More Read online

  More

  The Evermore Series

  Rachel De Lune

  Contents

  More

  Quote

  Acknowledgement

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  To be continued…

  Excerpt from Forever More

  About Rachel

  Books By Rachel De Lune

  ©All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written consent from the author, except that of small quotations used in critical reviews and promotions via blogs.

  More is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  More ©2018 Rachel De Lune

  Cover design by Rachel De Lune

  Book design by LJDesigns

  Editing by PAK and H.A. Robinson

  Rachel De Lune on Social Media:

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/racheldeluneauthor/

  Instagram: www.instagram.com/racheldeluneauthor

  Website: www.racheldelune.com

  Acknowledgement

  The book you are about to read wouldn’t have been possible without a few special people.

  Firstly, to Elizabeth. Your initial faith in my little story was overwhelming. To think that a published author liked my work was huge for me. You gave me the initial belief that maybe, just maybe, I could do this. You have been a fabulous critique partner and I’m grateful to also call you a friend. Kris and M, you both endured early versions of my manuscript but still gave me the encouragement to keep going. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I’ve so enjoyed getting to know you and reading your stories and can’t wait to see what’s next. Hugs to you both.

  To my American Mum, T. You have taught me so much since we first met. You have pushed me, supported me and even looked after me. You’ve helped to improve my writing and I am forever grateful. Your patience, kindness and talent know no bounds. If I am ever a successful writer, it will be because of you.

  To Stephy, my wonderful publisher who saw something in my jumble of words and gave me the final encouragement needed to bring More to more than five people. I hope I can make you proud.

  Lastly, to anyone who has purchased my words. I have my fingers crossed that you enjoy it. I know I loved writing it.

  This has been an incredible journey and I know it’s only just beginning.

  I’m invisible. My husband hasn’t come on to me in months. Hell, Phil and I have barely talked in the last few weeks, let alone broached any type of physical contact. We exist within our own bubbles of life. He works, takes extra shifts at the show room—someone is always ready to buy a new car—or spends the evening out with his mates. When he is home it’s, “Izzy, I’ve just sat down to watch Top Gear. Just give me half an hour.” But it’s never just half an hour.

  I didn’t notice to start with. My job at White Cube, a young marketing company in Bath, absorbs me. I plug in and I’m whisked away from reality and plunged into the world of digital marketing. I spend the whole day, every day, writing social media strategies for companies that want to leverage the best value they can out of the online world. I do lectures for business men and women in stuffy suits on how to “do social media.”

  Our lack of contact was a fact of our marriage and something I thought I’d grown accustomed to. I’d given up asking Phil to satisfy my sexual needs—any of my needs, for that matter—long ago. The last time I was physically turned on, I was reading some racy novel where the man couldn’t keep his hands off the woman. They couldn’t reach the bed quick enough and bodies and lips collided in a passion-induced frenzy. The man masterfully brought his woman to a state of orgasmic bliss, where she eagerly agreed to whatever he wanted. Well, if I wish hard enough, it may happen.

  Even a little bit of that sounds fantastic. I long to feel desired and needed by Phil, and that couldn’t be further from the way he makes me feel. It’s hard to get excited over a pretty pink vibrator. I know that I need to communicate, to ask him more directly, but it’s hard after getting ignored and side-lined for nearly ten years. He is my husband. I want him consumed by need for me. I want my satisfaction, my needs, to be his priority, but at this point, I would settle for an orgasm I didn’t give myself.

  I’ve been quiet for long enough. I can’t continue to be idle in this relationship. I need to try harder. The realisation that Phil and I haven’t been working for a long time—a very long time—frustrates and angers me. That I’ve ignored how bad things are makes me sad. Maybe I can fix this. Maybe I can make him see me again, want me again.

  As I creep my Fiat 500 through the Bath city traffic, I play out what I want in my mind. For a long time, I’ve wanted to lose myself at the hands of someone else. To look into his eyes and feel utterly wanted. Like all he will ever see is me. The blatant heat in that look, telling me that I can put my trust in him. A look that tells me he knows every inch of my body and how to bring me to the height of pleasure. Because he knows me as a person. As a woman. Not just a wife to use when he feels horny or wants to get off. To have someone put me and my pleasure first melts me inside—hell, it makes me wet just thinking about it. To be listened to, considered. Attention on me that lasted past what was for dinner or the time it took him to get off. Phil wasn’t being that someone, but I couldn’t stay quiet. No more.

  I will initiate things tonight. I will make him see me as more than the convenient woman in his bed. Screw “the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” I want to test the theory “the way to a man’s heart is through offering him mind-blowing sex.” I don’t want to settle. I want Phil to be active in our relationship and show me why I should fight to hold onto our marriage.

  For the first time in forever, I’m excited about seeing Phil. I pull up outside the house and hurry out of the car. I burst through the door, but my excitement turns to disappointment. I dump my bags as I walk into the hall. The silence of the house is deafening to me. He’s not home. Stupid girl. My plan stumbles at the first hurdle. I resign myself to another evening spent alone in the house with only my phone and computer for company.

