Welcome to the lands of whips, chains, and ecstasy…and the first night is free. A Taste of Submission is a collection of first-in-series books from twelve of the hottest BDSM authors around. There’s domination, submission, pleasure, and punishment in every offering. Get a taste of each of their worlds and see if you’d like to stay awhile.
If you’re a fan of hot Doms and sexy subs, whether you like your BDSM dark or light, or you’re a fan of contemporary or sci-fi, there’s something here for everyone. And if you enjoy what you read, you can find the rest of the series at your favorite online bookseller.
A Taste of Submission introduces you to a dozen hot BDSM series by twelve amazing authors. USA Today and international bestsellers, Golden Flogger Award Nominees and Winners, and Amazon Bestsellers all giving you a taste of their best work. Best of all, it’s FREE, but it’s only available this summer!
A Taste of Submission comes out June 11, and you will be able to download it FREE everywhere you buy eBooks. But it goes away August 31, so get your copy as soon as you can.
Tag line: Two shifters must keep their fated mate safe when darkness threatens.
Blurb: When grad student Morgan Leviss chose sexual surrogacy for her thesis, she never expected to become one. Now she’s tasked with turning two reclusive men into social creatures. Zac Blackstone and Aiden Goldman are nothing like what she expects. Handsome and charming, they’re a puzzle she finds intriguing.
Zac and Aiden have known each other for over two hundred years. Part of a cadre of shifters, they’re on a mission to mate and procreate. Powerful warriors for centuries, they lack the social skills and sexual experience needed to attract a partner. When a beautiful redhead comes into their life to teach them, they discover new hope.
Bound by secrecy, the men can’t tell her who they really are. What they are. Increasingly drawn to Morgan, they begin to recognize her as their fated female. Convincing her that she’s theirs may be as hard as keeping her alive when danger appears from the shadows.
Morgan is the first in the Guarded HeartsSeries of standalone Erotic Paranormal Romance Ménage deftly penned as subtle Romantic Comedy with a heat level that’s off the charts. Written for Ages 18+.
First in the Guarded Hearts series of standalones (no previous reading required)
Cover Reveal September 1, 2019
Release Date October 19, 2019
EXCERPT (731 words):
Morgan was speechless. When scholarly, bespectacled Emmett had escorted her upstairs tonight, she never expected to be met at the door by two very naked and extremely well-endowed men.
Tonight’s session was supposed to be about discovery. Shedding clothes, honestly evaluating your body, discovering hidden strengths, discussing doubts, and finding ways to work through them.
These guys seemed to be doing just fine.
She picked her jaw up from the floor and forced her feet to move forward from where she’d been frozen in place, stunned by the sight of them. Zac might be older, but dear Lord, he was perfection, from the manscaped hair on his chest to the Adonis belt pointing the way to the promised land. Aiden could be a cover model, with his chest shaved and lightly oiled muscles gleaming in the glow of dozens of lit candles that were scattered around the room.
Jesus, take me now.
“Good evening, Morgan,” Aiden greeted her, his voice slightly roughened. “We have prepared ourselves for this evening as required for this session.”
They were both staring at her expectantly.
Leaving her coat and bag on her normal chair, she ran her palms nervously down her sides. “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “I can see that.”
They moved to stand beside the sofa. She sank into the recliner facing them. They looked so at ease with their nudity. As if it didn’t bother either of them that they were buck naked in front of each other. Morgan was having a hard time keeping her mind on track. An insidious little whisper in her head kept telling her to skip sessions. It was accompanied by images of sweating, thrusting bodies.
“Is something wrong?” Zac inquired when the silence stretched. “You seem… uncomfortable.”
Morgan blinked. “No. No. It’s just not how I planned it. I thought that we would talk first before you stripped. I wanted to discuss how you feel about your bodies and what you think are your individual strengths and weaknesses.”
“I don’t like my toes,” Zac said, squinting down at them. “They seem too…, I don’t know. Gnarly? Other than that, I am pleased with this vessel. It is that of a well-made, mature man who can handle whatever life brings him. Aiden tried to talk me into shaving my chest, but I read that some women find the tactile sensation of chest hair to be pleasing. What do you think about furbabies?”
