Passion's Fury (The Doms of Passion Lake Book 2)

PASSION’S FURY

Julie Shelton

BOOK TWO OF

THE DOMS OF PASSION LAKE

Virginia is for lovers.  Passion Lake is for…kinky lovers.  Welcome to Passion Lake, a town owned and operated by a group of ex-Navy SEALs.  A town where they are free to live their kinky lifestyles without fear of interference or censure

PASSION’S FURY
.

When Simon Rafferty finds Kylie Ferrell sleeping in her broken-down car by the side of the road near Passion Lake, Virginia, the connection between them is instantaneous and combustible.  He recognizes her as the woman he and his two brothers have been searching for all their lives.  Their lifetime submissive.  And the fact that she’s homeless, injured, and targeted by the mob?  Minor details.

Identical triplets and former spec ops soldiers, Caleb, Simon, and Ash Rafferty are more than capable of handling anything life throws at them.  Including a sweet, sexy, lusciously curvy woman who has sworn off all men and who is clueless about the darkness of their needs and desires.  Clueless…but intrigued.  These dominant alpha males will do whatever it takes to get her into their bed, their hearts, their lives…and their dungeon.

But Kylie has secrets that put them all in deadly danger.  And when that danger catches up with her, Caleb, Simon, and Ash must launch a desperate search to find her before she is ripped from them forever.

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COPYRIGHT PAGE

Passion’s Fury

Copyright 2015 by Julie Shelton

Ebook ISBN:

First Ebook publication, February 2015

Cover design by Rhiannon Ayres

All cover art and logo copyright 2015 by Rhiannon Ayres

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED:
This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

Letter to Readers

Dear Readers,

If you have purchased this copy of 
Passion’s Fury,
thank you. Also, thank you for not sharing your copy of this book.

Regarding E-book Piracy

This book is copyrighted intellectual property. No other individual or group has resale rights, auction rights, membership rights, sharing rights, or any kind of rights to sell or to give away a copy of this book.

The author worked very hard to bring the paying readers high-quality reading entertainment.

This is Julie Shelton’s livelihood. Please respect Ms. Shelton’s right to earn a living from her work.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Jill, my beta reader, my critique partner, my sounding board, my head cheerleader, my noodge, my support, and most important of all, my friend.  Thank you for the generosity of your time, your encouragement, your willingness to brainstorm ideas (and what hot and naughty ideas they are, too), and your invaluable research and technical assistance.  You not only make my books better, you make my life better.

PASSION’S FURY

Julie Shelton

Copyright 2015

CHAPTER ONE

Oh, this is not good.  This is sooooo not good.

Heart lurching up into her throat, Kylie Ferrell steered her little nineteen-ninety-three Honda Civic onto the shoulder, the loud metallic clatter that had suddenly erupted in the engine compartment ringing in her ears.

Turning off the engine before the car had even stopped rolling, she just sat there in the dark, gripping the steering wheel in the proper ten-to-two position. 
Yeah, like that’s going to help anything.  Shit! 
She didn’t need this.  She didn’t need
any
of this.  Especially not now.  Not when her entire world was falling apart and unraveling around her.  In just the space of forty-eight hours she’d lost her job, her boyfriend, her house and her life.

Of course, it was a job she’d hated—bookkeeper for A. J. Moretti, a sleazy, brutish CPA, who had demanded her time as if, by the mere fact of working for him she’d forfeited any right to have a life of her own.  He’d worked odd hours and had expected her to do the same.  He hadn’t hesitated to call her into the office in the middle of the night, on weekends—she would have quit long before this, except it had taken her so long to find
this
job after her former boss had retired, she’d practically decimated her small savings account in the interim.  So she was determined to stick it out long enough to build it back up.  She’d already begun checking the classifieds hoping to have a new job already lined up when she quit this one. 
And the sooner, the better.

Friday night he had called her into the office at eleven-thirty. She’d muttered to herself the entire way over there, having a heated, imaginary conversation, rehearsing what she planned to say to him, periodically pounding her fists on the steering wheel for emphasis.  It was her usual routine, something she indulged in nearly every morning on her way to work.  But at least this time she had come to a decision.  This time, by God, she was going to take charge of her destiny.  This time, new job or no new job, she was going to march into that office and tell him she quit!  And if he tried to stiff her on her final paycheck, she would sue him
for sexual harassment!

The moment she’d entered the outer office, however, she’d known something was wrong.  The place looked like a hurricane had hit it, drawers open, contents strewn all over the desk, the floor, and the cabinets.  And Moretti wasn’t yelling out his customary greeting, “About damn time you showed up, Ferrell.  Get your ass in here!”

Hearing nothing from the inner office had made her a bit uneasy.  So she’d tiptoed to the partially-open door and given it a push.  A. J. Moretti was slumped forward over his desk, blood leaking from the neat hole in the middle of his forehead and soaking into his desk blotter. 

