“We can repair what was broken.”
“Together,” he said.
The End
About the Author
Lilith Leana writes what she loves; Monster, fantasy, and sci-fi erotica.
Born and raised in Belgium, she devours ebooks as if it heals her. In her day job she loves to organize, plan and make schedules for other people, but when the night falls she can let loose with her fantasies which star all kinds of Monsters and Human couplings.
Author Website: https://lilithleana.wordpress.com
Love and Luxury
Kel Bruem
Blurb
Anya Marina has the San Francisco reality world under her thumb–until she bumps the wrong witch in the crosswalk and finds herself cursed to rehome 100 monsters for free. After 99 monstrous clients, Anya is ready to flee the city in search of more human company, but her 100th client stops her cold. Seraphine Desroches, an alluring French gargoyle, might be the woman of Anya’s unexpected dreams.
Content Warning
Financial stress, debt, explicit sex, light domme/sub, stomach problems
Love and Luxury
I’ve lived in San Francisco for twenty years, and I still wait for the first businessman at the crosswalk to step into the street before I do.
It’s not a gender thing. Please don’t mistake me for the type of woman who takes all her cues from a man. That line of thinking would’ve left my career in shambles, and my bank account drained—never mind the winter storm that would’ve moved into my bedroom.
No, this is strictly survival. The slew of Ubers, Lyfts, and self-driving cars all operate on software designed, programmed, and tested by white men ages 25 to 48. The last human any of those vehicles will murder in broad daylight is one of their own—even if he steps into the street too early, distracted by his phone, headphones on full blast, unable to hear the cars honking or screeching to a halt.
We all do it. Next time you’re in the city, look around as you cross the street. For just a split second, everyone else holds their breath, waiting for the ironclad beasts rumbling nearby to lose control and slam through his weak, fleshy meat sack—then everyone else crosses.
And before you say it, don’t. There isalwaysa businessman at any crowded intersection in San Francisco. They’re like ants—in presence and behavior. Where there’s one, there’s a million, and once you’ve spotted them, they’re all you can see.
Some people think techies have ruined the city. They’ll claim major corporations settling in San Francisco hauled the peace-loving, free love advocates into high rises built to sink, slammed MacBooks into their hands, and reminded them they’re “changing the world” with an embroidered Patagonia fleece. Instead of art, we got AI. Instead of makeshift stoner salons on Haight apartment floors, we got self-driving cars.
A city formerly known for peace, love, and public nudity is now famous for billion-dollar companies that turn out to be fake, and the most human feces on the street per capita of anywhere else in the world. But still public nudity, so there’s that, at least.
Some people mourn the loss of the San Francisco that was, no longer able to recognize their home in what San Francisco is.
I’m not some people.
All I see when I watch that businessman step into the street is a sale. He’s just another lazy millionaire who can’t be bothered with a forty-five-minute commute—onpublic transitno less—and wants a condo in the city for his work week. He’s just another proud family man with his gaggle of brats who needyet anotherbedroom. His tech job foots the bill while his wife does all the work, but it’s okay—he gets to say he’s providing for his family when I show him the $3.57 million five-bed, three-bath single-family home in Noe. Can’t he already hear the grandparents’ approval when they come for Christmas?
No, I don’t mind businessmen. If I weren’t so obviously gay—I would get called out every time I breathe in the direction of the Castro—I would tell you Ilovebusinessmen. But what I really love is their money and the commission I cut from their checks.
Well. Iusedto love it.
A crosswalk ruined my life five years ago. If that sounds dramatic, just wait—it gets worse. But before I tell you the beginning, I’ll tell you the ending because I can’t have you mistaking me for some pitiful matchstick girl out in the cold.
I rise above some seriously creepy shit. I stone-face my way through some of the worst, most insane, nastiest clients I’ve ever had. And soon—like in meredays—I’ll get the fattest check of my life and never have to work again.
I neither need nor deserve your pity—not because what happened to me isn’t fucked up. It is. But because in a bout of absolute, finely distilled, pure moronic stupidity, I brought all this on myself.
And my life may never be the same.