Blog Tour Review & Giveaway
His
Secrets
(Inside Out Series Novella 3.1)
by
Lisa Renee Jones
 |
Genre: Adult Romance Publisher: Pocket Star
Date of Publication: February 24, 2014
|
~
Synopsis ~
An Inside Out story,
Chris's POV
In
a world where my only escape has been my art, Sara has been the light in my
darkness. And there is darkness, the kind of inky black that can bleed from my
life to hers.
She
doesn't see it. She doesn't understand what I've shown her. And my
biggest
fear is that soon...she will.
~ Review ~
I was looking forward to more Chris Merit…I mean anyone
who is a fan of this series is. This
book is a novella, remind yourself of that before reading. It was a super quick read and it left me
wanting more Chris and Sara….but then again every time I finish one of Lisa
Renee Jones’ books I am left wanting.
The story picks up where Revealing Us left off. Chris and Sara are enjoying their time together
before returning to the states to deal with the Rebecca situation. But, before they leave Paris they will need
to deal with more fallout from Chris’ past…….Amber.
As the title promises we get more of Chris’ secrets in
this book but we also get the character’s realization that they are in “this”
for the long haul and will tackle whatever this thrown their way….together.
Get ready for My Hunger, a novella from Mark's point of view and No In Between, Book 4 coming July 2014.
~ Rating ~
~ Links to Buy ~
~ About the Author ~
New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author Lisa Renee Jones is the author of the highly acclaimed INSIDE OUT TRILOGY which has sold to more than ten countries for translation with negotiations in process for more, and has now been optioned by STARZ Network for a cable television show, to be produced by Suzanne Todd (Alice in Wonderland).
Since beginning her publishing career in 2007, Lisa has published more than 30 books with publishers such as Simon and Schuster, Avon, Kensington, Harlequin, NAL, Berkley and Elloras Cave, as well as crafting a successful indie career. Booklist says that Jones suspense truly sizzles with an energy similar to FBI tales with a paranormal twist by Julie Garwood or Suzanne Brockmann.
Prior to publishing, Lisa owned multi-state staffing agency that was recognized many times by The Austin Business Journal and also praised by Dallas Women Magazine. In 1998 LRJ was listed as the #7 growing women owned business in Entrepreneur Magazine.
Lisa loves to hear from her readers. You can reach her at www.lisareneejones.com and she is active on twitter and facebook daily.
Since beginning her publishing career in 2007, Lisa has published more than 30 books with publishers such as Simon and Schuster, Avon, Kensington, Harlequin, NAL, Berkley and Elloras Cave, as well as crafting a successful indie career. Booklist says that Jones suspense truly sizzles with an energy similar to FBI tales with a paranormal twist by Julie Garwood or Suzanne Brockmann.
Prior to publishing, Lisa owned multi-state staffing agency that was recognized many times by The Austin Business Journal and also praised by Dallas Women Magazine. In 1998 LRJ was listed as the #7 growing women owned business in Entrepreneur Magazine.
Lisa loves to hear from her readers. You can reach her at www.lisareneejones.com and she is active on twitter and facebook daily.
~ Connect with Lisa Renee ~
Pinterest ** Instagram
~ Info on the TV Show and Casting ~
The
Inside Out series is in development for cable television with the fabulous
producer Suzanne Todd at the helm. Suzanne has worked on projects such as Alice
in Wonderland with Johnny Depp, Must Love Dogs, Austin Powers, Lethal Weapon
and many more!
So
where does the show stand?
I was just in Hollywood and I had the pleasure
of meeting with many of the brilliant minds involved in the process. It was
pretty surreal to sit there and talk to these talented folks and have them know
my characters the way I know them. Truly amazing.
It’s
been fun learning the process of a cable TV show in development. There is no
pilot. There is simply the process of someone writing the first 8-10 episodes.
If those scripts are approved, then a staff of writers to carry on the show
will be hired, and casting begins for the first season. Also, unlike movies, as
we’ve seen with 50 Shades, casting isn’t something that is talked about for a
year and then finally happens. In general, when a cable station orders a show
to production, things move fast. So once you hear the news, it will get
exciting at lightning speed. I hope to be able to share that news VERY soon!
That
said, I am beyond thrilled that the producers of the show, Team Todd, are
excited to engage fans in the process. They watch my Twitter and Facebook and
enjoy seeing the fan suggestions for casting. They even watch fan-made videos!
When I was in Hollywood, they shared their excitement about involving readers
and fun ideas like VIP casting chats for readers.
They’ve
set up an email newsletter list to better connect with the fans. To take part,
just email REBECCA@TEAM-TODD.com and say I WANT TO BE AN INSIDER.
And
yes, feel free to post your casting ideas on my Facebook page. The producers
LOVE seeing them and I'll repost them to my main page. I look forward to taking
this exciting journey with all of my readers!
How it all began…
One
day I was a high school teacher on summer break, leading a relatively
uneventful but happy life. Or so I told myself. Later, I’d question that, as I
would question pretty much everything I knew about me, my relationships, and my
desires. It all began when my neighbor thrust a key to a storage unit at me.
She’d bought it to make extra money after watching some storage auction show.
Now she was on her way to the airport to elope with a man she barely knew, and
she needed me to clear out the unit before the lease expired.
Soon,
I was standing inside a small room that held the intimate details of another
woman’s life, feeling uncomfortable, as if I was invading her privacy. Why had
she let these items so neatly packed, possessions that she clearly cared about
deeply, be lost at an auction? Driven to find out by some unnamed force, I
began to dig, to discover this woman’s life, and yes, read her journals—-dark,
erotic journals that I had no business reading. Once I started, I couldn’t
stop. I read on obsessively, living out fantasies through her words that I’d
never dare experience on my own, compelled by the three men in her life, none
of whom had names. I read onward until the last terrifying dark entry left me
certain that something had happened to this woman. I had to find her and be
sure she was okay.
Before
long, I was taking her job for the summer at the art gallery, living her life,
and she was nowhere to be found. I was becoming someone I didn’t know. I was
becoming her.
The
dark, passion it becomes…
Now, I
am working at a prestigious gallery, where I have always dreamed of being, and
I’ve been delivered to the doorstep of several men, all of which I envision as
one I’ve read about in the journal. But there is one man that will call to me,
that will awaken me in ways I never believed possible. That man is the ruggedly
sexy artist, Chris Merit, who wants to paint me. He is rich and famous, and
dark in ways I shouldn’t find intriguing, but I do. I so do. I don’t understand
why his dark side appeals to me, but the attraction between us is rich with
velvety promises of satisfaction. Chris is dark, and so are his desires, but I
cannot turn away. He is damaged beneath his confident good looks and need for
control, and in some way, I feel he needs me. I need him.
All I
know for certain is that he knows me like I don’t even know me, and he says I
know him. Still, I keep asking myself — do I know him? Did he know her, the
journal writer, and where is she? And why doesn’t it seem to matter anymore?
There is just him and me, and the burn for more.
IF I WERE YOU
His
fingers knot in my hair and I gasp at the unexpected bite of his grip, holding
me steady. “Is that all you got?” I demand, shocked at how much I want more.
How much I want whatever is beneath his surface.
I’m
not scared. I’m aroused. I’m ready.
His
eyes probe mine, his expression hard, intense. “I thought you were a good
little school teacher.”
“You’re
corrupting me,” I declare, “and I seem to like it.” I barely issue the
challenge before he’s pulling my mouth to his, and he is kissing me with
unrestrained, burning passion. I taste the part of him I want to know, the part
he’s afraid of, and I burn to know more. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am playing
with fire, but I cannot stop myself. Beyond reason, I will push him until he
reveals everything.
*****
We are
almost to the gallery, and a knot has formed in my stomach at the prospect of
an awkward goodbye, when he suddenly grabs me and pulls me into a small enclave
of a deserted office rental. Before I can fully grasp what is happening, I am
against the wall, hidden from the street and he is in front of me, enclosing me
in the tiny space. I blink up into his burning stare and I think I might
combust. His scent, his warmth, his hard body, is all around me, but he is not
touching me. I want him to touch me.
He
presses his hand to the concrete wall above my head when I want it on my body.
“You don’t belong here, Sara.”
The
words are unexpected, a hard punch in the chest. “What? I don’t understand.”
“This
job is wrong for you.”
I
shake my head. I don’t belong? Coming from Chris, an established artist, I feel
inferior, rejected. “You asked me why I wasn’t following my heart. Why I wasn’t
pursuing what I love. I am. That’s what I’m doing.”
“I
didn’t think you’d do it in this place.”
This
place. I don’t know what he’s telling me. Does he mean this gallery? This city?
Has he judged me not worthy of his inner circle?
“Look,
Sara.” He hesitates, and lifts his head to the sky, seeming to struggle for
words before fixing me with a turbulent look. “I’m trying to protect you here.
