was facing a Sherman tank with a fuckload of fighting experience. The instant Blay tapped out, Z got off him. As Zsadist stood over the kid, his voice was as warm as it ever got.

Blay smiled, even though his cheek was mashed into the mat like it had been glued down there. Z extended his hand and hooked Blay off the floor just as the sound of a door opening echoed through the gym. Well, shit…that explained where Qhuinn had been all afternoon. Qhuinn had been through the transition.

As John lifted his hand, Qhuinn nodded back like his neck was stiff or maybe his head was pounding. The guy looked like shit and moved as if every bone in his body hurt. He also fiddled with the collar of his new XXXL fleece like the feel of it was bugging him, and he kept jacking his jeans up with a wince. Word had it you flailed around a lot when you were changing.

Then they looked at John. Have a shitload to tell both of you. Sure, he was pants-down terrified, but better to be dead than stuck in the world as a sexless scrap of flesh at the mercy of others. Two hours later, V was as satisfied as he ever got. Voulez-vous nous parler de prix plus bas? Now, the cold heart of a cunning predator will be warmed against its will. En lire plus En lire moins. Livres Amazon Original.

En savoir plus. Description du produit Extrait Praise for J. I love this series! Act of mortal retribution, carried out typically by a male loved one. Chosen who serves the Scribe Virgin in particularly close manner. Dhunhd pr. A Chosen trained in the matter of sexual arts. First Family pr. First Edition Hardback 55 pledges First edition hardback and ebook edition. A coming-of-age graphic novel that is a love letter to the silver screen Following a traumatic first-visit to the local cinema with his father, a young boy returns to see a movie which will ignite his imagination, fill his head with fantasy, and change the course of his life.

Owen Johnson. Reel Love Exhibition! Free Comic Book Day! Friday, 2 June The start of a new project is always extremely exciting. Read more And we're off! Wednesday, 26 April Hello World! These people are helping to fund Reel Love. Lakes International Comics Festival. He keeps his dark side disguised…. He imagines what it would be like to love someone that deeply, trying to come to grips that it will never be that way for him and Butch, and possibly him and anyone, for that matter. After a near fatal shooting, he ends up in a human hospital and meets his surgeon, Dr. Jane Whitcomb. Jane realizes just what she is dealing with.

Lots of good stuff here! Unfortunately, due to certain obligations he has a big future ahead of him , he has to let her go…. The angst in this book is well suited to the story. Lots of it, but not just for the sake of creating empty drama. The story, in my opinion comes full circle. He pulled back and pressed his lips to her.

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Best to read the books in this order: J. I just finished this book and I am in love with V and Jane. I think this is my favorite so far because I can relate to Jane a lot.