  My mind doesn’t switch off after climbing into bed. The sexual images I’ve explored circulate through my brain. My Tumblr blog is always my first port of call as I search for exactly what I want—erotic and sensual images of naked and bound women, waiting to receive their pleasure and pain, submitting to their Sir. The beautiful and peaceful poses of content women placing their sexual needs in the control of another resonate to my core and I slip my fingers between my legs. I cannot escape my deep craving to explore this form of connection with another.

  The minutes slip past, and as each one rolls over, my anticipation and nerves grow. I have built the entire future of our relationship on the simple act of seducing my husband, and it has to be tonight. I won’t have the courage tomorrow.

  Phil’s shadow creeps past me and into the bathroom. A shard of light splits the darkness and shines on the clock, illuminating the hands touching at twelve. Where was Phil until midnight on a work night? The car dealership closes at eight o’clock. I force
the concern from my mind and wait for him to join me in our bed.

  I have to phrase my requests the right way. Phil has a short fuse and he often reacts with no provocation. Once upon a time, he’d keep his temper in check, try to be less volatile. He’s quit trying. One more sign our marriage is failing. I’m tired of being on guard all the time.

  I take a deep breath. Okay then. Just do it, Izzy. When Phil joins me in bed, I roll over to face him.

  “Oh, you’re still awake.” Phil freezes as if caught, clearly surprised that I’ve waited up.

  “I thought we could spend some time… together.”

  His eyes penetrate through the gloom of the room before he rolls to the side and switches on the bedside lamp. A warm glow floods the room. A smirk twitches his face as he catches my chain of thought.

  “Will you play with me tonight?” I try to sound sexy and confident.

  He pauses to study me. “What do you mean by play with you?”

  “I want you to play with my body. And, um, perhaps you could try tying my hands?” Another pause. I hold my breath. I was tired of being rejected so I stopped asking for him to satisfy me. He’d make the first move to have sex, but beyond that, he never took control. I can’t take it anymore. My husband isn’t interested enough to make a move on me. My discomfort grows at Phil’s lingering silence. He’s never shown interest in what I want. I got tired of having to ask for him to play with my body, touch my clit and my breasts. To kiss me like he actually wanted to kiss me. It made me feel so small having to ask the person I loved to do something for me. So I began to let it go. My needs weren’t worth the hurt at being ignored and pushed to the side. But I can’t any longer. I want to be one of those bound women whose images inflame my imagination. I need him to take the lead. To dominate.

  As I play out the possibility in my mind, Phil retrieves the bathrobe off the door and pulls the sash from it. Yes! He is getting on board with this.

  Once the sash is in his hands, he wastes no time in pulling my arms above my head and tying them to the headboard. My entire body heats and my arms relax. I want to spread my legs, and my sex starts to ache. I wish he would touch my skin. Slip my t-shirt up to reveal me inch by inch before teasing my nipples into hard peaks. Instead, he shoves my t-shirt up and mauls my breasts—his hands grabbing roughly before pinching my nipples. It hurts. He moves down to my thighs and jerks my legs apart. The tender kisses across my skin that I long for turn into hurried scrapes of his stubble on my belly in his rush to get to his prize. My vision of this evening is fast evaporating with each hurtful grope from Phil. I need some attentive care that indicates I’m important to him. I need him to think of me and my needs and bring me to the edge of a body-shattering orgasm. I want this. I can’t keep quiet. Phil continues to kiss my thighs and pinches at my nipples.

  “Please. Touch me, please. Push your finger in me and feel me,” I beg. He doesn’t answer. He grabs my hips and pulls me farther down the bed, stretching me out from where my hands are bound. He shoves my legs wider, spreading me completely for him. He stops to look at me for a moment and I suddenly feel a sliver of fear. What will he do? I push the fear aside and try to relax into the moment.

  Leaning down, he nestles his lips next to my now-exposed sex before he flicks my clit with the tip of his tongue. Tremors ignite in my core and travel up my spine. I arch into the feeling. Months and months of unspoken words and empty nights are finally shattered. This might work.

  “Do it again, yes… that feels good.” My clit is so sensitive that I can already feel the distant build of climax, but he lifts his lips away from me, killing my budding orgasm. Frustration replaces my bliss and I huff out the air from my lungs.

  “How do you want me?” Phil’s voice focuses my attention back on him and away from my needy clit and aching sex. No, I don’t want to make any decisions in this. This is why I want to be bound and restrained.

  “I don’t mind, but please, touch me first. I want this to be special.” I breathe, coming down from my high.

  “Okay then, baby.” He lifts my legs, wrapping them around his hips, and strokes his cock. He wastes no time before he shoves into me.

  “Argh!” I’m not ready, and it hurts.

