dark secrets duet

Cover Reveal: Playing House by Christa Simpson

A special COVER REVEAL is coming your way!

Title: Playing House by Christa Simpson

Publisher: Black Widow Publishing

Expected Release: March 4, 2017

Genre: Dark Erotic Thriller (18+)

If I can’t be happy, no one can.

My name is Clarisse Blackwell. With nothing left to lose, I’m a dangerous woman. There’s a reason they call me the Black Widow. My boyfriend died trying to kill me, and my husband died trying to save my life.

Destroyed by grief, and consumed by an urge to bring revenge so passionately, darkness devours my soul. A master of persuasion, I trick and tease, reducing a grown man to trembling knees to make him see what it’s like to be me. He’ll learn the hard way, as you will, that my sweet revenge only feeds the dark thrill of causing others pain.

Lying. Cheating. Stealing. It’s what I do. You think you know me? You don’t, and neither does the man whose life mustn’t be worth living anymore. Our relationship is like an explosion set to detonate on my command. He thinks he knows me. His mistake. He thinks he’s different. He doesn’t believe I’m cursed. I’ll make him believe.

Lives will end, minds will be blown, and one thing is for certain:

the Black Widow will strike again.

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Chapter One:

Ignorance truly is bliss. My car pulls away from the curb, my tousled hair dancing in the wind as if our autumn is unseasonably warm. You can’t believe everything you see. In all honesty, it’s not that warm. I have a chill running through my body that I can’t escape. I probably would have closed up my car window a long time ago, if I could have, but it’s stuck halfway down. I’m just lucky the raincloud over there is keeping its distance. Lucky. Hah! I’m lucky like that man up ahead.

Look at his tidy pile of leaves. He probably spent his entire morning raking those things into a heap next to the curb and is proud of himself for beating the rain. I smirk at the rotund, older man in his front yard. He hasn’t even had enough time to put away his rake. Instead, he stands there proudly, leaning against the handle and scratching his overfed belly. I can’t resist. Someone has handed this opportunity to me, and I simply can’t pass it up.

My foot presses deeper into the accelerator, thrusting my small car forward. I glare at the old man from beneath dark lashes. His eyes immediately connect with mine, begging me to rethink what I’m about to do. That only encourages me further. I veer toward the pile, blasting through the leaves and cheering with a crazed depth to my voice.

“Woooooo!”

(more…)

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Playing House – Chapter 4

 

Special Excerpt from Chapter 4:

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Finlay is taking me home for war. I know the drill. Sit there and take it like a woman. Make dinner. Get bitched at for baking it wrong. Clean up the clear glass when he slams the dish of lasagna off the side of the table. Cry on my knees while cleaning the floor, broken like Cinderella but unable to keep a steely face with him standing over me screaming about what a mistake of a human being I am.

“What is wrong with you?” he screams. “Can’t you do anything right? All I ask for is an edible plate of food on the table. Is that too much to ask? You can’t even get that right.”

“I’m sorry, okay?” I cry hysterically. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“You’re sorry? You’re sorry?”

I zone out after that. Words… they’re just words. He doesn’t mean it. I’ve done this to him. This is my fault. If I would have stayed calm, it would have been fine. Maybe if I was a better cook, he wouldn’t flip out over everything. He leans toward me to shout in my ear, as if maybe I will hear him better when he’s spitting at my ear drum.

I want to scream back at him—tell him to stop—but think better of it, stiffly doing what I know I have to do—bow down and take it. I have to calm the fuck down and get through this, one episode at a time.

I take a deep breath and smear my tears with the sleeve of my shirt. I listen to the seconds tick by, the oversized clock on the wall reminding me that this will all be over soon enough. He starts shouting again, but I can handle it now. This anger will pass, like it always does. He can’t keep this up for much longer. The volcano will erupt and soon the sweet, emotional rush will flow again.

I know what Finlay’s working toward—make-up sex—but it won’t be until I’m a trembling, tear-faced wreck, browbeat into submission. I snap free from that safe place in my mind and tremble from the cold rush of tears on my cheeks. I place the wasted food into a plastic bag Finlay throws at me, together with the broken glass and dirty napkins I used to pick up the saucy mess. A chunk of the broken dish slices across my thumb as it drops into the bag, and I cry out in surprise. Blood instantly pools on the surface of the long cut, and I stare at it, wondering whether it’s deep enough to make a bloody mess. It takes a second for Finlay to realize something is wrong.

My eyes fly across the room. Finlay’s suddenly watching me with a disgraceful look in his eyes. He notices the drops of blood on the floor and takes a step toward me. I flinch, raising my arm to hide my face, afraid he’s finally going to raise a hand on me.

“Please,” I beg, not knowing what I beg for anymore. The shouting to stop. The name-calling to end. The rotten feeling inside my soul to subside. Just hit me and get it over with.

His hand comes gently down onto my shoulder. “You winced. Why did you wince?” He pauses as the words sink in and make me shudder. “Do you not love me anymore?” He sighs, tears coming to his eyes as I lower my guard. “What a monster I’ve become.” He pours his face into his hands. “Oh, God. What have I done?”

Every second is torture, but this is no show. He means it and I can’t escape him. The other Finlay is back, and I can never leave him. I drop the bag to the floor, tuck my thumb into the palm of my hand and curl into his crumbling form. The tips of my fingers slide over his wet cheek and drag through his hair. “You know that’s not true,” I whisper, burying my face into his neck and clutching my injured hand to my chest. “Our love isn’t finished yet.”

He kisses my wound, tasting my blood before pulling me to the sink. He rinses my hand under a stream of cool water, watching the pink swirling down the drain until the water runs clear. Finlay hands me a paper towel, and I press it against the laceration while he searches the cabinet for peroxide and a bandage. He cleans the fresh wound, dries my hand and covers the sliced skin, kissing the spot now concealed. His eyes remain downturned. Does he feel bad for the way he’s treated me? Will he remember this feeling tomorrow? His thumb smooths back and forth over my hand.

“Can you ever forgive me?” he asks, his eyes pleading with the rush of a thousand oceans.

To be continued…

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