SILK Volume Two Read online

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  Books by K.M. Scott

  Heart of Stone Series

  Crash Into Me (Heart of Stone #1)

  Fall Into Me (Heart of Stone #2)

  Give In To Me (Heart of Stone #3)

  The Heart of Stone Trilogy Box Set

  Ever After (A Heart of Stone Novella)

  A Heart of Stone Christmas

  Club X Series

  Temptation (Club X #1)

  Surrender (Club X #2)

  Possession (Club X #3)

  Satisfaction (Club X #4) COMING SOON

  Silk Series

  Silk (Volume One)

  Silk (Volume Two)

  Silk (Volume Three)

  Silk (Volume Four)

  **Add them to your Goodreads shelf today!**

  Love sexy paranormal romance? K.M. writes under the name Gabrielle Bisset too! Visit Gabrielle’s Facebook page and her website to find out about her books.

  Books by Gabrielle Bisset:

  Vampire Dreams Revamped (A Sons of Navarus Prequel)

  Blood Avenged (Sons of Navarus #1)

  Blood Betrayed (Sons of Navarus #2)

  Longing (A Sons of Navarus Short Story)

  Blood Spirit (Sons of Navarus #3)

  The Deepest Cut (A Sons of Navarus Short Story)

  Blood Prophecy (Sons of Navarus #4)

  Blood & Dreams Sons of Navarus Box Set

  Love’s Master

  Masquerade

  The Victorian Erotic Romance Trilogy

  Addiction and obsession brought Ian and Kristina together, and real life tore them apart.

  For Ian, Kristina is everything. What began as an obsession has morphed into that something more he so wanted. Kristina is his muse and so much more, but now both of them must make choices that may change everything.

  For Kristina, Ian offers all that she’s ever wanted. Love. Passion. Adoration. But these come with a price, and the cost of loving him may be more than she’s willing to pay.

  This serial is not meant to be a complete story in each volume, so expecting a happily ever after at the end of each part is a mistake. SILK is a continuing story involving one couple, Ian and Kristina, and this is their story. There will be a happily ever after at the end of the entire serial, however. Also, four volumes will be all there is to SILK. This is not a story that’s meant to go on after those four parts.

  SILK is meant to be erotic, and while it has a story in addition to the sex, that story is one of addiction and obsession, both sexually and non-sexually. Ian and Kristina are flawed and broken, and their story is one of mad and desperate love.

  The smooth taste of vodka washes over my tongue on its way down to where it can do the most damage. Its strength isn’t diluted by orange juice or anything else like that. That’s for people wanting to enjoy what they’re drinking. Enjoying isn’t on the menu tonight. Getting fucking blasted so I can’t think anymore?

  Yeah. That’s what I want.

  I bothered to get dressed today. That’s a change from the past six days. I think somewhere in my mind I mark this day as some kind of ugly anniversary. Seven days since Kristina told me she didn’t want to see me anymore.

  One week alone without her.

  It’s been a long week of endless drinking all alone in my apartment. I think I might have eaten a few times in that span. Not that eating is high on my list of priorities. Either is showering, writing, or doing anything that doesn’t involve my efforts to forget.

  There is no goal other than forgetting, but I know that’s futile. I can’t forget her. I may say I want to, but that’s the last thing I truly want to do. I want to remember every beautiful inch of her body as my hands caressed her silky skin. I want to remember the gentle sound of her voice as she asked me about my work. I want to remember her smile as she lay next to me in bed after we lost ourselves in each other.

  I want to remember her. All of her.

  I spent the first few days trying to figure out why she doesn’t want to see me. What did I do to make her run away? Every time I asked myself that question, my mind came up with the long list of my faults, any one of which could have made her not want me.

  You shouldn’t have told her about your addictions my brain whispers.

  No, she understood. I know she did.

  You shouldn’t have told her about wanting her before you even met her it murmurs.

  No, she’s an actress. They understand being desired by fans.

  You shouldn’t have asked her to be your muse my brain wonders.

  No, she loved that. It couldn’t be that. She loved it as much as I did.

  Lifting the vodka bottle to my lips, I take another gulp and let it slowly trickle down my throat before I set today’s companion on the table in front of me. I lean my head back and close my eyes as the alcohol hits my stomach, and for a second the pain eases.

  But it doesn’t last.

  The problem is that I can’t turn my brain off. Even with all this vodka in me, my mind can still remember. Like it’s on some mission to make sure I don’t forget her, it forces me to watch as it replays our time together.

  Eyes closed, I can almost feel her on my lap, her thighs spread as she settles onto me. My hands find their place on her hips directing her movement. She looks down at me and gives me one of those sweet smiles that belie how sensual a being she truly is as she rides my cock like no other woman ever has.

  “Fuck me, Ian,” she whispers lightly against my lips, ratcheting my desire up even higher. I obey. How could I not? Fucking her gives me more than physical release. It lifts my spirit from the darkness that surrounds me to that light and gentle place she provides.

