Hee. How did you like that header?
Yesterday I found out Endless Lust, my rather disturbing tale of psychotic obsession and sexual slavery, was awarded Best Horror Romance at the EPICon Awards dinner. The EPIC is the Electronic Publishing Industry Coalition and to win this award from them is, well, it’s pretty bloody incredible.
So, to celebrate, here’s a never-seen-before, unedited deleted scene. A scary one. Ready?
The stench of sex and sweat threaded through the subtle scent of linseed oil and acrylic paint hanging on the air in the room. An unnerving aroma that slipped into the body like fine mist, snaking into the pit of one’s belly to stir once deeply suppressed fantasies.
Xander Dupont didn’t suppress those fantasies any more. Not since Cate Sinclair refused his invitation for coffee. Not since he’d lost his job at Enigma.
Not since Asmodeus showed him how to experience those fantasies as if in the very flesh.
Now, thanks to the mysterious man who came to him in his home studio and called himself a Demon Form—“that is a title, thank you very much”—Xander submerged himself into his fantasies. Let them possess him. Own him.
And all it took was the stroke of his brushes on the eight-by-eight canvas Asmodeus had given him. The canvas now mounted on his old easel before him.
He glared at the thing, its virginal-white primed surface mocking the dark desires smoldering in his core.
She had always been his muse. Now, she was his subject. His movement. Van Gogh had his yellow period, XXXXX had his XXXXXX. He, Xander Dupont, would have his Cate Sinclair period.
As warned by Asmodeus, he’d started…small. An image of Cate bound naked to a whipping post, her legs splayed, granting his brushes…and then his tongue…uninterrupted access to her thighs, her cunt. A depiction of her laying stretched on his bed, her breasts flattened under his palms as he kissed her fuckable mouth. A close-up painting of his mouth on her perfect throat, sucking on her perfect flesh. A painting of her begging for more. Tonight, he’d painted her bound on a bed as he fucked her face, his dick buried to her chin, those soft full lips of hers stretched around the root of his cock. It had been his favorite work so far, his most detailed, but as he always did, once that painting was finished, once he’d “lived” the pleasure of his creation and watched his seed spurt from his hand-choked dick onto her painted likeness, he’d primed the canvas with virginal white paint ready to start again.
Cate may have denied him the fantasies he’d buried deeply in his lust for her, but now with Asmodeus’ canvas, where no one could control or cobble his imagination, she would submit to his every whim.
By Asmodeus’ insistence, he had yet to paint Cate impaled on his dick. By the man’s command, he’d yet to fully consummate his fantasy with Cate on canvas. Every time he painted her, Asmodeus told him, he captured more and more of Cate’s essence in the canvas. “It is the magic of the artwork,” the man proclaimed, black eyes burning black heat. “You draw her essence into the work and her captured essence feeds your pleasure. Eventually, when you have mastered the magic, you will be able to capture her completely and she will be yours forever. But heed me well, Xander Dupont, you cannot rush this or you will draw the attention of—”
Xander could not remember whose attention Asmodeus feared. Did it matter now? He’d been painting Cate almost non-stop since the man appeared in his studio and gave him the canvas, only once stopping to fall into an exhausted sleep. Surely if some benevolent force was going to stop him they would have done so by now?
Perhaps it is Asmodeus’ way of controlling you? Have you thought of that? Perhaps he wants Cate for himself and deigns to only weaken you until he can capture Cate for his own?
Xander stared at the white canvas before him, his cock throbbing between his thighs. Yes, that was it. How could someone give him such a gift and not want something in return? The man wanted Xander’s true love but be damned if Xander was going to let him have her. No. He wouldn’t. Besides, he couldn’t paint…small…for much longer. He wanted to feel Cate’s cunt slid over his dick and he wanted to feel it now. He needed to feel it.
Isn’t that what you gave you soul for, Xander?
The whispered question scratched at the edges of his mind but he ignored it. He didn’t need a soul when he would soon have Cate. He would own her soul. Her soul, her heart, her body…
His dick jerked at the thought. Her body. He wanted to fuck her body.
He knew exactly what he was going to paint next. A triptych of Cate Sinclair’s complete and utter enslavement. Three panels depicting his ownership of her body and soul. Three panels of her submission to his desire. Three panels of her surrender. And when the last stroke of his brush caressed her painted image, when the last drop of his seed mingled with the wet oil paint on the canvas’s wonderful surface, then she would be his. Confined forever in his painting.
He couldn’t wait any longer.
It was unfair of Asmodeus to expect him to do so.
Seven Deadly Daemons, Book Two
Cate Sinclair is ruled by lust. Day and night, awake and dreaming, an unseen force plies her with pleasure to the point of pain. Each orgasm wrenched from her exhausted body stealing her energy, her very essence, until insanity seems a sweet relief.
When Eamon enters her life, Cate’s uncertain if the gorgeous, enigmatic man is her salvation…or the cause of her worst nightmares.
Reader Advisory: Our heroine endures endless amounts of forced seduction. But how do you fight advances from an enemy you can’t see?