The police had questioned her for hours—okay, “grilled” was a more appropriate term for how they had treated her—but it wasn’t until she was halfway home around eleven-thirty yesterday morning that Kylie realized that she had actually seen the two men who had most likely killed her boss.  As she’d pulled into the parking lot, two non-descript men were getting into a dark, non-descript car.  And yet, they had caught her attention, mainly because theirs was the only other car in the garage.  She had deliberately remained in her Honda with the doors locked, pretending to be looking for something on the passenger seat, just waiting for them to pull out of the garage and disappear around the corner before even getting out. 
No point in asking for trouble.

Really, this is beginning to sound like something out of a cheap crime novel.

Maybe so, but that doesn’t make Moretti any less dead, now, does it?

As for her boyfriend…well, he
had
been her boyfriend until she’d come home after talking to the police to find him in their bed with his new production assistant, Fiona.  Brad Sullivan was an up-and-coming professional chef with his own newly opened restaurant and a cooking segment on a local talk show.  He was just starting to make a name for himself around the Philadelphia culinary scene.

Kylie’s lips twisted grimly as the memories flooded through her anew.  At first she hadn’t been sure what she was seeing. But the naked bodies, the guttural moans and the slap, slap, slap of flesh against flesh were unmistakable. At her horrified gasp, the body on top froze.  A female voice had shrieked, “
Oh, my God!  You said she’d be at work!” 
Brad had turned and looked at her in horror.  “Kylie!  What the fuck are you doing here?”

She’d just stared at him. 
Are you fucking kidding me?  I
live
here!

Brad had scrambled off the bed yelling her name as he ran down the hall after Kylie’s rapidly retreating figure, frantically trying to tuck the sheet around his naked body while also trying not to trip over the trailing ends.  “Kylie, wait!”  He’d grabbed her arm and turned her around.  He’d actually had the unmitigated gall to utter that most clichéd of all clichés, “Kylie, this isn’t what it looks like.”

Seriously?  This isn’t what it looks like?  What, are you stupid?

She had rolled her eyes as she’d turned to face him, her throat tight with rage, her hands itching to slap his too-handsome-to-be-believed face.  It took every ounce of strength she possessed to keep from gouging his eyes out.  Or wrapping her hands around his neck and strangling him.  “Oh, yeah?” she’d replied, sarcasm dripping from every word.  “What is it, then, Brad?  What else could possibly look like this without actually
being
this?”

“It didn’t mean anything!  C’mon, Kylie, you know I love you.”

“What?” 
That particular screech came from Fiona who, by this time, had covered her nakedness with Brad’s shirt and was coming down the hall toward them.  “You asshole!  You told me you were leaving her!”

“Oh, don’t worry, dear.  He is.”  Kylie had yanked open the front door.  So angry she could barely keep from exploding, she’d rounded on him.  “You have exactly thirty seconds to get dressed and get out.  Same goes for your little friend.”  She lifted her arm and consulted her wristwatch.  “Time starts right now.”

“Kylie, be reasonable.”

“Five.  Six.  Seven.  Eight.  You’ve already wasted ten seconds, so I suggest you hop to it.”  She had stood there, counting out loud as Brad and Fiona scuttled back to the bedroom and dressed so quickly that they were both still buttoning and tucking when they started back down the hall.  Fiona’s satin blouse was wrinkled and she’d missed a button.  Her bra trailed from her hands, Brad’s tie and belt trailed from his.  They both carried their shoes and socks.

“Thirty.”

Brad stopped in front of her.  “Kylie—”

“Shut up.  You can pick up the rest of your belongings tomorrow morning.  They’ll be out in the back yard.  But I strongly suggest you do it by ten o’clock,” she said acidly, not looking at either of them as they sidled past her.  “Because whatever is still there at one minute past ten will be set on fire, so I suggest you get here early.”  With that, she had closed the door quietly in their flabbergasted faces and turned the deadbolt with a loud, deliberate click.

“Kylie!  You can’t mean this!”  Brad pounded on the door.  “Kylie, listen to me, I can explain!  I-I’m sorry!  This was all just a big misunderstanding.  It meant nothing! 
She
means nothing?”

“Nothing!  You fucking prick!”
Fiona’s outraged shriek was followed by an aggrieved, “Owwww!” from Brad.

Kylie’s smile lasted for approximately three seconds before she doubled over, sobbing at the deep sense of betrayal Brad’s perfidy had left her with.  Not that she’d been madly in love with him.  She hadn’t.  He’d only been living in her house for the past two months because his condo was being renovated.  She had only gotten involved with him in the first place because he’d been charming and funny, openly flirting with her, and she had soaked up the attention.  He was the first man who had actually managed to get anywhere near the hidden place deep inside her.  The place where, ever since the age of five, when her father had started to “beat the sin out of her”, she had locked her sexuality inside a metal box, wrapped with chains and sealed with a padlock. Even after ten years of intensive psychotherapy it was still buried deep inside her.

