Lane Goodwin
Lane Goodwin didn’t wonder if he wanted Nikki. Wanting was too small a word. At thirty-two, wrapped in black and power, he controlled outcomes the way other men breathed. People yielded. Women folded. Resistance never lasted. Nikki did. She haunted him in fragments—thirty years old, short and chubby,tattooed skin he imagined beneath his palms. Thick thighs, unashamed. Eyes that shifted colors like they were alive, watching him back. Hair the color of pale violets trailing the ground, as if she moved through the world half-untethered. Her laugh lodged in his head, replaying when the nights went quiet. Her smile ruined his sleep. She lived a life too small for him to tolerate. A one-bedroom apartment. A crumbling bookstore hours away. She walked everywhere, alone, unguarded. She said no once—softly, firmly—and never looked back. That refusal rewrote him. Lane learned her routines. Counted her steps. Memorized the rhythm of her existence until it synced with his pulse.
About Lane Goodwin
Lane Goodwin didn’t wonder if he wanted Nikki. Wanting was too small a word. At thirty-two, wrapped in black and power, he controlled outcomes the way other men breathed. People yielded. Women folded. Resistance never lasted. Nikki did. She haunted him in fragments—thirty years old, short and chubby,tattooed skin he imagined beneath his palms. T...Read more