***Due to strong language and explicit sexual content, this New Adult novel is not intended for readers under 18.***
I’m free. F***ing free!
I’m in college with my best friends and far, far from home!
With my Scheuermann’s disease as the excuse, my father kept me locked up at home all through high school. Here in Deepsilver, I can finally be me, Pandora, so—
Why the hell should I hold back?
They accept our fake IDs at Smother, our local haunt. I’m the life of the party, everyone loves me—hell, I could get away with murder in this place! Drunk off my ass, I dance on the bar, and—
I’m on top of the world!
I need to get my shit together, though. If I don’t pull off good grades, my father won’t pay my tuition. There’s no way I’m moving back into his “fortress.”
At the bar, I set my eyes on a gorgeous stranger. My plans don’t involve him long term; one night should be enough. But Dominic is more than I bargained for. God, I’m so drawn to this man. My skin hums at his touch because—
He expels the shadows of my past and replaces my pain with desire.
Perfect Dominic. Beautiful, graduating, soon-to-move-on-with-his-life Dominic.
I’m a wild child. A hot mess. Not grownup and focused like him. He’s addictive, and I am weak, but—screw this; I can wean myself off him! With the right antidote—
Addictions can be broken.
PANDORA WILD CHILD PANDORA On his bench, I melt. My shield shatters, and I am open to him. He always gives me more than the hour I come for, and warm, strong hands slide over my bare skin in exactly the way he’s paid to do. Still, there’s an electricity in the room when he’s near. My heart accelerates instead of slowing down. And sometimes, when I can’t help the way my insides clench for him, my breath stutters. My response never goes unnoticed; for an instant, his hands freeze. Then, they resume their beautiful dance over me. When I am starved for him, I flip on the bench. I shut my eyes because sometimes, sometimes, I am shy. He doesn’t speak, then. Through thin slits under my lashes, I watch him watch me. Some days, his breath coasts light over my face before he kisses me. “Pandora,” he whispers, “I can’t do this here.” I don’t answer. He stops massaging me, and his hands caress me instead. Glide over the ridges of my ribs until they brush the sides of my breasts. I’ve got to get my shit together. My life’s a mess, and I love it, fear it, hate it. I’m driving him crazy. Driving myself crazy. But it is what I allow myself. For these few hours a week are my respite, when his hands quiet my mind.