This stimulating read is both for experienced players and those just discovering the joy of tying up your lover.
Each boldly-wrought tale shared with your lover is another door opened into the erotic mindscape. Deep Desires by Charlotte Stein. Their dance of pleasure and seduction takes just long enough. Easy to read and hard to put down. YourTango may earn an affiliate commission if you buy something through links featured in this article. Follow Us. Sign in. Photo: WeHeartIt. And however difficult life may seem, there is always something you can do, and succeed at.
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- In Need of Therapy.
Do I not seem prepared enough? Do I not seem smart enough, mean enough or driven enough? Too young?
I grew up in Baltimore in the s, so, if you push me hard enough, I will literally be a fighter. I earned my way into college—a rarity for my neighborhood and my family, both—and worked my ass off to stay there on my scholarships. I came home from Africa and developed my own terrible illness, and found a way back to some semblance of health. I met with a new accountant today. I contacted her because I will not be stopped. Stephen Hawking could have given up at any moment, and no one would have blamed him. I want a little of that, too.
When I start feeling sorry for myself or slipping into a depression I fought my way free of, I try to remember them. I remember what they accomplished, be it a small thing or a grand thing—either way, it was important. Isaac had a mind like a steel trap.
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Stuffed into his car, surrounded by empty coffee cups and not-so-official paperwork, he tried to utilize his gift to make sense of the chaos creeping ever closer. His head was beginning to ache. But what else are you hiding, Father Martin Rice? The priest had stood by a hidden exit, waving the pretend cardinal and his demonic whore to safety.
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But Isaac never forgot. He never forgot a single thing, which was both his gift and his curse. He remembered…. The sidewalks were cracked, the gutters filled with trash and a few cars lining the curb were either without tires or spray painted with graffiti. The question was not directed at himself. Jericho—his pain and salvation, both—had looked into Father Martin Rice more than a year ago. Determined to hold onto his courage, he organized his papers as quickly as he could and stuffed them back into their folders. With a deep breath, he grabbed a knife from his glove compartment because the neighborhood was alarming, and focused on the task at hand.
Knock and ask. Isaac faltered. With a shrug, he decided to wing it.
His cell phone rang before he could open his car door. The steering wheel punched into his sternum, stealing his breath long enough that he managed to find an response to the question. The man was persuasive, charismatic, and had a way of making people want to confess their secrets to him. Liah would skin him alive if he revealed the truth about her new boyfriend, and Enoch would roast him over actual coals if he was caught in a lie.
Isaac cleared his throat, unwilling to divulge such sensitive information. Is something wrong? I have a problem with this, Isaac. The one ordering a full evaluation of Archbishop Hallie? Hallie was the man who had kicked off the entire investigation. The man that had opened the rabbit hole Isaac and his cousins were currently falling down. Hallie had gotten suspicious and called an old friend for some help—a friend who happened to be connected to the Garguiem.
Any time a new clergyman was given a glimpse into Garguiem operations a file was created. His diplomacy skills were second to none.
While the rest of you get to deal with nothing more taxing than demons and asshole priests, I have to handle politics and the Vatican. Isaac rubbed his eyes. The man was incorruptible, chosen for his resistance to temptation, a real hard-ass. He and the archbishop had a history, and if he was suspicious, perhaps there was something to it. With that, Isaac ended the call and got out of the car before he second-guessed himself again. Leaving his phone behind, he crossed the street, gritting his teeth at the thought of people he loved living in such a run-down, dangerous neighborhood.
He supposed that was part of the appeal, however.
Plus, she would have a strict budget that would make the multi-family tenement and the wafting stench of garbage a necessary evil. Isaac clenched his jaw harder. The entrance was locked—hallelujah and praise God for small miracles. Double-checking the address and taking a deep breath to calm his nerves he scanned the identification markers on the call box he was surprised to see anchored next to the front door. Most slots were devoid of names. One had a crude, rounded square etched into the metal.
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Acid bubbled and clawed its way up his esophagus. There was no answer but he knew the apartment was occupied—oh, yes, he absolutely knew, because if there was one thing in the world he knew it was her, everything about her, her habits, beliefs and idiosyncrasies. And Isaac never forgot. He lay on the button. Finally, a response came. Did you lose your damn key again? Heart pounding, Isaac could not breathe. The silence finally penetrated his madness.
He pressed the button again. Please…I need your help. Her voice was strained, stuttering. Father Martin Rice, remember him? I know you have a box full of paperwork, Jericho. I remember, you know I do. He was sure his lungs had collapsed, as had he. Leaning against the wall, he let his tears flow and drip from his chin as he sobbed. He shuddered as fresh pain ripped him apart again. I need your help. But he had to focus on what was possible to achieve. I need you.