This world you’ve strayed into is filled with dark, messed up, arrogant
assholes who will play with your mind and use you until there is nothing else
left for you to recognize in yourself.”
“Are
you one of those dark, messed up, arrogant assholes?”
He
stares down at me, and I barely recognize the hard lines of his face, the glint
in his eyes, as belonging to the man I’ve just had lunch with. His gaze sweeps
my lips, lingers, and the swell of response and longing in me is instant,
overwhelming. He reaches up and strokes his thumb over my bottom lip. Every
nerve ending in my body responds and it’s all I can do not to touch him, to
grab his hand, but something holds me back. I am lost in this man, in his
stare, in some spellbinding, dark whirlwind of…what? Lust, desire, torment?
Seconds tick eternally and so does the silence. I want to hold him, to stop
whatever I sense is coming but I cannot.
“I’m
worse.” He pushes off the wall, and is gone. He is gone. I am alone against the
wall, aching with a fire that has nothing to do with the meal we shared. My
lashes flutter, my fingers touch my lip where he touched me. He has warned me
away from Mark, from the gallery, from him, and he has failed. I cannot turn
away. I am here and I am going nowhere.
*****
Behind
me, I hear the car door shut, and the engine rev, before the 911 pulls away.
“This doesn’t look like a place that serves pizza,” I comment but I am not
looking at the building. It is Chris who has my full attention.
“Two
blocks down,” he explains. “We can walk there if you want or we can go upstairs
to my apartment.”
Chris
lives here, at least when he’s in the States. The implications of our location
are clear.
His
long fingers curl around my neck, under my hair, and he lowers his mouth to my
ear. “Be warned, Sara. I’m no saint. If I take you upstairs, I’m going to strip
you naked and fuck you the way I’ve wanted to since the moment we first met.”
The
shockingly bold words ripple through me and I am instantly aroused, squeezing
my thighs together. He has wanted to fuck me since we first met. I want him to
fuck me. I want to fuck him. Yes. Fuck. I want to give myself permission to
forget good, proper behavior and fuck and be fucked. Wild, hot, uncontrollable
passion, with no worries during and regrets in the aftermath. I’ve never let
myself feel those things. When in my life have I ever experienced such a thing?
When has any man ever made me think I could?
I
press against his chest and lean back, my eyes seeking his. “If you’re trying
to scare me off, it’s not working.”
“Not
yet,” he says, dark certainty to his tone, to the lines etched in his handsome
face. It is as if this is simply a seed already planted that cannot be stopped.
“Not
at all,” I counter.
He
doesn’t immediately respond, and his expression is a mask of hard lines, his
jaw set, tense. Slowly, his fingers slide from my neck to caress a path down my
arm until his fingers lace intimately with mine. “Never say never, Sara,” he
murmurs and starts walking, pulling me with him.
*****
Rounding
the corner, I enter the hallway, and Chris is suddenly there in the narrow
passage with me, pressing me against the wall, his powerful thighs framing
mine.
My
hand goes instinctively to his t-shirt-clad chest. I am immediately aware of
the intimacy of the touch, of my body’s reaction to the man who has betrayed
me. “Don’t shove me against another wall and try to intimidate me, Chris.”
“I’m
not trying to intimidate you. I was protecting you, Sara.” His hands move to my
waist, scorching me, and my reaction to the sizzling touch is instant. I cover
his hands with mine, trying to control what he does next, but it doesn’t help.
Now, my hands are on his hands and his hands are on my body.
“Call
it what you want,” I ground out, “but you had no right to do what you did.”
“He
had to know he couldn’t manipulate your dream. Money, and my many resources at
your disposal, does that.”
His
words knock my anger and my breath away, and confusion consumes me. His actions
and his words conflict at every turn. “Why would you help me? You said I don’t
belong in this world.”
“Because
I won’t watch him gobble you up and destroy you.”
I
remember his words, and understand now that he wanted me out of this gallery,
not this profession. “Because he’s a dark, messed up, arrogant asshole who will
play with my mind and use me until there is nothing else left of me I
recognize.”
“That’s
right.”
“And
yet you say you’re worse.”
He
stiffens and cuts his gaze, seeming to struggle before fixing me in a turbulent
stare. “I am, Sara, which is why you should run as far away from me as you can.
And I should step back and let you.”
“Then
why aren’t you?” I whisper.
His
eyes hold mine, and what I see there, the depth of his desire, overwhelms me.
He flattens his palm on my belly and I tremble beneath the touch, and he has to
feel it too. “Because,” his voice low, seductive, his hand traveling up the
center of my body, “I can’t stop thinking about you, and everything I want to
do to you, everywhere I want to touch you.”
His
hand presses to the swell between my breasts, and my nipples ache with a wish
he would touch them. His boldness ignites something sultry and dark inside me,
a side of me that defies the good-girl school teacher who is appalled I haven’t
stopped this. I want him. I want him here and now, and any way I can have him.
And
when his gaze lowers to my mouth and lingers, I know he is thinking about
kissing me and I have never wanted to be kissed so badly in my life.
“Do
you taste as good as I think you do?” he asks, but he doesn’t wait for my
reply.
Suddenly,
his fingers have tunneled into my hair and he’s dragging my mouth to his. I am
all soft submission, yielding to the moment, to the man. I melt into him,
welcome the hardness of his body pressed to mine. And when his tongue presses
past my lips, a long, wicked caress, I taste his hunger, his need. There is
possessiveness to his kiss, to his hand on my back, molding me closer. I am
lost in the ache that has become my need for this man, this stranger I cannot
resist. He says he’s protecting me; he says he’s dangerous. I am conflicted,
and sure I should be angry with him, but I am completely incapable and unable
of processing why.
*****
It all
began when my neighbor thrust a key to a storage unit at me. She’d bought it to
make extra money after watching some storage auction show. Now she was on her
way to the airport to elope with a man she barely knew, and she needed me to
clear out the unit before the lease expires.
Soon,
I was standing inside a small room that held the intimate details of another
woman’s life, feeling uncomfortable, as if I was invading her privacy. Driven
to find out by some unnamed force, I began to dig, to discover this woman’s
life, and yes, read her journals—-dark, erotic journals that I had no business
reading. Once I started, I couldn’t stop. I read on obsessively, living out
fantasies through her words that I’d never dare experience on my own. I read
onward until the last terrifying dark entry left me certain that something had
happened to this woman. I had to find her and be sure she was okay.
The
dark, passion it becomes…
Now, I
am working at a prestigious gallery she’d worked at, where I have always
dreamed of being, and I’ve been delivered to the doorstep of...him. He is rich
and famous, and dark in ways I shouldn’t find intriguing, but I do. I don’t
understand why his dark side appeals to me, but the attraction between us is
rich with velvety promises of satisfaction. He is damaged beneath his confident
good looks and need for control, and in some way, I feel he needs me. I need
him.
All I
know for certain is that he knows me like I don’t even know me, and he says I
know him. Still, I keep asking myself — do I know him? Did he know her, the
journal writer, and where is she? And why doesn’t it seem to matter anymore?
There is just him and me, and the burn for more.
Sunday,
March 7th, 2012
Dangerous.
For
months I’ve had dreams and nightmares about how perfectly he personifies the
word. Sleep-laden, alternate realities where I can vividly smell his musky male
scent, feel his hard body against mine. Taste the sweet and sensuous flavor of
him-–like milk chocolate with its silky demand that I indulge in one more bite.
And another. So good I’d forgotten there’s a price for overindulgence. And
there is a price. There is always a price. I was reminded of this life lesson
on Saturday night. And I know now, no matter what he says, no matter what he
does, I cannot–will not–see him again.
It
started out as any other erotic adventure with him. Unpredictable. Exciting. I
barely remember where it all went wrong. How it took such a dark turn.
He’d
ordered me to undress and sit on the mattress, against the headboard, my legs
spread wide for his viewing. Naked before him, open to him, I was vulnerable
and quivering with need. Never in my life had I taken orders from a man; most
certainly I had never thought I would quiver with anything. But I did for him.
If
Saturday night proved anything, it was that once I was with him, under his
spell, he could demand anything of me, and I’d comply. He could push me to the
edge, to unbelievable places I’d never thought I would go. Exactly why I can’t
see him again. He makes me feel possessed, and what is so disconcerting about
this feeling is that I like it. I can hardly wrap my mind around allowing such
a thing, though I burn for it. But when I saw him standing at the end of the
bed Saturday night, all broad and thick with sinewy muscle, his cock jutting
forward, there was nothing but that need.
He was
magnificent. Really, truly the most gorgeous man I’ve ever known. Instant lust
exploded inside me. I wanted to feel him close to me, to feel him touch me. To
touch him. But I know now not to touch him without his permission. And I know
not to beg him to let me.
I’ve
learned my lesson from past encounters. He enjoys the vulnerability of a plea
far too much. Enjoys withholding his pleasures, until I am nearly quaking with
the burn of my body. Until I am liquid heat and tears. He likes that power over
me. He likes full control. I should hate him. Sometimes, I think I love him.
