Spotlight- Taboo Unchained By C.M. Stunich

I love C.M. Stunich and I'm so excited she has a new book out! I read the Hard Rock Roots books, all the ones that are out and it's one of my favorite series.
I love this excerpt and I can't wait to read this, it's going to be so good.

TABOO UNCHAINED by C.M. Stunich

A stand-alone novel of 95,000 words.

Release Day is undetermined at the moment but SOON

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My Review for Real Ugly- Hard Rock Roots # 1

***WARNING: This is a dark romance erotica – meaning lots of violence, sex, and emotionally
disturbing inner dialogue. However, there is *NO* kidnapping, rape, or other forms of misogyny.
Lucas Carter is an anti-hero, but he doesn't disrespect women. The entire book is told in his point of
view.

The taboo turns me on.
The dirty. The filthy. The nasty.
The man your mother fucking warned you about – is me.
Hold onto your panties, ladies.
Lucas Carter is here to show you the dark side of the sheets.

CHAPTER ONE
IN THE NAME OF ALL THINGS UNHOLY

My name is Lucas Carter, and I am a fucking God.
I slide my hand down my cock, gripping the base of my shaft with sure fingers. A smirk lingers
on my lips as I work my body like a machine. I know what gets me off – oh, who I am kidding? I
know what gets everyone off – so it doesn't take long to milk pre-cum onto my fingers.
The blonde lying across my bed watches me with hungry eyes, sliding her tongue across her full
lips. They're already swollen from my ministrations, bruised by my kisses. Marked. Sealed. Stamped
with my name.
I smile.

“Tell me you want this,” I command, watching as her gaze rakes down my body, begging
silently for me to fuck her, to slide my cock into her folds and own her. Little does she know, I already
do. I don't need to touch a woman to possess her; I can reel in souls with a simple look, a light touch, a
well-timed smile. It's not magic. This, this is simple biology.

“I want your penis,” she says, and I cringe, releasing my dick and stalking across the room
towards her. She cowers back, but I don't touch her. Lucas Carter never hits women – not unless they
want him to. I do not believe Mrs. Braxton ordered that particular service. From the corner of the
room, I hear her husband shift uncomfortably. I've already asked him twice to keep his mouth shut. I
don't do men, but I do allow them to watch, provided they keep quiet.

“My … penis?” I ask, trying not to grit my teeth. Mrs. Braxton has pushed me to the edge of
my sanity today. She's attractive, much more so than my other clients, but she has a bad habit of
dulling my excitement with her squeaky clean little mouth. Not even the bright red of her lipstick is
helping.
“This is not a sexual education class, Clarice. This is not your mother's living room. If you're
going to refer to my body, you're going to use the words that I choose.” I pause and stand up straight,
sliding my sticky fingers back down my shaft. Pleasure pricks my body, helping to soothe my ire.
“Now. Repeat after me.” I pause, watching as Clarice's pink nipples stand at sharp attention. Her
stomach muscles tighten as she sucks in a deep breath. “Dick.”
I take a step closer, letting my eyes soak in her rounded curves and the sweep of her pale hair
across the white linens. Her blue eyes break from mine for just a split second, sliding over towards the
corner where her husband sits. I reach my fingers out and grab her chin, guiding her attention back to
my face. Make no mistake here: Mr. and Mrs. Braxton may be my clients, but I am the one in charge.
“Say. It.” If there's one thing I hate more than the mollification of genitalia, it's having to
repeat myself. My hand tightens on my cock. Clarice swallows hard as her eyes flutter and her lips
part softly.

“Dick,” she whimpers, and the smile returns to my face. I trail my fingertips down her throat,
watching the jumping pulse of her heart as I drag my hand towards her full breasts.

“Cock.” The word jumps sharply off my tongue at the same moment I clamp my fingertips on
Clarice's taut, pink nipples. She groans deeply, relaxing back onto the bed and spreading her legs wide
for me, opening up that pretty pink pussy like a flower in bloom. I ignore the slight murmur of Mr.
Braxton's moans from the corner by gritting my teeth. We're not even through the first course yet and
already the buffoon is gasping and spilling his seed into his own hand. More than likely, he'll retreat to
one of the other nineteen bedrooms in this sprawling monstrosity of a home and fall asleep, leaving me
to deal with his wife alone. Not that I'm complaining – I much prefer it that way – but I can only
imagine what kind of a man would be comfortable leaving his pride and joy to find solace in another
man's arms. More often than not, my clients' husbands know nothing about what goes on behind closed
doors. If anyone asks, I'm simply the 'interior designer'.

“Cock,” Clarice moans, letting her head fall back and bending her legs at the knees. The head
of my dick presses tight against her opening, sliding slick cum over her heat. But I don't enter her. I'm
not here to pummel her pussy and roll away satisfied. If Mrs. Braxton simply wanted a stallion to ride,
there are a hundred other men in this city that she could've called for a fraction of the price. My phone
only rings when there are darker desires to satisfy, cravings that delve much deeper than simple sex.
I pull away and let my smile morph into a grin.

