1. Chapter 1

Vixen’s bosom shook with the sheer need she felt for the roguish brute hovering over her. Her hands were shackled over her head, rendering her helpless. The feeling of her trapped wrists only enhanced the ache she felt in her deepest, most private core.

The famous pirate captain growled as she pretended to pull away from his kiss. Captain Packard had earned his fearsome nickname ‘Killer’, and if the scars on his face, hands, and chest were anything to go by, he worked hard at it, too.

He grabbed her corset and ripped it open from top to bottom, causing another shiver of anticipation to run down her spine. She hoped he thought the sudden cold on her exposed skin caused her reaction when, in reality, it was because she was finally going to get what she wanted.

This brute would delve into her pleasure garden and make it his own.

***

“Ugh! Fuckity, fuck, fuck.” I push back from my desk, staring at my screen in utter disgust at the words I’ve just written.

I can’t any more. My contract with those damn asshole publishers only has two books left in it, but fuck-a-duck, it is tough to carry on pushing through.

After taking a second to remind myself of the very nice paycheck I’ll get if I complete the contract, I pull myself closer to the desktop again and retie my long, curly black hair back up in the messy bun I prefer to keep it in while working.

Unable to get back into the story again, I click into the annoying, blinking icons of my unread emails and the few socials I try to keep up with.

Sorting through the usual newsletter spam and emails trying to sell bogus self-help courses, my eyes catch an email blast from French Roast, the coffee shop I frequent between bouts of self-doubt and writer’s block.

To: All

From: French Roast

Subject: Hot off the press!

Dear loyal customer. We’re sending out this newsletter to tell you about a fantastic opportunity!

We’re running a great promotion in-store at the moment.

And to celebrate the upcoming spring we thought we”d spice things up with a bit of love and fun. For this week only, if you stop by and sign up for a FREE dating app, you get your precious cup of coffee on the house!

Don’t miss out. See us in-store for details on how to apply.

Yours eternally caffeinated,

The crew at French Roast.

Every Tom, Dick and Harry is creating a dating app nowadays. Trying really hard not to roll my eyes, I shut down my rig and head out the door.

If I can’t find the right damn words, I guess I’ll find myself a coffee instead after getting rid of this frustration by going a few rounds at the gym. There’s bound to be someone available to spar, even at this time of night.

With one last glare at my PC, I grab my bag and gear and head out the door.

***

“En garde!” Jasper’s voice rings through the gym. My opponent and I tense as he calls the start of the bout. It’s a new guy. One I haven’t seen around in the gym before, but I look forward to kicking his ass. When I asked Jasper if he had anyone to help me get rid of some frustration, this asshole piped up. Apparently, I don’t look like I could take on a fly, let alone a strong man like himself, so he offered me an alternative.

I so love bringing the assholes down a peg or two.

Watching him assess me, I wait quietly–with the foil held out in front of me–for him to make the first move. He grows agitated as I stand, and the second he lunges, I parry, blocking his blow quickly. He’s predictable. Using his size and weight advantage to try and overpower me, but he’s missing one crucial bit of information. I’ve been training with Jasper for the last five years.

With a few swift moves, I have him at the edge of the mat and score my first point. And just before the first round is called, I get in another.

When I take off my mask, Jasper sends a scowl my way, and I respond with my own smirk. He gets incredibly annoyed when I play with my sparring partners, especially when I wait in the beginning because it wastes a lot of precious time.

But this isn’t a competitive match, and as long as I show the jackass who’s boss, I don’t care if I don’t make it to the fifteen points that generally signal a win. As long as I beat him overall, I’m good.

After a few sips and deep breaths, I put on my mask, and Jasper calls the start of the next round. I might be a teensy bit more aggressive this time, scoring a hit to the middle of his chest more than once.

He gets mad when I score the fifth point this round, bringing me to seven. It might be because I haven’t let him get a shot in himself, but I’m no expert, you know?

That’s a lie. I’m a total expert.

I could have gone national, maybe even international, if I was dedicated enough. But even though Jasper is an excellent coach, and he’d have gotten me there, my heart has never been in it.

It’s not my fault that this dipshit doesn’t know that.

When Jasper calls the end of the second round, Mr. Dipshit is out of breath, his chest heaving with anger more so than actual exertion. I’ve got nine points to his big ol’ zero.

“You’re a fucking cheat!” he shouts at me, honest-to-goodness spittle flying out his mouth. Ew. Gross much?

“How on earth does one cheat at fencing? Did I step out of bounds? Did I use an illegal move I don’t know about?”

My questions only make him go more red in the face. He knows he’s being an idiot. Every single move, every single counter-attack has been above board. I outclass him, pure and simple. It’s what you get for underestimating an opponent.

Your ass whipped. And not the good, fun kind, either.

“Time for the next round. Did you still want to grab a drink of water?” Jasper asks the idiot. He knows better than to try and defend me. I’m a big girl. I always fight my own battles.

“Fuck this shit,” Mr. Dipshit responds, a fierce scowl still on his face. “I’m not interested in practising at a gym where they allow women to do whatever the fuck they want. I’ll take my business elsewhere.”

Jasper merely stands there, an eyebrow raised, as if saying, ‘Does it look like I care?’. When Mr Dipshit doesn’t get a response from Jasper, he throws his mask on the floor along with the practice foil and storms off to the changing area.

“Was that really necessary?” my coach asks, his chest rising as he huffs an annoyed breath. “He might be an asshole, but he was an asshole with money.”

“JP, buddy. You don’t want that kind of asshole around here, not if you have me. He was bound to blow. Especially if one of the younger kids got hold of him. His moves were predictable, and he had no style whatsoever.”

He rolls his eyes before responding. “I’m aware, Loralei, but he would have paid me for that.”

“Pfft,” I scoff. “Assholes like that don’t learn, and you know it. They walk in here with their cups all the way full. They already know everything, so how could you possibly teach them anything?”

“Oh, fuck off, Lori. I could have milked him for a few lessons first, at the very least.”

He’s already capitulating. Because he knows I’m only telling him the truth.

“Uh-huh, you would have pissed off some of your regulars in the process.”

His only response is to cross his arms in front of him and look around the gym. The very empty gym.

“Now that you’ve chased off the only available sparring partner, what are you going to do to get rid of the aggression you came in here with?”

My loud laughter rings through the big room, drawing a reluctant smile from my trainer and coach.

“Fine, I’ll go get changed.”

The grin that stretches across my face matches the glee I feel at getting another go at Jasper. He’s the only sparring partner I can’t consistently beat.