It was
the blindfold that should have warned me I was headed toward a place of no
return. Thinking back, I believe it did. He tossed it on the bed, a dare, and
instantly a shiver chased a path up and down my spine. The idea of not being
able to see what was happening to me should have aroused me-–it did arouse me.
But for reasons I didn’t understand at the time, it also frightened me. I was
scared and I hesitated.
This
did not please him. He told me so, in that deep, rich, baritone voice that
makes me quiver uncontrollably. The need to please him had been so compelling.
I put on the blindfold.
I was
rewarded by the shift of the mattress. He was coming to me. Soon, I knew I
would come, too. His hands slid possessively up my calves, over my thighs. And
damn him, stopped just before my place of need.
What
came next was a shadowy whirlwind of sensation. He pulled me onto my back, flat
against the mattress. I knew satisfaction was seconds away. Soon he would enter
me. Soon I would have what I needed. But to my distress, he moved away.
It was
then that I was sure I’d heard the click of a lock. It jolted me to a sitting
position, and I called out his name, fearful he was leaving. Certain that I’d
done something wrong. Then relieved when his hand flattened on my stomach. I’d
imagined the sound of the lock. I must have. But I couldn’t shake the subtle
shift in the air then, the raw lust and menace consuming the room that didn’t
feel like him. It was a thought easily forgotten when he settled heavy between
my thighs, his strong hands lifting my arms over my head, his breath warm on my
neck–his body heavy, perfect.
Somehow,
a silk tie wrapped around my wrists and my arms were tied to the bed frame. It
never occurred to me that he could not have done this on his own. That he was
on top of me, unable to manipulate my arms. But then, he was manipulating my
body, my mind, and I was his willing victim.
He
lifted his body from mine, and I whimpered, unable to reach for him. Again
silence. And the whisk of fabric. More strange sounds. Long seconds ticked by,
and I remember the chill that snaked across my skin. The feeling of dread that
had balled in my stomach.
And
then, the moment I know I will die remembering. The moment when the steel of a
blade touched my lips. The moment that he promised there was pleasure in pain.
The moment when the blade traveled along my skin with the proof he would be
true to his words. And I knew then that I had been wrong. He was not dangerous.
Nor was he chocolate. He was lethal, a drug, and I feared…
*****
We
begin our walk, faster this time, and the cold wind has nothing on the chill
between us. Conversation is non-existent, and I have no clue how to break the
silence, or if I should even try. I dare a peek at his profile several times,
fighting the wind blowing hair over my eyes, but he doesn’t acknowledge me. Why
won’t he look at me? Several times, I open my mouth to speak but words simply
won’t leave my lips.
We are
almost to the gallery, and a knot has formed in my stomach at the prospect of
an awkward goodbye, when he suddenly grabs me and pulls me into a small enclave
of a deserted office rental. Before I can fully grasp what is happening, I am
against the wall, hidden from the street and he is in front of me, enclosing me
in the tiny space. I blink up into his burning stare and I think I might
combust. His scent, his warmth, his hard body, is all around me, but he is not
touching me. I want him to touch me.
He
presses his hand to the concrete wall above my head when I want it on my body.
“You don’t belong here, Sara.”
The
words are unexpected, a hard punch in the chest. “What? I don’t understand.”
“This
job is wrong for you.”
I
shake my head. I don’t belong? Coming from Chris, an established artist, I feel
inferior, rejected. “You asked me why I wasn’t following my heart. Why I wasn’t
pursuing what I love. I am. That’s what I’m doing.”
“I
didn’t think you’d do it in this place.”
This
place. I don’t know what he’s telling me. Does he mean this gallery? This city?
Has he judged me not worthy of his inner circle?
“Look,
Sara.” He hesitates, and lifts his head to the sky, seeming to struggle for
words before fixing me with a turbulent look. “I’m trying to protect you here.
This world you’ve strayed into is filled with dark, messed up, arrogant
assholes who will play with your mind and use you until there is nothing else
left for you to recognize in yourself.”
“Are
you one of those dark, messed up, arrogant assholes?”
He
stares down at me, and I barely recognize the hard lines of his face, the glint
in his eyes, as belonging to the man I’ve just had lunch with. His gaze sweeps
my lips, lingers, and the swell of response and longing in me is instant,
overwhelming. He reaches up and strokes his thumb over my bottom lip. Every
nerve ending in my body responds and it’s all I can do not to touch him, to
grab his hand, but something holds me back. I am lost in this man, in his
stare, in some spellbinding, dark whirlwind of…what? Lust, desire, torment?
Seconds tick eternally and so does the silence. I want to hold him, to stop
whatever I sense is coming but I cannot.
“I’m
worse.” He pushes off the wall, and is gone. He is gone. I am alone against the
wall, aching with a fire that has nothing to do with the meal we shared. My
lashes flutter, my fingers touch my lip where he touched me. He has warned me
away from Mark, from the gallery, from him, and he has failed. I cannot turn
away. I am here and I am going nowhere.
*****
Whirling
on Chris, I barely muster the will to keep my voice low, and it’s all I can do
to remember the customers who might be watching. “What have you done?” The
question comes out a hiss and I jerk my hand back with as much discretion as I
can muster considering I’m shaking, but he holds it still.
“Made
sure you’re no one’s captive.”
“By
getting me fired?” I tug on my hand again. “Let go, Chris.”
“You
aren’t going to get fired, Sara.”
“Let
go of my hand,” I ground out between my teeth.
He
clamps his lips together, and with obvious reluctance, he releases me. “You
aren’t going to get--”
I walk
away, cutting to my left, and toward the hallway opposite the office leading to
the fancy guest bathrooms, afraid I’m going to do the completely unacceptable,
and cry in public. I’m not a crier. I’ve never been a crier, but this is my
dream Chris has destroyed. I thought I could be here, belong here. That a
famous, gorgeous artist wanted me, when he was trying to destroy me. I am
embarrassed and hurt. I hurt. This hurts. Chris hurt me.
Rounding
the corner, I enter the hallway, and Chris is suddenly there in the narrow
passage with me, pressing me against the wall, his powerful thighs framing
mine.
My
hand goes instinctively to his t-shirt-clad chest. I am immediately aware of
the intimacy of the touch, of my body’s reaction to the man who has betrayed
me. “Don’t shove me against another wall and try to intimidate me, Chris.”
“I’m
not trying to intimidate you. I was protecting you, Sara.” His hands move to my
waist, scorching me, and my reaction to the sizzling touch is instant. I cover
his hands with mine, trying to control what he does next, but it doesn’t help.
Now, my hands are on his hands and his hands are on my body.
“Call
it what you want,” I ground out, “but you had no right to do what you did.”
“He
had to know he couldn’t manipulate your dream. Money, and my many resources at
your disposal, does that.”
His
words knock my anger and my breath away, and confusion consumes me. His actions
and his words conflict at every turn. “Why would you help me? You said I don’t
belong in this world.”
“Because
I won’t watch him gobble you up and destroy you.”
I
remember his words, and understand now that he wanted me out of this gallery,
not this profession. “Because he’s a dark, messed up, arrogant asshole who will
play with my mind and use me until there is nothing else left of me I
recognize.”
“That’s
right.”
“And
yet you say you’re worse.”
He
stiffens and cuts his gaze, seeming to struggle before fixing me in a turbulent
stare. “I am, Sara, which is why you should run as far away from me as you can.
And I should step back and let you.”
“Then
why aren’t you?” I whisper.
His
eyes hold mine, and what I see there, the depth of his desire, overwhelms me.
He flattens his palm on my belly and I tremble beneath the touch, and he has to
feel it too.
“Because,”
his voice low, seductive, his hand traveling up the center of my body, “I can’t
stop thinking about you, and everything I want to do to you, everywhere I want
to touch you.”
His
hand presses to the swell between my breasts, and my nipples ache with a wish
he would touch them. His boldness ignites something sultry and dark inside me,
a side of me that defies the good-girl school teacher who is appalled I haven’t
stopped this. I want him. I want him here and now, and any way I can have him.
And
when his gaze lowers to my mouth and lingers, I know he is thinking about
kissing me and I have never wanted to be kissed so badly in my life.
“Do
you taste as good as I think you do?” he asks, but he doesn’t wait for my
reply.
Suddenly,
his fingers have tunneled into my hair and he’s dragging my mouth to his. I am
all soft submission, yielding to the moment, to the man. I melt into him,
welcome the hardness of his body pressed to mine. And when his tongue presses
past my lips, a long, wicked caress, I taste his hunger, his need. There is
possessiveness to his kiss, to his hand on my back, molding me closer. I am
lost in the ache that has become my need for this man, this stranger I cannot
resist. He says he’s protecting me; he says he’s dangerous. I am conflicted,
and sure I should be angry with him, but I am completely incapable and unable
of processing why.