“No, please,” Clarice whimpers, much like she always does. “I need it. Just … have sex with
me, please.” My mouth twitches and my hands clench tight at my sides. She can't even say fuck. After
all these sessions, all these dirty romps, these forays into the depths of darkness, and she can't say the
Goddamn F-word.

“Fuck,” I snap, sliding my withering cock back into the confines of my slacks. Clarice sits up
quickly, brushing her French tipped nails through her blonde hair. Trophy wife. The term was coined
to describe this woman, this twenty-something beach bunny married to a fifty year old man.
Disgusting. I have had it for today. Clarice has had me over before – she knows better than to piss me
off. “Fuck me, Clarice. We have had this discussion.” My dick is soft now, flaccid and useless. “So
I'm going home.”
I turn around and grab my briefcase, laying my suit jacket over my arm. One quick glance at
Mr. Braxton shows that he's already asleep in the ostentatious wingback chair that sits near the window.
I try desperately not to roll my eyes.

“W-wait!” Clarice calls out, scrambling off of the bed and chasing after me. I ignore her when
she tugs on my arm and tries to stop me from heading out the door of her bedroom. “I can say it. Fuck
me. Fuck me, Lucas.” I slide easily from her grasp and manage to step into the hallway before she
gloms onto me again. My scowl feels permanently etched into my skin at this point. I'm an artist
whose medium is flesh and blood and sex.

“I am not a whore, Clarice,” I tell her as we move past the open door of a bedroom and the blasé
stare of one of the Braxton's many maids. They've seen it all and more, I'm sure. Not once have I ever
seen a single one of them blink at my presence, not even when I'm ramming Mrs. Braxton in a sex
swing dangling off the edge of the balcony overlooking the foyer. Heights. The danger of falling is
one of the few things that really gets Clarice off. That, apparently, and my utter distaste for her
personality.

“I know, and I'm sorry, please. Lucas, come on.” Clarice follows me halfway down the curving
staircase before I stop and turn to her, her chest heaving, breasts full and admittedly quite tempting. I
lean over and whisper in her ear.

“Stop begging like the desperate little slut that you are, and maybe I'll consider fucking you next
time.” I watch out of the corner of my eye as her lashes flutter and her breath comes quicker. Insults.
A fairly tame breed of naughty, but one that Mrs. Braxton likes all the same. I step back and continue
down the stairs, debating on whether or not I'm going to stop in the gaudy gold and white marble
bathroom near the front door. My hands are still sticky with my cum, and the sensation is making my
teeth hurt. I'm a meticulous man, and I like to be clean.

“You're seriously leaving?” Clarice wheedles as I hit the bottom stair and pause with one foot
on the ugly travertine floor. I spare her a quick glance over my shoulder and find a frown plastered
across those red, red lips. “The check cleared, didn't it?” she snaps when she sees me make no move to
turn around.
My scowl returns with a vengeance.

“I already told you: I am not a whore.” Fuck. I hate repeating myself. I continue towards the
front door, pausing only when a vase smashes into the ground next to my feet, shattering into a million
white and blue pieces. I don't bother to look back when Clarice starts screeching at me.

“You are a whore. An overpriced one at that. Get over yourself, Lucas. You have sex for
money!”
Okay, now that does give me pause. A smile replaces my scowl as I turn around and give Mrs.
Braxton my most evil look.

“Then you and I, my darling, are one in the same. Next time Mr. Braxton is busy riding your
ass, think of me to get through it. I'll consider that a freebie.”
A small angel statue comes flying over the railing of the balcony, crashing into a gilded mirror
not six feet from where I'm standing.

C.M. Stunich was raised under a cover of fog in the area known simply as Eureka, CA. A mysterious place, this strange, arboreal land nursed Caitlin's (yes, that's her name!) desire to write strange fiction novels about wicked monsters, magical trains, and Nemean Lions (Google it!). She currently enjoys drag queens, having too many cats, and tribal bellydance.

Always a fan of the indie scene and 'sticking it to the man,' Ms. Stunich decided to take the road less traveled and forgo the traditional publishing route. You can be assured though that she received several rejections as to ensure her proper place in the world of writers before taking up a friend's offer to start a publishing company. Sarian Royal was born, and Ms. Stunich's books slowly transformed from mere baking chocolate to full blown tortes with hand sculpted fondant flowers.

C.M. is a writer obsessed with delivering the very best and scours her mind on a regular basis to select the most unusual stories for the outside world.

Ms. Stunich can be reached via e-mail or by post and loves to hear from her readers. Ms. Stunich also wrote this biography and has no idea why she decided to refer to herself in the third person.

Come visit me at My Website ** Goodreads ** Facebook ** Google+ ** Twitter 

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