SERIES READING ORDER
COMING EARLY 2019
They say nobody is truly born evil. They’re wrong.
Before he created Amber’s amnesia and forced Xander to attest to the true strength of his morals, Dr. Jaxon Ray had to become the perfect adversary.
It didn’t take much for his family to nurture his God-given talents into a flawless weapon that would do their bidding without question—to strive only for what made them more powerful, to take what they desired without remorse, and to ruin those who stood in their way without thinking twice.
They thought they had created this monster.
After all, common wisdom states that no one is truly born evil.
Unfortunately, Jax is living proof that this belief is a lie.
Created specifically to celebrate the first anniversary of The Centrifuge Duet and told completely from Dr. Jaxon Ray’s perspective, Adversary spans the entire Centrifuge saga and gives you a glimpse into his current circumstances post-Attest.
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My wife pushes against my shoulders, urging me to lay on my back. I don’t argue. I mean, why would I? Every man knows that when his woman wants to take control in bed, it’s in his best interests to do exactly as he’s told. A woman who takes the initiative is every red-blooded man’s dream—a dream that currently resides in my bed.
Long, lithe legs that should belong to a much taller woman straddle my waist and she settles over my hardness. My cock strains for attention, but my devil-woman ignores him. Instead she leans over me, one perfectly shaped breast hanging inches from my mouth. I want to pinch the perfectly pointed nipple that taunts me. I want to lick the creamy skin that surrounds the peak until it’s red and raw. I want to bite into her perfect flesh and leave teeth marks that she’ll still be seeing a week later.
However, I’m a good husband, so I ignore my urges and let my wife call the shots.
“Suck it into your mouth,” she orders.
I do as I’m told, sucking her nipple like a man possessed. My hands itch with aching need to seize her by the throat and toss her onto the bed on her back. I play out my next moves in my head, fantasising about what I’ll do once I’ve regained my position of dominance. The plan pops into my head with ease—almost like it’s second nature or part of an innate urge that I can’t control. When I have her on her back, I’ll wrench her thighs apart and thrust my cock home. She’ll protest, screams that demand I stop will pierce the night air, but we’ll both know that she doesn’t mean it. Sharp fingernails will tear the skin from my shoulders which will send a shiver of pleasure down my spine. It’s when she oversteps and scratches at my face that I’ll get to the really fun part.
My fantasy comes to an abrupt stop when my head is forced to the side by the impact of a hand against my cheek. I open my eyes, and blink to clear my vision. My bloody wife just slapped me. That’s not on. Not that she seems to care, because she takes it a step further before I can complain and ties my wrists together, then binds them to the headboard.
I strain against the bindings. She slaps me again.
“Now, I told you not to touch,” she chides, irritation coating each word.
I shake my head to clear it, and my wife slowly changes from a curvy black shadow that looms above me into the beautiful woman that she is. Excitement makes her eyes glitter in the fading light of our bedroom. Somehow, I remember that look, and it makes my heart skip a beat.
I’m in trouble.
Bracing my hips, I watch with a mixture of muted lust and supercharged apprehension as she lifts herself off my hips and takes my dick in her hand. There is nothing loving about the way she impales herself on my cock a second later. It’s carnal. Vicious. A way for her to assert her ownership.
My hips lift from the bed as I meet her thrust for thrust. Apparently, she wants me completely submissive tonight because she scowls at me and raises her hand as if to hit me again. I stop moving and wait for her next move.
Nothing comes because my wife pushes my ass into the mattress by lowering her full weight onto me. Leaning over my chest, she strains to grab something from the bedside table. I stay still, uncertainty over whether I should tilt my body to help her reach whatever she’s looking for runs through me, and I take back my original thoughts that every red-blooded man wants his wife to take control. I don’t like it, at all. Being at the mercy of a woman is not something I enjoy.
I guess it’s just another way that having limited memories of my life messes with me.
“Now, where were we?” My wife shuffles herself back into position, having successfully stayed balanced on my cock while she was on her search and retrieval mission. “Oh, I know. You’re about to let me use your delicious cock for my own amusement.”
I don’t correct her assessment of the situation. Not that I know how to manage it without hurting her feelings, anyhow. Part of me wants to be mean and cut strips off her with my sharp tongue while a warning bell that’s clanging in my head screams at me to just go along with it.
I run out of time to decide when she pounces. Lifting her hips, she sinks back onto my cock. It feels good, but it doesn’t feel right. She’s moving too slow for one. Secondly, her rhythm isn’t right. There’s no way I’m going to come if this is all she has to offer.
“Oh, Jax,” she moans, throwing her head back. Her long hair brushes my thighs—and honest to God, the light tickle from the strands on my skin feels better than what she’s doing to my dick.
The knot that she’s used to tie my hands to the headboard is loosening. While she uses me like a live stud at an artificial insemination clinic, I work on the bindings around my wrist until they’ve unknotted completely.
Now, it’s time for me to play.
Jack-knifing upright like a serpent, I grab her by the throat and throw her onto the mattress at my feet. Pushing to my knees, I leer over her naked form, take my cock in my hand, and—my wife jams a long, black wand into the side of my neck. My body flops around like an epileptic having a grand mal seizure. Blood fills my mouth, pain ricocheting through my tongue from the damage that my teeth have done. The spasms in my hands and legs make every muscle scream.
And, then it’s over. She pulls the wand away. Pushing me all the way onto my back, she straddles my hips again and grins down at me. It takes a second, but when it hits, it hits home hard.
This is not my wife.
My wife has naturally thick, brown-black hair—not this straw like bird’s nest that tops this woman’s head. Amber is beautiful—smooth, alabaster skin, curves in all the right places, and big, brown eyes that can suck my soul from my body with just a smile. The woman above me is older, her plastic surgery enhanced skin is unnaturally tight as she fights the aging process instead of owning it, and her blue eyes are dead.
“You’re not Amber.” The statement has barely left my lips before she’s jammed the wand back into the side of my neck. The spasms start again. I feel my bladder let go, and my eyes roll back in my head, stealing the last remnants of vision from my eyes.
“Stop talking about Amber,” the woman pretending to be my wife screams at me. “Forget about her. You’re mine now. All mine. Mine!”
Her hysterics begin to fade away as I lose my fight for consciousness. I try to swim through the sticky, black quicksand that’s sucking me down, but it’s impossible. Giving up on staying cognisant, I change tact, and begin chanting three words over and over in my head.
“Never forget Amber. Never forget Amber. Never forget Amber.”
The darkness has almost entirely taken over, but I manage to get one more chant completed before it wins.
“Never forget Amber.”