Remotely,
I register voices sounding somewhere nearby, and some tiny part of my mind is
aware we could be caught, but I am too lost to care. I do not want to stop
kissing him and I am panting when Chris tears his mouth from mine and presses
his lips to my ear. He gently strokes my hair, his breath warm on my neck. “Go
the bathroom baby, before someone sees us.”
The
endearment does funny things to my chest.
He
turns me to the door, his hands on my waist, his body framing me from behind,
and I can feel him hot and hard against my backside. It is all I can do not to
lean into him. He kisses my neck. “I don’t mind who knows what we are doing but
I don’t want you embarrassed.”
The
voices grow louder, high heels clicking on the tiled floor. Reality blasts
through me and I dart for the bathroom door without looking back at Chris.
*****
He
turns me to the window, and my hands flatten on the glass. Wasting no time,
Chris unhooks my bra, and it and my blouse, are off my shoulders in moments. He
is behind me again, his thick erection fitted snugly to my backside.
“Hands
over your head,” he orders, pressing my palms to the glass above me, his body
shadowing mine. “Stay like that.”
My
pulse jumps wildly and adrenaline surges. I’ve been ordered around during sex,
but in a clinical, bend over and give me what I want kind of way I tried to
convince myself was hot. It wasn’t. I hated every second, every instance, and
I’d endured it. This is different though, erotic in a way I’ve never
experienced, enticingly full of promise. My body is sensitized, pulsing with
arousal. I am hot where Chris is touching me and cold where he isn’t.
When
he seems satisfied I’ll comply with his orders, Chris slowly caresses a path
down my arms, and then up and down my sides, brushing the curves of my breasts.
He’s in no hurry, but I am. I am literally quivering by the time his hands
cover my breasts, welcoming the way he squeezes them roughly, before tugging on
my nipples. I gasp with the pinching sensation he repeats over and over,
creating waves of pleasure verging on pain, and the music is fading away, and
so is the past. There is pleasure in pain. The words come back to me, and this
time they resonate.
His
hands are suddenly gone, and I pant in desperation, trying to pull them back.
Chris
captures my hands and forces them back to the glass above me, his breath warm
by my ear, his hard body framing mine. “Move them again and I’ll stop what I’m
doing, no matter how good it might feel.”
I
quiver inside at the erotic command, surprised again by how enticed I am by
this game we are playing. “Just remember,” I warn, still panting, still burning
for his touch.
“Payback
is Hell.”
His
teeth scrape my shoulder. “Looking forward to it, baby,” he rasped. “More than
you can possibly know.”
*****
The
bellman is in the door with our bags and I haven’t moved. I feel his eyes on me
and I know I must look a disheveled mess. Somehow, I focus on the room,
bringing the amazing detail into focus. Vaulted ceiling encase me and to my
right is a living area and full kitchen. A California King-size bed is to my
left, a stucco fireplace in the corner in front of it, and beyond that a
private patio overlooking the mountains.
The
hotel door shuts and Chris locks it. My heart is thundering in my chest. I
can’t look at him. I don’t think he wants me to look at him. I don’t know why.
It’s just a feeling.
He
rolls my suitcase to the center of the room and unzips it, pulling out a pair
of cream-colored strappy high heels he drops on the floor, and a pale yellow
chiffon dress he lays on top of the case when he closes it. “Put them on.”
I
force my eyes to his. “You want me--”
“Yes.”
I wet my dry lips. Okay. He wants me to dress up. Sounds like a good excuse to
escape and regroup and boy, does regrouping sound appealing. I walk to grab the
dress, intending to head to the bathroom, wherever it is.
“Right
here,” Chris says. “Where I can see you.”
I gape
and try to clarify again. “You want me--”
“Yes.
I want.”
He
sits down on the bed and I realize he intends to watch me undress and dress
again. This is about control, about him demonstrating what he has and I do not.
He needs it. He needs it on some deep level, and I am not going to deny him.
For reasons I’ve yet to understand, giving Chris control doesn’t bother me, but
I know in my heart, it keeps me at a distance. This is his wall, his barrier,
his great divide; I am beginning to wonder if I can ever conquer his barriers.
Right now though, I’m happy to let him conquer.
I swallow
hard, my throat like sandpaper, my body wet and wanting. I am aroused by this
and everything Chris does. I reach for the dress.
“No,”
he orders. “Undress first.”
I nod
and lean against the wall to unlace my boots, and pull them and my socks off.
He stares at my pink-painted toes and good lord, he makes even that hot. I
reach for my pants and unlace the strings holding them closed before sliding
them down over my hips and down my legs, leaving the expensive, gold-jeweled
cream-colored panties in place.
My
shirt comes next and I pull it over my head and toss it to the floor, standing
before Chris in only my bra and panties.
His
gaze sweeps over me, hot and heavy, his eyes dark, hooded. “Everything.”
I
blanch. “But--”
“Everything.
I want to be able to get to you when I want you. And we’ll both know I can
anytime, anywhere.”
Heat
rushes over my skin at the implication. He means to have me in public. I should
be appalled. I should say no. Instead, I am weak in the knees with desire. I
slide my fingers into the thin strings of my thong and slide it to the floor.
Chris’s
gaze follows the path they take, his stare traveling my skin, touching me with
such heat that it might as well be his hand. I step out of the panties and have
no intention to stand there and wait for his next command.
I
unhook my bra and toss it at him. “Happy now?” I challenge.
He
arches a brow and I think I might see a hint of a smile on his lips, maybe.
Perhaps not. “Don’t test me, Sara. You won’t like the results.”
“Or
maybe, I will.” Maybe I’ll push his control. Maybe I’ll get inside him and tear
down the wall.
“You
won’t.” His words are hard and too certain to be comfortable for me.
He
pushes to his feet though, and I silently cry out with joy. Touch me. I don’t
care how you do it, just do it. He saunters over to me and stops out of reach.
He scoops up the dress, his eyes raking over my body. My nipples pucker under
his scrutiny, tight balls of aching need and I pray for his mouth on me sooner,
not later.
He
hands me the dress. “Put it on.”
Put it
on? Without him touching me? He can’t be serious.
“Right
now?”
“Right
now.”
You
know I have to punish you. Rebecca’s words come back to me. He’s punishing me,
absolutely torturing me. Making me pay a price for daring to take control. But
deep down, I come to a conclusion. I came close to breaking through his wall or
he wouldn’t be doing this. It’s this information that makes the torture
bearable.
I take
the dress, and I notice he is careful not to touch me. I pull the chiffon
material over my head and the silk rasps over my nipples and skin. I am so
ultra-sensitized I think I could come with one touch of his mouth in the right
place. And I believe there would be many right places at this juncture in time.
The
dress falls into place and Chris’s eyes never leave mine.
“The
shoes.”
I slip
them on and he walks around me, giving me a careful, penetrating inspection
before stopping before me.
“Beautiful,
baby. You look stunning.”
My
chin lifts. “But not stunning enough to fuck right now.”
“More
than enough to fuck, just not yet.” He leans in, his lips by my ear, but he is
careful not to touch me anywhere else. “Because when I do, you’ll be so hot and
wet, you’ll be mine to do with what I want. And believe me baby — I want
plenty.”
“You’re
punishing me.”
He
looks at me and his eyes soften as he brushes his knuckles over my shoulder.
Goosebumps lift all over my skin. “Does that feel like punishment?”
More
like pure bliss. “No.”
“Then
you have your answer.”
Rebecca's Lost Journals, Volume 1: The
Seduction
Rebecca's Lost Journals, Volume 2: The
Contract
*****
Sunday,
March 7th, 2012
Dangerous.
For
months I’ve had dreams and nightmares about how perfectly he personifies the
word. Sleep-laden, alternate realities where I can vividly smell his musky male
scent, feel his hard body against mine. Taste the sweet and sensuous flavor of
him-–like milk chocolate with its silky demand that I indulge in one more bite.
And another. So good I’d forgotten there’s a price for overindulgence. And
there is a price. There is always a price. I was reminded of this life lesson
on Saturday night. And I know now, no matter what he says, no matter what he
does, I cannot--will not--see him again.
It
started out as any other erotic adventure with him. Unpredictable. Exciting. I
barely remember where it all went wrong. How it took such a dark turn.
He’d
ordered me to undress and sit on the mattress, against the headboard, my legs
spread wide for his viewing. Naked before him, open to him, I was vulnerable
and quivering with need. Never in my life had I taken orders from a man; most
certainly I had never thought I would quiver with anything. But I did for him.
If
Saturday night proved anything, it was that once I was with him, under his
spell, he could demand anything of me, and I’d comply. He could push me to the
edge, to unbelievable places I’d never thought I would go. Exactly why I can’t
see him again. He makes me feel possessed, and what is so disconcerting about
this feeling is that I like it. I can hardly wrap my mind around allowing such
a thing, though I burn for it. But when I saw him standing at the end of the
bed Saturday night, all broad and thick with sinewy muscle, his cock jutting
forward, there was nothing but that need.