  I open my eyes and look around my apartment, disappointed to admit it was just a memory. I grab my phone from the table and scroll through her messages to me. Reading each one, I still can’t understand why she left. My fingers hover over the empty space under the last message I sent her. I want to tell her I miss her. That I’m sorry for whatever I did. That I can fix it. Everything can be fixed so it all goes back to the way it was. I can do that.

  But they remain frozen hovering over my phone because like every time before when I told myself I should text her, a tiny voice in the back of my mind whispers those dark words and stops me.

  Fuck her. She doesn’t want to see me? Well, I don’t want to fucking see her. She’s a Hollywood bitch whose life is a fucking mess. Even her therapist thinks so. For fuck’s sake, she thinks she has an addiction to people.

  But if she’s addicted to people, which in far less stupid terms means she’s addicted to their approval and love, how could she leave me?

  It always comes back to that question. Every time my mind spins out of control, that voice asks that one question that hurts to even think about because I know addiction. I know the feeling of needing something or someone so fucking bad that your body aches without relief. I know there’s no talking yourself out of it if you’re addicted.

  It’s a need, not a want.

  So if she has that addiction to people, why didn’t she become addicted to me like I did to her?

  I clutch my legs as a wave of pain washes over me. My fingernails dig into my thighs just above my knees as the need for her takes me over, and my forearms hurt like someone is twisting them. My muscles ache like someone has placed a heavy object on them, pressing down on me and threatening to crush me with its weight.

  I know this feeling. We’re old friends. Or enemies, depending on how you view things.

  My body craves her. Like the drugs, she got in
to my system and became part of me. Now that she’s gone, every other part of me desperately longs for the missing part.

  Maybe if I just text her and ask why she left. Maybe she’ll see I care and need her back.

  Fuck her. I don’t need her. I can live without her.

  No, I can’t.

  I should try to write. Our book waits for me to return to it like some lost orphan who can’t understand why its parent abandoned them. Our book. That’s the problem. It’s not my book. It’s ours. Hers and mine. That’s why I can’t write. She’s not here.

  Without my muse, I’m lost. Without my Kristina, I can’t do it.

  Silk will have to wait. Maybe I can find another muse. In whatever stupor I’m in, this sounds like a wonderful idea. Muses can’t be that hard to find. Desperate women who want to be adored must be a dime a dozen. Sure. Modern life has made it easy to find them.

  Hello, Netflix, my old friend. Show me what you got.

  I scroll through the lines of offerings but see little of interest. A blonde would be nice. Kate Silk should have been a blonde the whole time. What was I thinking? Like the world wants another common brown-haired heroine.

  Some flick about an outbreak of something catches my eye, and I begin watching it looking for my new muse. I know she’s here. My blurry vision isn’t helping the search, though. I see a woman, but she’s not right. Too trashy. Another enters the scene and she’s wrong too. Too sterile.

  After about fifteen minutes of what turns out to be a goddamned zombie movie, I go back to the main screen. There’s a story in itself—me searching for a muse in a fucking zombie film. Maybe I’ll include that in the acknowledgements. To the hot, half-rotted piece of ass I watched for a quarter of a fucking hour. Literally. More scrolling through more films I can’t imagine anyone thought would be successful brings me to my favorites.

  No, I don’t need my favorites. I need something new. Someone new.

  But the photos from Kristina’s films sit there lined up in a row for me to watch. I can’t help but chuckle as I think, “Well, I guess we know where Netflix stands on the issue of me and Kristina.”

  I click on the film that started it all. That remake of The Misfits. I’ve watched this so many times I could act out the parts myself, but as I sit here in my living room fucked up from too much vodka, I watch it feeling like I’m seeing her for the first time in ages. I wait with eager anticipation for the moment when I know she’ll be in the picture. The first time her face appears on the screen, my heart leaps in my chest.

  Missing her for the past week has been nothing compared to how I feel as I watch her. I can’t go on like this. Every second she’s in front of me and I can see her but not touch her or speak to her is killing me.

  I need to talk to her. No. Talking is never good, at least not for me. Like most writers, I’m my worst when my mouth is open. No, words come much better from me when they’re written. When I have the time to choose the perfect ones to express my thoughts. When I can construct my sentences exactly so she’ll understand my true feelings.

  Then I’ll be able to say the right things.

  She always thought I said the perfect words. I remember her saying that.

  I reach for my phone and go to her messages again. My thumbs hover over the letters as I think about what I want to say. Jesus, now isn’t the time for writer’s block. I want to tell her so much. Need to tell her so much. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I did, but I’m sorry. Tell me what I did so I can make up for it. Come to me and let me fix this.

  None of those words show up on my phone because my fingers never move. After convincing myself I shouldn’t do anything, I throw the phone away from me, disgusted. I hate myself for doing nothing.

  I can’t go on like this.

  Ten o’clock on Wednesday night turns out to be a busy time on the streets of the Upper West Side. Maybe there’s some street festival or some event being held, but as the October wind bites at my cheeks, I can’t imagine that’s the case. Maybe I’m just one of legions of people smashed and needing to see someone, like love zombies who can’t do anything but drag their empty selves to where their heart lives. More people out actually works for me tonight, though, since I’m hoping to be invisible.

