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Mantrap

Mantrap

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Mantrap

Länge:
93 Seiten
1 Stunde
Herausgeber:
Freigegeben:
Jan 9, 2015
ISBN:
9781784303594
Format:
Buch

Herausgeber:
Freigegeben:
Jan 9, 2015
ISBN:
9781784303594
Format:
Buch

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Mantrap - LM Somerton

Page

A Totally Bound Publication

Mantrap

ISBN # 978-1-78430-359-4

©Copyright L.M. Somerton 2014

Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright December 2014

Edited by Sarah Smeaton

Totally Bound Publishing

This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Totally Bound Publishing.

Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Totally Bound Publishing. Unauthorized or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

Published in 2014 by Totally Bound Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN

Warning:

This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Totally Burning and a Sexometer of 2.

The Wyverns

MANTRAP

L.M. Somerton

Book one in The Wyverns series

Not all cages have bars.

The Wyverns Motorcycle Club has a reputation as fierce as its dragon emblem. Its enigmatic leader, Rogue Hellaby, has a police file so thick you could prop up a table with it. The qualifications for membership are a reckless disregard for authority and the attitude of a spitting cobra. But The Wyverns MC is not quite what it seems. All the riders have dubious histories in the military or the police—now they just serve and protect their own interests and those of Horatio Trap, the manipulative bastard who recruited them.

When Rogue receives an instruction to kidnap and hold hostage the son of a powerful drug lord, he doesn’t bat an eyelid. But Rogue has never had to deal with a captive like Orlando de la Pena. Orlando is furious—not because he’s being held prisoner, but because he’s prevented from partying at his favorite BDSM club. Rogue discovers that the only way to deal with Orlando is to become the Dom he so obviously needs. But Orlando’s father wants him back, and The Wyverns must face a battle that could cost them their lives.

Dedication

To looking behind the façade.

Trademarks Acknowledgement

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

eBay: eBay Inc.

Twin Peaks: Republic Pictures Corporation and CBS Corporation

Harley: Harley-Davidson Inc

‘Hotter than a snake’s ass in a wagon rut’ (Good Morning, Vietnam): Touchstone Pictures and Walt Disney Studios Motion Pictures

Good Morning, Vietnam: Touchstone Pictures and Walt Disney Studios Motion Pictures

Kawasaki: Kawasaki Heavy Industries, Limited

‘Bend me, shape me, any way you want me’ (Bend Me, Shape Me): Scott English and Larry Weiss

Intruder: Suzuki Motor Corporation

Band-Aids: Johnson & Johnson

Men in Black: Amblin Entertainment, MacDonald/Parkes Productions and Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc.

Taser: TASER International Inc.

Chapter One

Rogue leaned back against lumpy vinyl and fought the desire to tap his fingers against his denim-clad thigh. Impatience would get him nowhere. As always, Trap’s minion would show up when he was good and ready, not before. The annoying little shit loved to yank Rogue’s chain—one day he would have to be taught that pushing the ‘Do not touch’ button could be bad for any chance he had of reaching his next birthday.

Rogue glanced around the dingy diner. Positioned in a rear booth, he could see the front door, the counter and most of the tables. To his left, the door to the kitchen swung back and forward on badly oiled hinges, its high-pitched squeal an assault on his ears. The air conditioning droned in the background, the white noise supplemented by the restrained chatter of half a dozen patrons. In front of him, on the sticky melamine tabletop, sat an untouched cup of coffee. The surface of the dark liquid glimmered with an oil slick of scum. The waitress had already passed him more than once, clutching a full pot, hopeful for refill trade. Rogue would rather wash his mouth out with bleach. It would probably taste better as well.

At the table nearest the front window, a guy that looked like everyone’s favorite stereotype of a rough biker forked bacon into his mouth and slurped coffee. Rogue cringed. His second in command was a walking garbage disposal. Hatchet belched and shifted his muscular frame slightly in his chair slightly. The subtle signal made no difference to Rogue’s outward appearance, but inside he went to high alert. Fifteen seconds later the diner door slid open. The man who walked to the counter couldn’t have looked more out of place if he’d been wearing a hula skirt in the Arctic. Selling his suit on eBay would have funded the entire diner staff’s salaries for a month, including tips.

Rogue stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. He controlled his breathing as the man at the counter took his own sweet time ordering. Rogue couldn’t hear the conversation between customer and server, but the stupid grin on the waitress’s face told him that his contact was sweet-talking the woman with a couple of pints of verbal syrup. Finally, the man strolled the length of the diner and slid into the booth opposite Rogue. He looked at the table with distaste and pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his inside pocket before wiping away a few stray crumbs. The scent of his expensive cologne wafted across the table and tickled Rogue’s nose.

Smith. Could the man use a false name that was any less original?

Rogue. How have you been? Smith’s voice was mellow and cultured.

You’re not my boyfriend, Smith. Cut the crap and get to the point.

Smith tutted. You could at least be civil. We’ve been meeting for three years. I’d like to think we are friends.

Rogue growled, low in his throat. Friends don’t blackmail each other.

Mr. Trap wouldn’t be so crass. Blackmail is such a sordid word. I prefer to think of it as gentle persuasion, Smith said as he tweaked a crisp cuff, allowing Rogue to catch a glimpse of a silver cufflink in the shape of a dagger. Mr. Hatchet is enjoying his breakfast, I see. You were told to come alone. The warmth in Smith’s voice disappeared, replaced with an icy chill.

It’s not my problem if one of my acquaintances happens to like the food in this dump, Rogue snarled.

Smith raised a sandy eyebrow.

"Fine. Fuck knows why, but he has

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