He was
magnificent. Really, truly the most gorgeous man I’ve ever known. Instant lust
exploded inside me. I wanted to feel him close to me, to feel him touch me. To
touch him. But I know now not to touch him without his permission. And I know
not to beg him to let me.
I’ve
learned my lesson from past encounters. He enjoys the vulnerability of a plea
far too much. Enjoys withholding his pleasures, until I am nearly quaking with
the burn of my body. Until I am liquid heat and tears. He likes that power over
me. He likes full control. I should hate him. Sometimes, I think I love him.
It was
the blindfold that should have warned me I was headed toward a place of no
return. Thinking back, I believe it did. He tossed it on the bed, a dare, and
instantly a shiver chased a path up and down my spine. The idea of not being
able to see what was happening to me should have aroused me-–it did arouse me.
But for reasons I didn’t understand at the time, it also frightened me. I was
scared and I hesitated.
This
did not please him. He told me so, in that deep, rich, baritone voice that
makes me quiver uncontrollably. The need to please him had been so compelling. I
put on the blindfold.
I was
rewarded by the shift of the mattress. He was coming to me. Soon, I knew I
would come, too. His hands slid possessively up my calves, over my thighs. And
damn him, stopped just before my place of need.
What came next was a shadowy
whirlwind of sensation. He pulled me onto my back, flat against the mattress. I
knew satisfaction was seconds away. Soon he would enter me. Soon I would have
what I needed. But to my distress, he moved away.
It was
then that I was sure I’d heard the click of a lock. It jolted me to a sitting
position, and I called out his name, fearful he was leaving. Certain that I’d
done something wrong. Then relieved when his hand flattened on my stomach. I’d
imagined the sound of the lock. I must have. But I couldn’t shake the subtle
shift in the air then, the raw lust and menace consuming the room that didn’t
feel like him. It was a thought easily forgotten when he settled heavy between
my thighs, his strong hands lifting my arms over my head, his breath warm on my
neck--his body heavy, perfect.
Somehow,
a silk tie wrapped around my wrists and my arms were tied to the bed frame. It
never occurred to me that he could not have done this on his own. That he was
on top of me, unable to manipulate my arms. But then, he was manipulating my
body, my mind, and I was his willing victim.
He
lifted his body from mine, and I whimpered, unable to reach for him. Again
silence. And the whisk of fabric. More strange sounds. Long seconds ticked by,
and I remember the chill that snaked across my skin. The feeling of dread that
had balled in my stomach.
And
then, the moment I know I will die remembering. The moment when the steel of a
blade touched my lips. The moment that he promised there was pleasure in pain.
The moment when the blade traveled along my skin with the proof he would be
true to his words. And I knew then that I had been wrong. He was not dangerous.
Nor was he chocolate. He was lethal, a drug, and I feared…
*****
I
dreamed of him. . . . He’d tied me to his bed again only this time I was
facedown, unable to see him. I wanted to see him but I didn’t feel a fear of
the unknown. He wasn’t touching me, but as crazy as it sounds, I could feel
him. There was something about him in that dream that just reached inside me
and slid straight to my soul. I had no idea what he was going to do to me. I
had been certain, though, that he knew best. He’d make whatever we did,
whatever he did to me, pleasurable. He’d know what I needed.
Rebecca's Lost Journals, Volume 3: His
Submissive
Rebecca's Lost Journals, Volume 4: My
Master
BEING ME
I
strip away my clothes in seconds, and I’m pretty sure the art of the seductive,
slow striptease is really not my forte. I’ll work harder at it when I want to
tease him and not me.I just need him right now. I need to be naked with him,
all barriers gone. I need him to know that I want to understand him because he
matters, because we matter. Because life made me believe that what is
blossoming between us wasn’t possible, but maybe, just maybe, it is.
*****
My
gaze lifts, and I watch him watching me, the grit of his teeth, the tightness
of his jaw, the lust and fury in his hot stare. It’s arousing to have this
powerful, sexy man respond to me, want me, need me. And he does. I have never
been as sure of this as I am now.
*****
*MALE
name removed as to prevent SPOILERS
The
idea that I’ve convinced myself he is less controlling than he is has my heels
colliding heavily on the driveway. I charge toward his car, the same car I’ve
let myself drive instead of holding on to my own identity. I don’t look his
direction but damn him, I can feel him all over, everywhere, inside and out,
and in intimate places I can’t convince my body he isn’t welcome. It’s beyond
frustrating to know that anger this potent isn’t enough to stop the thrum of
awareness that just being near him creates.
Not
for the first time, I feel Rebecca’s words from that first jour- nal entry I’d
read deep in my soul. He was lethal, a drug I feared. I relate to her, and I
understand the inescapable passion she felt and lost herself inside. I don’t
want to be her. I’m not her. And for the first time since my initial first few
encounters with this man, I wonder if I am drawn to him because I’m
self-destructive, and he to me for the same reason.
Suddenly
he is there, at eye level, as he had been the first night we’d met, when I’d
spilled my purse. My gaze lifts and meets his, and a blast of awareness shakes
me to the core. My breasts are heavy, my thighs achy. My skin tingles. A fine
line between love and hate, Alvarez had said, and I understand them in this
moment. I stare into his eyes and I wonder if he too is thinking about the
night we met and the many ways we’ve made love.The many we have not and I want
us to, when I should not. I should be seeking space, independence, and my own
identity, which he is threatening by taking over my life. It makes no sense how
I feel in these eternal moments. How can I be this furious with him and still
powerfully, completely lost in him?
“We
have a lot to talk about, don’t we?” he asks, breaking the spell. His tone is
low, and the rasp of anger in his voice is impossible to miss. It jolts me back
to reality. He showed up at my client’s house and he’s angry with me?
My
temper overpowers all other emotions in me and I reach for the key. His hand
closes over mine and heat races up my arm and over my chest.“Don’t do what you
did tonight ever again, Sara.”
The
sharp command in his voice hits a bull’s-eye on every physiological male
dominance issue I own, of which there are many. I try to pull my hand back but
I am captive to his grip, leaving me with words as my only weapon.“Ditto to
you. And yeah.We have a lot to talk about—somewhere other than my client’s
front yard.”
His
eyes glint fire a moment before he releases my hand and helps me to my
feet.There is a possessiveness to his touch that has me leaning into him when I
should be shoving him away. He notices, too; I see it in the slight narrowing
of his eyes, the gleam of satisfaction in their depths that I both hunger for
and reject.
“I’ll
follow you to my place,” he informs me.
“I
have no doubt you will.” I click the key clicker to unlock the car. I’m about
to open the door when his hand comes down on it, and he leans close, so close
his breath is warm on my neck and ear. That woodsy scent of him, which I could
luxuriate in for a lifetime, permeates my senses, tearing down my already weak
defenses.
His
hip nudges mine.“Don’t think for a minute that when we pull up to my apartment,
you’re going to ask for your car and leave.”
It is
all I can do to fight him when he touches me. Purposely, I do not look at him,
certain all my resolve to distance myself from him will crumble.“If I decide to
leave, you can’t stop me.”
“Try
me, baby.You’re coming up to my apartment.”
I
whirl on him.“I don’t want—”
“I
do,” he vows, and before I know his intent, his fingers twine into my hair and
he pulls me into his arms, against his hard, warm body.
“Let
go,” I hiss, my hand flattening on his chest. I intend to push him away, but
the heat of his body seeps through my palm, radiating up my arm. My elbow
softens, and I am instantly closer but not close enough.
“Not a
chance,” he promises, his mouth closing on mine, firm with demand. His tongue
licks into my mouth with one brutal, commanding swipe followed by another, and
I have no resistance left. I’m weak, so very weak, for this man. As always with
him, he demands my response and I helplessly respond. I am instantly wet and
wanting, my nipples tight points of aching need.
I try
to resist the lure that is this man, but the taste of him, familiar and almost
brutally male, mixes with his anger and mine, and the effect is explosively
passionate. I want to shout at him, push him away, pull him close, strip away
his clothes, and punish him for what he is doing to me, what he takes from me.
What he makes me need.
When
his lips part from mine, too soon and not soon enough, I barely fight the urge
to pull him back. “Was that for the cameras?” I pant at him, furious at myself
for such weakness.
“That
was because you scared the shit out of me when you didn’t answer your phone. I
don’t give a damn about the cameras.” His mouth comes down on mine again, and
his hand slides under my jacket, over my backside, pulling me flush against his
thick erection.
I
whimper, impossibly aroused, and my hands slip beneath the thick leather of his
jacket, wrapping his waist. His hand caresses up my back, molding me tighter to
him, branding me with heat and fire and sizzling passion that threaten to steal
all the reason I possess. No man has ever made me forget where I am, forget why
I should care.