  He drives farther inside me. The stretching burns and it takes a minute for me to adjust. He doesn’t stop or slow but buries as far into me as he can. He falls into a more relaxed rhythm that begins to rub against me in the right way.

  “Don’t change… keep doing that.” Mmm, yes, just there. Yes, yes. He rubs against my clit just enough to give me that weightlessness, that wave, as it rolls up through my body to my chest. But it doesn’t last for long. His grip tightens on my hips as he pulls in and out of me in quick, hard thrusts.

  “Oh yeah, oh yes,” Phil grinds out with clenched teeth as he hammers into me for the final time. He immediately lets me go and slumps forward against my chest. No, no, no! This is for me as well, and you’ve… I’m not… I want to come! I scream inside my mind, trapped under his body, unfulfilled and desperate for more.

  “Phil, I want to come,” I plead, his chest pinning me down into the bed. He takes a deep breath, ignoring my request as if I hadn’t spoken.

  “Mmm, thank you.” He pushes off me and untangles my legs. He leans forward to untie my arms, sore from being pulled so far down. This isn’t what I want. I want more than to be his fantasy screw. How did my fantasy turn into his? No. This was my plan and my idea.

  “I haven’t come. Will you still play with me?” I kneel up in front of him. I raise his hand to my breast and slowly press it against my raised nipple. I close his fingers around it and gently squeeze, showing how I want his touch. He seems to take notice and looks at me with a grin on his face. Turning over, I bend down so my elbows and chest rest on the bed, my bottom clearly on display for him. Phil used to like my bottom, and I hope it will get his attention. I stay down and wait for his interest. His hand slides up my naked thigh and glides over the arch of my bottom, continues up my back, and yanks my t-shirt up around my neck.

  I want to come. I open my mouth before I can think any further than how badly I want to get off.

  “I want you to make me come. Spank me while you tease my clit. Will you spank me, baby?”

  His hand immediately stills on my skin.

  “What!” His bark shakes me out of my needy, frustrated mind. I push up and sit, knees pulled to my chest. I shrink at his disparaging tone.

  “What do you mean spank you? What the fuck? I’m not hitting my wife!”

  “It’s not hitting. I want to feel you do this to me.”

  “I’m not doing it.”

  “But this is something that I’m asking for, something I want us to try together. I want you to look after my needs, too.”

  “You want me to hit you? We just had sex, Izzy, surely that’s enough. I tied you up.”

  “Yes, and you came, but I didn’t. I need this from you, Phil. I need you to care enough about me to try something different. Please, Phil?” I kneel and grab for his arm, trying to disregard his anger.

  “I’m not playing out your dirty little fantasy. What’s gotten into you—asking to be slapped around? Asking for rough sex now, are we?”

  “Please, I just thought…” I kneel up towards him.

  “No, Izzy. Get your hands off me…”

  “It’s… It’s not dirty.”

  “I said no.” He knocks me back against the bed and raw anger flashes in his eyes.

  I curl in on myself and wrap my arms tightly around my legs. Phil storms out of the bedroom. The violent slam of the door reverberates in the silence. I’m alone.

  I feel as if I’ve been fucked over, which is ironic, as I have been. In my mind this scene went a different way. Humiliation extinguishes my last hope for resurrecting our marriage. Anger replaces humiliation as I consider the countless times I’ve gotten him off, but never once did he return the favour. It wasn’t just the sex. His selfish indifference extended to all areas of our
marriage.

  Just once, I wanted him to come through for me and fulfil my innocent fantasy, to consider my wants and my needs. He took. He always just took.

  I hear the front door close and assume he is gone. Great. Just fucking great. Tears gather in my eyes and my chest feels hollow. Now what.

  A few weeks later

  I walk into the bar, tentative and more nervous than I expected to be. It is perfectly acceptable for a girl to walk into a bar alone. The background conversation and companionable interaction of others sure as hell beats the silence and awkward avoidance between Phil and me at home. Tonight I’ve decided enough is enough. Phil didn’t come back until Monday morning and barely spoke to me the following week. He wouldn’t talk to me, wouldn’t show any interest in me or in working this through. We simply went along with our own lives, going to work, cooking, cleaning, going to bed. I refuse to believe this is all my fault. We didn’t reach this point simply from me asking to be spanked. The responsibility for the mess we are in isn’t all mine.

  The bar is friendly, yet intimate and fairly quiet, hardly surprising considering it is only Tuesday. I walk steadily towards the counter, careful not to look around and risk eye contact with anyone. I hop up onto one of the stools as gracefully as I can manage, which, in my case, means I barely manage to sit without falling off the damn thing. I’m not one of those elegant women who glide across the floor. I do wear the heels that would match such a move, but I rarely pull it off. I look down at my shoes. Black and grey suede straps wrap around my feet, a two-inch platform cushions the four-inch heel. My sexy shoes give me the lift I need and are the one indulgence I’ll never give up. Thank heaven I can walk in heels.