Table of Contents
Title Page
Blurb
A note from Annabel
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty One
Twenty Two
Twenty Three
Twenty Four
Twenty Five
Twenty Six
Twenty Seven
Twenty Eight
Twenty Nine
Copyright
Dedication
About the Author
Falling from Grace
The Filth Monger Series
Book 1
Annabel Chant
How far would you go to claim back your fantasies?
Grace Anderton is a WAG – one of the Wives And Girlfriends of a Premiership football team. In a long term relationship with up-and-coming mid-fielder, Leo Sparkes, she stays out of the limelight and has her own career, working for one of the CEOs of the UK’s wealthiest bank.
When Leo betrays her in the worst way possible, she loses everything – even the dark fantasies which have sustained her. In a tail spin, she sets out to get them back, whatever the cost.
Enter the Filth Monger. Heir to a fortune and criminally handsome, he can have any woman he wants...and he wants Grace.
But he has his own agenda.
Head of a secret organisation dealing in depravity, his life is going to shit around him. As he struggles with his own betrayals, he makes it his mission to save Grace from her one-woman ride to ruin – whether she wants him to or not, and by any means necessary. Even if it means throwing away the chance of having her for himself.
The Filth Monger Series is a set of five interlinked Romantic Suspense novels. Due to scenes of an adult nature and some (extremely) bad language, they are intended for a mature readership. In all they total approx. 250,000 words.
Dear Reader,
Thank you so much for reading this first book in the Filth Monger series.
For launch day news and offers, just join the Fan Mongers. I’ll email you on release day so that you don’t miss out.
If you want to connect with me, I’m @AnnabelChant on Twitter, or you can find me on Facebook. I’d be delighted to hear from you!
Once again, thanks for reading – it’s so much appreciated.
Annabel x
One
WAG Acronym for “Wives And Girlfriends”. The term is used specifically in relation to the partners of players in the Premiership – the highest league in British football – or of the England team.
The morning the story broke in the tabloids, I’d woken adrift in my favourite sexual fantasy.
Leo wasn’t around. He’d gone up North on the Saturday. He was a Premiership midfielder, and they were playing in Hull on the Sunday. I had a cold and was feeling lousy, so I’d stayed home, curled up on the sofa, watching crap TV and old movies. He’d promised to come back on the Sunday night, after the match, then texted later that evening to say he’d been held up. Yeah, right, I’d thought at the time. Being held up, more like… by the bar.
I’d wished, afterwards, that was all it was.
I still felt washed out, but could’ve used some company. Instead, I spent a restless night alone in our flat, which was a large, airy apartment overlooking the Thames and wasn’t really such a bad place to spend the night.
I woke later than planned that Monday morning. I had work, and I’d slept through the alarm – a hangover from my cold. I knew I should go grab a shower, but I’d been dreaming heavily, and I was still half caught up in it. Even before I opened my eyes, I was aware of the pulsing tingle between my legs. It was my recurring dream, my fantasy, and all I wanted was to get back there. Forget work.
I strained my eyes against the early morning sun, still fighting to focus. I needed to get up, but the light was too bright, and my resolve, weak. The voile drapes let in too much light, and the sensuous aching of my clit gnawed relentlessly at my self-control. I needed a shower, all right – a cold one.
My head was still heavy with sleep and cold, and I flomped back down. I couldn’t help myself and, as I succumbed to the rumpled, linen sheets, my mind began to wander again.
Almost at once, I was in the back room of a bar. I was practically naked, except for high heels. My torn bra hung useless beneath my breasts and my ridiculously tiny panties were in ruins around my knees. The seedy room was crimson all over, stifling, and it stank of sex. Nasty, leering men stood all around me, faceless, nameless. Featureless. They always were. The details didn’t matter, didn’t even come into it. It was the scenario; the knowledge that I was going to be so utterly used and plundered, that did it for me.
After a brief glance at the bedside clock – I really couldn’t be late for work – I parted my thighs and slid my hand down between my legs. Still feeling lousy, I’d shoved my cosy PJs on, so I pushed and wriggled the bottoms down across my thighs and over my knees, so my fingers could get to work unhindered, rubbing and teasing my clit urgently. I didn’t have time to string it out.
Immediately, I was back there, on my knees before them, sucking on their lengths one after another, while they groped at my breasts and bent down to explore between my legs with rough, uncaring hands.
When they’d had enough, they dragged me to my feet and slapped my ass mercilessly. Then, they threw me back on a crusty padded bench, ripped the remaining tatters of lingerie from my eager body, and tore my legs open. I didn’t protest, just lay there, exposed and waiting, a willing victim for the whole raging, jeering crowd of indistinguishable any-guys.
I sighed and squirmed amongst the sheets, rubbing frantically as, one after another, they pushed into me, splitting me open. They were doing everything possible now, filling and using me in every conceivable way in a dizzying swirl of raw sweat and gratification.