“That,”
he says roughly, when he pulls back again, “was for the past twelve hours that
I should have been thinking about business. Instead, I was incessantly thinking
about pink paddles, butterfly nipple clamps, and all the places I’m going to
lick, kiss, and now, you can bet, punish you when we get home.”
I
almost moan again from his words and have no idea how I manage enough coherent
thought to issue a warning, but somehow I do.“If you think sex is going to make
this argument go away, you’re wrong.”
“You
couldn’t be more right, but it’s a good place to start and end the enlightening
conversation you can bet your sweet little ass we’re going to have.” He sets me
back from him and away from the door enough to open it.“Let’s go home where I
can fuck what you’ve made me feel out of my system and you can do the same.”
Staring
up at him, a million things I might say or do are wiped out by the word home
replaying in my head. He keeps using that word, and it affects me when he does;
it affects me in a deep, painfully real way that leaves me raw and vulnerable.
He leaves me raw and vulnerable.
When I
don’t move, he pulls me close again, caresses myhair,and gives me a quick kiss
on the lips.“Get in the car, Sara,” he orders softly, and as always—though I’m
fairly certain he’d disagree—I do as he tells me.
*****
The
elevator door dings open and I never have the chance to retreat. Chris grabs my
hand and pulls me into his apartment. Before I can blink, I’m facing the entry
room wall, one hand clutching the journal, the other flat on the surface in
from of me. Chris steps behind me, framing my body with his bigger one and I
feel the hardness of his body as intensely as I feel the hardness of his mood.
His
hand settles on the center of my back, branding me, controlling me, and he
pulls my bag and purse from my shoulder and dumps it on the floor. I feel him
shrug away his jacket and he reaches for mine. It catches on the journal and
his hand closes around it.
The
air seems to thicken and for several seconds we hold the journal, both our
fingers gripping the red leather. Erotic images created by Rebecca’s words play
in my mind and I remember reading one of the entries with Chris. I wonder if he
is thinking about that day, too, or something completely different. About
Rebecca perhaps? I want to ask, but there is this sharp pinch in my chest that
holds me back.
Chris
takes the journal from me and I have no idea where he puts it. It is gone and
my jacket follows. He steps behind me, and I forget everything but him. His
hands settle possessively on my hips and his mouth, that delicious, sometimes
brutal mouth, brushes my ear. “You want pain and darkness, baby, you got it.”
Shock
slides through me at the unexpected promise and I think of us holding the
journal, and of the dark entries inside that terrify and intrigue me. “What
happened to me not being able to handle this part of you, Chris?” I ask, and my
voice trembles with the question.
“Tonight
happened,” he replies and there is nothing unsure about his voice, just hard
steel and more anger. “And I damn sure want to give you a reason to think twice
before it repeats.”
Conflicting
emotions overcome me. I crave and resist the possessiveness I sense in him. I’m
jerked out of this thought when Chris yanks my dress up my hips, exposing my
backside. I hear the silk of my panties tear before I feel the bite of the
material ripping from my body. His hands caress my backside, and the edgy
tension in him is like a wave crashing into me.
He
leans in, his lips brushing my ear, hot breath fanning my skin, promising
delicious, forbidden fantasies only Chris can fulfill. “I’m going to spank you
before this night is over, Sara.”
The
threat is a velvety seduction and taut threat and my response is instantaneous.
I cannot catch my breathe, let alone form a coherent reply, but I never get the
chance.
Chris
turns me to face him, shoving my hands over my head and shackling them with one
of his. “But first, I’m going to take you to the edge of bliss and pull you
back so many times, you’ll think you’re going insane, just like I was when you
didn’t answer your phone.” He tugs down the front zipper of my dress to my
waist, unhooks my bra, and begins to tease one of my nipples. “Any objections?”
“Would
they matter?” I whisper, unable to find my voice for the waves of pleasure
washing over my body.
“Not
unless you tell me to stop what I’m doing.” He leans in and nips my lip as he
had the night before, laving the bite with his tongue. “But if you say stop,
Sara, make damn sure you mean it because I will stop. Understand?”
“Chris-”
“Answer,
Sara.” His fingers slide between my thighs, spreading the slick heat of my
sensitive flesh, and leaving my nipples aching for more. I have the distinct
impression he’s reminding me why ‘stop’ is a bad word.
“Yes,”
I pant. “Yes, I understand.”
His
thumb strokes my clit and slips two fingers inside me, filling me, stretching
me. I pant with the pleasure, imagining the moment he is inside me. “Come
before I tell you to and I’ll spank you right now.”
“What?”
I gasp. “I can’t-”
“You
can and you will.”
His
words are as powerful as his touch, and I feel the bittersweet build of
release. “Why do I get the idea you’d enjoy my failure?”
“Because
I want to spank you.” His lips brush mine, his fingers stroking me with slow,
sultry precision that is driving me wild. “And you want me to.”
I do
and I have no clue why but the certainty that he will is so intensely erotic
that my sex tightens around his fingers.
The
beginning of an orgasm is almost as alluring as his hand on my backside.
His
fingers are suddenly gone, denying my pleasure, and I growl my frustration.
“Damn you, Chris.”
“Damn
me all you want but you still won’t come until I say you come.” He strokes my
nipple and flicks it back and forth. “I’m going to release your wrists and you
will not move them. Understand?”
No, I
do not understand! I scream in my head, but I nod my agreement, certain doing
as he says is my only path to satisfaction.
His
hand teasing my nipple falls away and he studies me, seeming to assess my
willpower, or maybe just torturing me with the absence of his hands on my body.
I’m ready to scream with the injustice of it when he sinks to one knee in front
of me and his hands settle on my hips.
His
gaze lifts and snags mine and I want to order his mouth to the most intimate
part of my body. Slowly, his mouth lowers, not to the spot I crave him to be,
but to my stomach. The soft, seductive touch of his lips, followed by the
gentle stroke of his tongue, sends a shiver through me and my belly quivers
beneath his mouth. The contrast of how tender he is in one moment and how hard and
demanding he can be in the next, fills me with anticipation and is as arousing
as anything I’ve ever experienced.
Slowly,
he trails his lips over the tender skin, his tongue dipping into my navel,
laving my hip bone, and finally traveling just above the V of my body.
I am
breathing hard with the restraint I use to stop myself from reaching for him
and the muscles of my sex clench so tightly it hurts. “Chris,” I plead when I
can take no more.
He
rewards my urgency by licking my clit. Yes, please, more, I think, but do not
dare say out loud, for fear he will do the opposite. I moan and another lick
follows and it’s nothing shy of sweet bliss when his mouth closes down around
me. He suckles my swollen nub, drawing deeply on my sensitive flesh and using
his tongue at just the right moments until I am going insane. Sensations ripple
through me and I have no willpower, no control. I tumble into orgasm and he
immediately pulls his mouth from me, denying me full satisfaction, leaving my
muscles clenching in partial release.
My
knees buckle but he is on his feet, wrapping his arm around my waist, and
holding me up. He lifts me into his arms and starts walking toward his bedroom.
His words replay in my head. Come before I tell you to, and I’ll spank you
right now. Chris doesn’t say anything he doesn’t mean and my heart races at the
certainty of my punishment.
The Master Undone
Once
my flight lands in New York, I’m anxious to get to the hospital. I quickly make
my way to the baggage claim and locate my carousel. With some fast footwork I’m
at the front of the crowd and I’ve just snatched my single piece of luggage,
besides the one hung over my shoulder, when I hear, “Mr. Compton?”
I turn
to find a pretty blonde standing before me, her long, silky hair draping the
shoulders of her pale pink, primly cut suit jacket. I arch a brow at her. “And
you would be?”
“You
are the Mark Compton, correct?”
“I’m
Mark Compton,” I confirm, wondering where this is headed.
“I
thought so. I recognize your picture from Riptide.” Her perfect pale cheeks
flush.“Oh. Sorry. I should introduce myself.”
She
offers me her hand. “Crystal Smith, the new head of sales for Riptide, and
thrilled to be working at one of the most prestigious auction houses in the
world.”
I
don’t reach for her hand. But my need to avoid touching her isn’t control, it’s
weakness—and I hate weakness. I close my hand over hers. “Nice to meet you, Ms.
Smith.” My palm warms, and I don’t want to be warmed by this woman, or by any
woman I haven’t chosen as a submissive.
Her
lashes lower, and I know she’s hiding her reaction to the touch. Despite
myself, I am intrigued. Even more so when, almost instantly, she smoothly
recovers and her lashes lift, her eyes directly meeting mine. Any sign of
whatever she’d felt is gone.
Impressed
by her rapid recovery and quick control, I’m surprised by how reluctantly I
release her hand. I’m rarely reluctant about anything.“Since when is it the
duty of the sales manager to pick someone up at the airport?”
