We Were One Once Book 1

By: Willow Madison


It’s the same no matter who’s doing the talking…girl’s got pussy, how much are you willing to give out to get in it. Most bastards don’t realize this until they’re standing next to an altar. And they always wonder why the chick isn’t as interested in sex afterwards. Because you already paid the Goddamn price of admission, dumbass!

Red. Grace. She’s good. She’s smooth. She doesn’t linger. She hints. She suggests. But she moves on quickly.

Men need to hunt. She obviously understands this. She’s offering herself as prey. Not easy prey. But willing.

Is this why she disappeared? I found her when she was only taking a break in between men?

No…no fucking way! She was a small, sheltered, little girl, frozen behind expressionless stares and never venturing to even touch another person. I watched her for almost four weeks. She never said more than a few words together unless it was about the fucking stars and alignment and astro-fuck-shit. No way she was only pretending, laying low.

I don’t know this Grace though. This woman didn’t exist fifteen months ago. Grace was smart, but she was weak, meek, and docile. She didn’t stand out, and she didn’t want to. I chose her because she stood out trying so hard not to. And I wanted her. I wanted to break through her indifferent stares.

I’d dropped off a product near the grocery store that time I first saw her. I’d gone in afterwards to pick up a bottle of champagne. I’d already text a fuck for the night, but then I saw Grace and decided to keep an eye on her. I tracked her. She was undeniably a perfect fit for my training. I thought she’d be a small challenge, and she sort of fit a new order I had back then.

This woman? She’s on a Goddamn stage. She doesn’t have to do more than flick her hair a little to get noticed. She’s unwavering, confident, and hot. She’s fuck me at your own risk if you dare and if you can pay the price. She’s definitely not suitable for my training. Well, maybe…except now she’s in my circle. Sort of.

I watch her walk back to the brother. He’s fucking trussed up dinner in her hands. She pats him on the back and walks away with both brothers trailing behind. I follow and watch her get in a limo outside. She’s clearly fucked the driver before by the smile they share and maybe the brother? Or maybe she’s only fucked with him?

I walk outside and take in the cold air. What the fuck?!

Grace. Here. Like this?! I can’t get my head around it.





San Francisco: Simon Lamb





I wait for her outside her address. It’s a step up from Chinatown, Grace. A doorman holds open the glass door for her, and she barely brushes her tits against him as she passes. It could’ve been an accident, but I can see the smug half smile on her face as she puts her sunglasses on. He’s still checking out her ass.

She’s in red again, a little more subtle this time. Everything about her is polished and expensive except her hair; it’s still wild and kinky.

Her strides are long for her short legs. Heels clicking, ass shooting side to side—it’s a runway walk. She’s bony like a model. That’s her job now, though she’s too short to make it big. She has a few gigs with local boutiques, a photographer that specializes in soft porn for book covers, and a few legit magazine shoots.

I glance at my phone. I have a few pics with her dark hair straight and sleek. I prefer her like this though, like she’s been pumped with electricity. I smile. I could get more than just her hair to stand up with a few volts.

Supposedly, fifteen months ago she was in the Riviera, sulking over a bad break up with some underwear model or local politician’s boy. Maybe it was both if rumors were true.

But I know she was in that crappy Chinatown apartment, hiding. Why?

It doesn’t matter. She’s now off limits. So why am I still watching her?

It’s pretty simple. No girl’s ever gotten away from me.





San Francisco: Simon Lamb





I keep my distance, but Grace is easy to follow. I track her to a trendy fusion restaurant and watch her sit with three other overly thin women. I decide to wait at the bar; it’s close enough to their table to overhear most of what she’d say.

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