  Not that I’m some huge star or anything like that. I’m no Stephen King or James Patterson, for Christ’s sake. It’s true I’m a New York Times bestseller, but that doesn’t translate into instant notoriety, especially for someone who writes historical fiction. Well, maybe Dan Brown can’t walk the streets where he lives without a mob attacking him to take a picture or sign something. My handful of literary successes have allowed me to still be somewhat invisible to most people, however.

  I walk the blocks toward her brownstone building slowly and deliberately, mainly because I’m loaded. Every time I take a deep breath and let it out, the smoke from the cold nearly knocks me over from the vodka smell.

  The sidewalk is surprisingly uneven now that I’m walking it without her. She always wrapped her arm in mine as we walked. Or maybe it’s the effect of the vodka. I don’t know. I just know where I’m going.

  Her building faces a small patch of grass with a few trees on it. Not really a park, it’s more like a front yard of some planned building that never came to fruition. It sits there as a testament to someone’s hopes and dreams that never came true. I position myself under one of the trees in the shadows and look up toward the second floor to see her windows darkened.

  She isn’t there.

  Where is she? Why is she out on a Wednesday at just after ten at night?

  Before I can stop myself, my mind begins to spiral out of control with scenarios of her out having a good time with someone else. I’ve spent the entire week since losing her a total fucking mess, and she’s out enjoying life. She’s probably with someone. Another man. A man who wants her like I do.

  No. He can’t want her like I do. No one wants her like I do. They merely want to fuck her or watch her act out their stupid parts. I want to watch her sleep next to me. I want to see her smile when I read her the story of us. I want to feel her come apart from my touch. I want her to know I love her more than I can say.

  A surge of rage and hate pushes through my body making me want to hit something. My fists ball up at my side as my mind spins with ideas, but then the sinking feeling in my stomach from the reality that she’s gone makes me weak. Stumbling back against the hard trunk of one of the trees, I try to get my emotions under control.

  And then I see her. But not just her. I see her step out of a cab with someone. A man. He escorts her up the stairs to the front door while I stand there and watch, my heart in my throat as I wait to see if she kisses him. She’s wearing the pink shirt she wore the night we first met at Jax’s and a pair of jeans she never wore the entire time we were together. Her long brown hair falls over her shoulders making her even sexier than she could ever know because she has no idea how incredible she looks.

  She’s smiling at something he must have said. Hate rushes through me again. Not for her, though. If only I could hate her, then this would all be so much simpler.

  I don’t hate her. I wish it were that easy.

  He leans down to kiss her, and it takes every ounce of my willpower to stop me from running across the street to tackle him to the ground and never let him touch her again. Pressing my lips together, I want to close my eyes so I don’t see her kiss him, but I can’t. It’s as if some sadistic force is forcing them open so I must watch.

  I know what he’s feeling as her lips touch his. He wants more. That’s the effect she has. One taste won’t be enough. He’s thinking he wants her to invite him up to her apartment so he can have more of her. More of those lips on his lips. On his cock.

  She pulls away and smiles, but I watch in shock as she enters her building and he walks back down the stairs to the cab I hadn’t even noticed was still there. She didn’t invite him in.

  What does it matter? She’s moved on.

  By th
e time I arrive home, my mind’s a mixture of loathing and jealousy that threatens to eat me up. I hate her. I love her. I want to wrap my arms around her and never let her go. I miss her. I crave her touch on my skin so bad I ache.

  I fall onto the couch and close my eyes, trying to remember anything other than the sight of her kissing that man. My mind begins to race through every moment with her. I struggle to focus on any one time, desperate for one memory that doesn’t seem tainted by what I just saw.

  My heart slams against my chest and cold sweat pours down over my face. I miss her so much. But then slowly, the images in my mind begin to fade away until one memory comes into focus.

  Kristina smiles at me as she takes my finger in her mouth to taste the sugar left on my fingertip. She looks adorable sucking the sweetness from my skin.

  “Taste good?” I ask as I slide my finger from her mouth.

  Her answer is to kiss me gently on the lips before she runs her tongue over her bottom lip and whispers, “I’d rather have something else to suck on.”

  I know that might not be entirely true. She’s only sucked me off twice before, and while each time she seemed enthusiastic, I know she’s never finished anyone else off but me.

  “First we taste this martini I made you. Then we can figure out what you should do with that pretty mouth of yours.”

  Handing her the sugar-rimmed glass, I watch her take a sip of the caramel appletini we’ve spent the last half hour concocting. The drink only took about ten minutes. The rest of the time would be considered more foreplay than drink making.

  That’s how it is with her. I know she might be considered needy by some men, but I adore that neediness that would turn others off. I understand it. When I look into her blue eyes and see what can only be described as a craving to be touched or kissed, I know how she feels.

  I feel it too.

  “It’s very sweet, Ian,” she says, smacking her lips.

  “Then it’s perfect for you.”