Her
brows dip and she gives a delicate snort.“It’s not like you’re just
anyone.You’re your mother’s son.”
I
inwardly cringe at the sore spot she’s hit. I love my mother, but there’s a
reason why I opened my gallery across the country.“She ordered you to pick me
up.”
Her
lips curve. “Your mother’s as feisty as ever from her hospital bed.”
“I’m
not surprised,” I manage tightly. Just thinking of my mother in a hospital bed
creates a dull throb in my gut. “She’s impossible to say no to, even for me.”
“I
thought for sure her pride and joy would be the one person who could.”
Fighting
a wave of something dark I’d rather not name, I struggle to maintain my normal
steely composure.“My mother is the only person I can’t say no to.”
She
gives me an odd, quizzical look.“The only person?”
“Yes,
Ms. Smith.The only person.”
She
frowns.“I’m sorry,” she says, and then waves me toward the door.“My car’s
parked in a fifteen-minute spot.We’d better run before I get towed.” She turns
and starts walking, expecting me to follow.
I
stare after her. She’s sorry? What the hell does that even mean, and why do I
have this intense need to race after her and ask, when I never run after
anyone?
Revealing Us
The
elevator opens and he waits for me to enter, and I do. With fast steps, I rush
inside and whirl around to confront him. He stalks forward, and this time he
doesn’t avoid looking at me, his expression etched with pure determination and
some raw, dark emotion I cannot fully name. I don’t get the chance to try.
Before
a word is out of my mouth, and I have many intended, the bags he’s holding hit
the floor and Chris has pressed me back against the wall. My purse tumbles from
my arm and his powerful thighs encase mine; his hips mold my hips. I gasp with
the rough tangle of his fingers in my hair and the blaze of his eyes as they
capture mine. I am angry with him. I am aroused. And when his mouth claims my
mouth, his tongue slicing past my lips with a delicious lick followed by
another, demanding my response, I am at his mercy. My fingers curl around his
t-shirt and I push away the tiny space between us, molding myself against him.
He owns me and, considering how the past thirty minutes have gone, this
terrifies me, but I’m all in with Chris. I decided that long before Paris. I am
his to command, moaning with the taste of him, sultry and male, on my tongue.
His
hand sweeps up my side, fingers flexing over my ribs, palm covering my breast.
My nipple tightens in anticipation of the tug that follows and I moan, my need
to touch Chris almost unbearable. I reach for his shirt, intending to push
beneath, but he doesn’t let me.
Chris’s
fingers close around my wrist and I know he is in that dark place, where he
doesn’t let me touch him—but I am in a dark place, too, on edge, ripe with my
anger and unwilling to be submissive to him. Challenging his silent message of
control, I reach for his shirt with my free hand and he shackles my wrist as
well and tears his mouth from mine. Our eyes lock, the sound of our heavy
breathing filling the air and the motion of the elevator I didn’t even know was
moving swaying our bodies. The floor vibrates slightly beneath our feet and I
sense, rather than see, the doors behind Chris slide open, but still we stand
there, still we stare at each other.
“They
don’t get to tell you who I am,” he says. His voice is a rough growl, low and
tight. “I do. I tell you and I show you so you get the truth, not their
fabrication of it.” A muscle in his jaw flexes. “Understand?”
My
anger and fear dissolve instantly. He’s not pulling away from me. He’s angry
that Amber and Tristan might taint my view of him when he’s already convinced
I’ll hate him before this discovery process is over.
“Do
you understand?” he demands when I apparently don’t answer fast enough.
This
time I don’t fight the bark of his order, understanding the desperateness
beneath its surface. “Yes. Yes. Chris, I—”
His
fingers tangle in my hair again, tugging my head back in that deliciously rough
way he does. Dark Chris calls to me and I no longer fight answering. “Do not go
there without me again.” His voice is gravelly; raw like the emotion I’ve seen
in his face and tasted on his lips.
“Me
going there wasn’t what you think it was, Chris.”
His
eyes flash with disapproval. He is not pleased, or accepting, of what I’ve
said, and his mouth closes down on mine, punishing, controlling. His tongue
thrusting and tasting, before he repeats his words, his fingers stroking my
breasts, teasing my nipple. “Do not go there again without me, Sara.”
“I
won’t.” The words come out a hoarse groan as his hand strokes a path up and
down my side, and back over my breast. His touch is heavy, the air thick, and
I’m certain he isn’t convinced. “I won’t go back without you.”
His
fingers curl around my neck and he stares down at me, searching my face with
such intensity it feels as if he’s seeing straight to my soul. And I welcome
the invasion. I welcome him. Seconds tick by, and I have no idea what he sees
or doesn’t see in me, but he drags my mouth to his and kisses me.
The
silky hot stroke of his tongue is a shot of adrenaline and desire that spikes
through my body and creates a tingling sensation from head to toe. I shudder
with pleasure and drink him in, tasting the bittersweet hunger in him, the
anger and torment. I burn to touch him beyond where my fingers rest on his
chest, to feel hard muscle flex beneath my fingers. But control is his outlet
of choice when there is no whip, no pain. And I am no longer angry, no longer
rebelling against his demands. No longer fighting his need for an outlet I have
long ached for him to know he has with me, in me.
I
tremble with the caress of his hand over my waist, traveling to my hip, and
curving around my backside to firmly pull me hard against his thick erection.
His palm skims upward to the small of my back, and flattens, molding me even
closer. I moan into his mouth and he groans in response, his tongue delving
deeply, hot with growing demand, with a palpable urgency. And his hands are
everywhere, touching me, stroking me, caressing me, driving me wild and, before
I know what’s happening, he’s shoving my jeans down my legs. I blink and my
boots are gone and I’m half-naked in an elevator with the doors locked open.
I
might have protested our location, asked to move to another room, but Chris
turns me to the wall and his hands slide, slow and firm, possessively down my
waist and over my hips. Feeling his gaze rake over my body, I am wet and weak
in the knees. He cups my cheeks from behind and steps forward, pressing his
lips to my ear. “Tonight, I want to spank you, but I won’t. Not when it would
be punishment. I won’t ever do that to you. But don’t think that means I won’t
want to.”
I
understand Chris. I don’t know how or why but, deep in our souls, we connect,
and I know what he is doing. He’s showing me a hard exterior but all I see is
vulnerability, a need that tonight has sparked, to show me a darker, more
dangerous side of himself, and have me not run for cover. “You can’t scare me
away, Chris. So throw all the words you want at me. I’m still here. I’m still
not going anywhere. And in case you forgot, I liked it when you spanked me.”
His
hand finds my stomach and then presses deeper between my legs, until his
fingers tease my clit. “Maybe this time I’ll tie you up and flog you.”
“Do
it.” His fingers stroke into the silky wet V of my body, and I am panting,
barely able to speak, but I swallow and somehow finish my challenge. “The more
you push me, the more I push back, Chris.”
He
nips my earlobe and I can feel him unzipping his pants. “So you say,” he
murmurs.
“So I
know.” Throwing caution to the wind, I press onward, trying to unleash the
pent-up energy in him he bottles until it later explodes. “Only one of us is
running. Only one of us is afraid of what I have yet to discover, Chris.”
The
air crackles and his hand goes to my waist, fingers flexing into my flesh, and
I revel in the certainty I’ve succeeded in taking him to the edge. “You think
I’m running?” he demands.
“No. I
think you’re trying to make me run so you can blame me if we fail.”
His
cock presses between my legs. “Does that feel like I want you to run?” He
enters me, driving hard inside me without any prelude. “Does that?” And then he
is thrusting, reaching around me to meld his hand to my breast, holding onto
it, and me. He thrusts again, burying himself, with a fieriness that outreaches
pure physical need. Oh yes, I have made him angry and I am glad. I want this
side of him, I want all of him. And damn it, he just keeps trying to deny me.
He keeps trying to hold back and, yes, he keeps trying to make me run.
I
press my hand to his hand where it’s melded to my breast, teasing me, holding
him there, holding on and not planning to ever let go. Pleasure splinters
through me with each thrust of his cock, each moment he’s buried deep inside
me. Sensation after sensation begins in my sex and rushes through nerve
endings. I am lost in how he feels, how I feel, and I arch into him, my muscles
clench around him, and then I cannot breathe. My orgasm takes me by surprise,
enveloping me, consuming me. I rise to the top of it far too quickly and come
down far too hard and fast, but just in time to feel Chris shudder, his body
tensing with his release. He stills, burying his face in my neck, and his body
slowly relaxes. For several moments he holds me there, and I’m not sure either
of us breathes, let alone speaks or moves. I am not sure what to say or what to
do next.
Abruptly,
he pulls out of me, and I don’t know why, but an unusual sense of complete,
utter emptiness washes over me. The “why” is answered when I start to turn to
find him already headed out of the elevator. I stare after him, knots balling
in my stomach. Maybe I pushed the wrong buttons. Maybe I pushed him to far or
too hard. Maybe I made a mistake.