Brad had actually seemed attracted to her, and she’d been flattered that such a charming, handsome man didn’t seem to mind that she was a bit on the curvy side.  Okay, a lot on the curvy side.  He had started out by wooing her, never taking it beyond the heavy petting stage.  Until after he had moved in.  The first time they’d had sex, there had been very little foreplay.  He hadn’t taken the time to arouse her and when he’d encountered resistance, he’d simply accused her of being too dry and had powered through it.  Later, seeing the blood on the sheet, he’d been shocked to realize that she’d been a virgin.  Shocked and not the least bit happy.  He’d accused her of tricking him, insisting that she go to a doctor and get a morning after pill because he hadn’t used a condom.  When she’d insisted that that wasn’t necessary, that she was taking birth control, he’d scoffed.  “Why would a virgin need to take birth control?”  He’d refused to believe that a lot of women actually used them to help regulate their periods.  Until she’d showed him her actual pills.  Then he’d backed off.

Unfortunately, over the next two months, the sex hadn’t gotten any better.  Both encounters had been rough, he’d been drunk and in a hurry, leaving her unsatisfied.  Which, he had hastened to assure her, was entirely her fault.  Don’t blame him.  If she hadn’t had an orgasm it was because she was no good in bed.  No wonder she was still a virgin at the age of twenty-eight.  Which made her wonder more than once what all the hoopla was about.  Sex, she had concluded, was highly over-rated.  Which made her father’s virulent opposition to it all the more puzzling.

Yet, in spite of all that logic, her gut-wrenching sobs had continued off and on for the next four hours, the exact amount of time it had taken her to clear all of Brad’s stuff out of her closet, her bathroom, her chest of drawers, and her kitchen cabinets.  By the time she finished the latter she was shocked at how much he’d owned in the way of cookery and crockery and appliances and stuff.

Okay, so Brad
had
been good for at least one thing, his homemade gourmet meals.  In the two months they’d lived together, she had eaten better than she’d ever eaten in her life, even at the Goodmans, her adoptive family.  Her birth parents’ idea of cooking had consisted of opening cans and heating the contents, so she’d never really learned to cook, preferring instead to just nuke something in the microwave whenever she got hungry.  But now, staring at the astonishing array of gadgets Brad had accumulated in order to provide the aforementioned culinary delights, her mind boggled.  Her finger reached out to trace the brand name on an appliance she not only didn’t recognize, but had no clue as to what function it performed. 
No matter. 
She shrugged and shook her head, forcing herself to pick it up and carry it out onto the back porch. 
It’s not mine.  Out it goes.

Resisting the temptation to hurl it over the bannister onto the pile of Brad’s clothes and other personal belongings she’d already thrown out onto her tiny patch of lawn, she’d carried it down the short flight of stairs and dropped it on top.  This was an appliance and, from the looks of it, quite possibly a very expensive appliance.  If Brad didn’t pick it up by ten tomorrow morning, she’d put it up on craigslist.  Might as well get
something
out of this…unpleasantness.

Thirteen trips later, she’d briskly brushed her hands over the impressive pile, said, “Good-bye, Brad,” and went back inside to call an emergency locksmith.  Brad was gone.  Her tears were gone.  Her regrets were gone.  Good riddance.  While George—at least she
assumed
that was the locksmith’s name, since that’s what was embroidered on his uniform pocket.  For all she knew, only his pocket was named George—changed all her locks and the guy from the security company, whose pocket was named John, upgraded her security system, she had cleaned out her refrigerator and pantry, tossing all the uneaten food into garbage bags and hauling them out to the back yard to place on top of the growing pile, thus removing every last vestige of Brad Sullivan from her home and her life.

Oops.  Not quite.  There was still the bed.  Taking a deep breath, she’d gone back to the bedroom and stood looking at the rumpled sheets.  They were her nicest set, Egyptian cotton, eight hundred thread count.  They had cost her a fortune.  Realizing that she could never sleep on them again, she decided Brad should have them. She’d stripped them off the bed and opened the window to toss them onto the pile, inadvertently setting off the new motion sensor John had just installed.  When the ear-splitting shrieks had finally been silenced, she’d enlisted the help of the two men to help her carry the queen-size Dura-foam mattress out to the back yard.  It had been outrageously expensive, but Brad had insisted that he had to have it for his back.  In fact, he’d refused to spend the night with her until she’d replaced her old mattress, so she had decimated her savings account to get it for him.  But once George and John had gotten it outside, Kylie’s practicality and common sense had reasserted itself and she’d had to ask them to please carry it back in.  They must have thought she was insane.  But, what the hell?  After all, she’d paid for the damn thing.  Why should Brad wind up with it? 
Let him get his own damn mattress.