*****
I
twist around to find Chris standing in the doorway, his hair a damp mess,
droplets of water clinging to the black Harley jacket he wears with the same
ease he does his power. The en- tire room seems to suck in a breath at the same
moment, waiting for what will come next. Waiting for him.
His
attention fixes on me, and it’s as if no one else were in the room. He sees me.
He’s dismissed them.
“I
told you I was close, baby,” he drawls, seemingly unaffected by the situation.
He saunters into the room, and while he’s all casual coolness and sexy swagger,
there is a lethal, primal quality just beneath his surface. I might be trying
to take control myself, and I want to, but it’s a beautiful thing watching
Chris be Chris.
*****
When I
finally exit the bathroom I do so with hurried steps, and run smack into a hard
body. With a gasp, I look up as strong hands right me before I fall. “I’m
sorry,” I say, blinking as a big man with rumpled dark hair and handsome
thirty-something features comes into view. “I didn’t mean . . .” I hesitate.
Does
he even speak English?
He
says something in French, and then says, “Pardon” before he departs.
An
uncomfortable shiver races down my spine and the unexplainable need to follow
him has me whirling around, only to find Chris there.
His
brows dip. “Something wrong?”
Yes.
No. Yes. “I just bumped into a man, and—”
Chris
curses and grabs my purse, and I look down to realize it’s unzipped. I’m
certain it was zipped before. “Oh no,” I say, and shove it open to find that my
wallet is missing. “No. No no nono. This can’t be happening. He took my wallet,
Chris!”
“What
about your passport?” he asks calmly, setting our bags down between us.
My
eyes go wide and I quickly dig for it. Feeling sick, I shake my head. “It’s
gone. What does this mean?”
“It’s
okay, baby. I forgot to give you your plastic card; I still have it. That’ll
get us past the entry in France with some extra effort. And you can use it at
the consulate to get a new booklet.”
I draw
a deep breath and let it out. The way he says “us” is calming. I’m not alone.
He is with me every step of the way, not just here and now. I know this, and I
want to believe it won’t change. It’s one of the many things about him, and us,
thatdelivered me to the airport today. “Thank God you have my card.”
Chris
reaches over the bags and caresses my cheek. “I should have warned you how bad
the pickpockets are here.”
*****
With a
departing remark, the driver climbs into his car. As the sedan backs away I can
now see the other side of the garage, where three classic Mustangs, two
Harleys, and a silver Porsche 911 are parked.
I
shake my head at Chris. “Different place, same obsessions.”
“You’re
my obsession,” Chris replies huskily, nuzzling my neck. “Addictive in every
way, and that comes with rewards. You get one of the Harleys.”
I
laugh. “Not a reward I’d choose, but okay.” I point to the one that looks the
most expensive. “I’ll take that one.”
The
doors to the garage shut and Chris twines his fingers with mine and walks
backward, leading me toward the building, mischief lighting his eyes. “You can
ride with me, baby.”
I roll
my eyes. “You always have to be in control.”
“You like
it when I’m in control.”
“I
should deny that,” I reply without hesitation. I’m way beyond censoring my
thoughts with Chris.
*****
My
pickpocket has dashed for the door in a full sprint.
Chris
turns to me, hands solidly planted on my shoulders. “Stay here. And I mean stay
here, Sara.” Then he runs for the door.
I’m
running before Chris is even outside. There’s no way I’m staying inside when
he’s chasing a criminal who could easily be armed.
Shoving
my way past the doors, struggling to slide my purse across my chest, I burst
outside, and I might as well have been sprayed in the face with a fire hose for
the fierceness of the cold rain attacking me. Shoving my soaked hair from my
face, I desperately scan for Chris, and find him in a hard run to my left. Instantly
I am in motion, wishing my thin silk blouse was warmer and my heels lower.
Wishing even more that I dared have my phone ready in case I need to call for
help, without the downpour ruining it.
When I
am a half a block from the embassy, Chris is another half block ahead of me,
and the rain is torture. I swipe the water clinging to my face, as if that will
really help. I blink again and panic when I can’t find Chris. One minute he was
in front of me, the next he is out of sight. Panic assails me, and my heart
jackhammers. Thunder crashes above me and I nearly jump out of my skin, but I
keep running.
*****
He
slowly drags the tails of the flogger over my arm, and then does it again.
Anticipation builds in me, and I can feel my nerve endings coming alive.
He
covers my arm with his hand for a moment, drawing my gaze to his. Heat simmers
in the depths of his stare. He, too, is filled with anticipation, and it stirs
confidence in me to know I can do that to him. That doing this with me excites
him, not just me.
*****
His Secrets
My Hunger
No In Between
(Unedited)
Another man in an expensive fitted suit much like Mark’s gray one, steps to
Mark’s side, his features ruggedly male, whereas Mark’s are classical male
beauty. And where Mark’s classically clean shaven and handsome, his short blond
hair is always neatly groomed, this man’s thick, light brown hair is long
enough to be tied at his nape, and the stubble on jawline far more than a
shadow.
The
man says something to Mark and I don’t know why, but I am certain the stranger
is his attorney. Mark barely acknowledges what is said to him, stepping
forward, closing the distance between us, and I cannot seem to move. He moves
with absolute predatory grace, beautiful, powerful, impossible to ignore and I
am his prey.
I am
not immune to Mark’s certain flavor of power and masculinity, but then, I have
never denied that fact. But being affected by his larger-than-life presence and
wanting him are two different things. It's also a way Rebecca and I differed
and I cannot help but remember her words. He
was magnificent. Really, truly the most gorgeous man I’ve ever known. Instant
lust exploded inside me. I wanted to feel him close to me, to feel him touch
me. To touch him.
She’d
started out infatuated and then fell in love, and suddenly, I am angry at Mark
for not seeing what he had with her before he lost her. Even more so for trying
to push her away by involving Ava and Ryan in their intimate moments, and who
knew who else, that I never discovered.
Intending
to tell him so, I step forward, closing the distance between us and stopping
when we are toe to toe, but he speaks before I do. “Ms. McMillan,” he says in
that low baritone of his that is both sultry suggestion and hard steel.
I lift
my chin and meet his stare, and when I do, I see the barely masked heartache in
the depths of those steely gray eyes. I see love lost, and my anger is ripped
right out of my chest. “Mark,” I whisper, bleeding for him, with him. “It’s
good to see you.” And without any conscious decision to do so, I wrap my arms
around him and press my cheek to his chest. He doesn’t hug me back but I don’t
care. It kills me to realize that Rebecca finally taught Mark what it is to
love, and she’ll never even know.
“Ms.
McMillan,” he warns tersely. “Now is not the time for affection.”
I step
back, choosing to ignore the deep seductive quality of those words, and press
my hands to my hips. “Why don’t you return your phone calls?”
His
expression is unreadable, the pain I’d seen minutes before carefully banked. “I
just arrived into town and I’m certain you’re aware, I’ve had my hands full.”
The
stranger joins us, his piercing blue eyes finding mine.
“This
is “Tiger”,” Mark says without ever looking at the other man. “My attorney.”
“What
is it with you men? You have a problem using a person’s real, God-given name?”
“Confirmation
of what I suspected,” Tiger comments. “You have to be Sara. And it’s not my
God-given name. It’s the one I earned and that means it’s the one I favor.”
Taking
the bait, I ask, “And how exactly did you earn it?”
“I’ll
rip your throat out if you cross my clients,” he replies, and I do not like the
subtle threat in the words, be it real or imagined.
I
narrow my eyes on Tiger. “You said ‘confirmation you’re Sara.’ What did that
mean?”
Mark
answers for Tiger. “I told him your propensity toward too much conversation.”
“Does
he know your propensity toward arrogance?” I challenge.
“He
does,” Mark confirms, without hesitation, a muscle flexing in his jaw.
I
cringe at the realization that I’ve hit the nerve of self blame in Mark, a
nerve I know has to be as raw and ripe as it gets. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly.
“It slipped out. I was just doing that banter thing we do.”
He
gives me on of those heavy lidded looks of his and says, “Not a problem, Ms.
McMillan. I also warned Tiger that you tend toward being painfully honest.”
Now
I’m the one with confirmation. I did hit a nerve. “I wasn’t trying to hurt
you.”
“There’s
nothing wrong with honesty,” Tiger comments.
I cut
him an irritated look. “There is if it hurts someone.” I step closer to Mark.
“Can we talk alone for a minute?”
“No
private conversation,” Tiger replies, rejecting the idea.
I gape
at Tiger. “You’re protecting Mark from me?”
“I’m
protecting you both from prying eyes,” Tiger assures me, his tone all business.
“Save the hugs and personal conversation for elsewhere.” He glances at his
watch. “It’s 3:00. We need to get to our meeting room.”
My Control
I Belong to You
November
2014 - More info coming soon!
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