Morgan forgot to breathe for a second. Furbabies? Was this leading into some Furries kink where everyone dressed up as cute animals? She couldn’t imagine either man dressed up in a bunny suit but she didn’t yet know their sexual tastes. After the spanking incident, anything was possible.
“I… um, like men with chest hair,” she admitted. “And you’re right. Some women do enjoy the sensation, especially against sensitive parts of their bodies. Your scruff…”
Zac arched a questioning brow.
Morgan felt her cheeks warm ten degrees. “Yes,” she croaked, wondering how in the hell she was going to talk herself out of this one. She’d been imagining how it would feel against her skin while she rode his mouth. “A soft beard can be very stimulating. An abrasive, prickly beard can hurt to the point of turning someone off, whether it’s kissing or oral stimulation.”
“Like cunnilingus?” Aiden asked.
“And fellatio,” she stated, her gaze caroming between the two of them. “When two men have a relationship with each other.”
“We wouldn’t know,” Zac told her. “We’ve never been with a woman to find out. Soon, though, we hope. We have been watching threesomes in porn to see how these things work.”
They wanted a threesome?
Oh. My. God.
Morgan’s thighs clenched together, her body reacting to the thought of having both of them between her legs. Christ. It was hard to not be aroused.
She had two naked virgins, eager for their first sexual experiences. This was supposed to be one on one when the time came, and they were already planning a threesome. Could she handle both of them? Should she even try?
Reality couldn’t be as good as the wet dreams she’d been having. Most mornings, she woke up needy and desperate and grateful for her roommate’s foresight to buy batteries ahead.
No matter what walk of life you are from, we are all perfectly imperfect beings of ourselves. We don’t need to be someone else’s image, we only need to be who we are.
Remember, you are the only person who can disappoint yourself. Others will try, but having the will and the want to stop the bullying where it starts is how you can beat a bully or end the violence.
The best way to stop violence and bullying is to think smarter and act brighter.
Proceeds from this anthology will go to National Domestic Violence Hotline.
Stand Your Ground includes
Independence Day by Nia Farrell and Damage Control by Ree L. Diehl.
by Nia Farrell
(historical novella that addresses domestic violence)
Length 23,077 words.
Fearing for her life, Becca West escaped her abusive husband and has been living under an assumed name. When the new sheriff comes to town, he knows that she’s not really Molly Malone. Truly widowed, Becca vows to never again be at a man’s mercy. Sheriff Donovan insists that marrying him is her best—possibly her only—chance of keeping custody of her boy when Billy’s rich, ruthless grandfather discovers where they are. What will a mother do to protect her son?
Independence Day is an erotic romance set in 1868 California. The heroine was inspired by the gut-wrenching true-life story of Anna Glud, who served as a drummer boy under General Grant. The fictional story includes post-rape PTSD and adult themes and may contain triggers. Written for Ages 18+.
INDEPENDENCE DAY Excerpt 1
As apprehensive as Molly had been when Sheriff Donovan first arrived, she was soon thanking her stars that he had come to Walnut Creek. He was firm but fair, enforcing statutes that the last sheriff had been lax on and making improvements to their community. Billy adored him. The sheriff had quickly, disturbingly grown on her as well.
So far, she had done her best to ignore it.
At night was the hardest. When her father was dying and insisted on seeing her safely settled before he met his end, she had honored his wishes and wed the man he picked for her. At fifteen years of age, she felt that she had no choice.
Grayson was kind in the beginning. Her wedding night was more than she could have hoped for, given his true nature, with a gentle deflowering and hours of passionate lovemaking. Despite the brutality that Grayson had descended into once her father was gone, she could remember when their marital bed harbored more than forced entries and sleepless nights.
Her body yearned for that again.
She ached for Matthew Donovan.
She could not let him know how he affected her. She longed to touch the shadow of his beard-stippled face at the end of the day and sooth the tension from his brow. The worst was remembering what he looked like naked. Two weeks after he came, he’d failed to lock the bathing room door. She had gone in to clean it…only to find him climbing out of the tub, water clinging to the mat of crisp curls that spanned his chest, thinned below it, and narrowed to a tempting trail that led to his manhood.
His body had stirred at the sight of her, while she watched, mesmerized. He had snatched the towel and covered himself, breaking the spell and sending her flying out the door, her cheeks as red as chili peppers and the heart of her womanhood pulsing with new awareness. It was as if a fire had been sparked inside her. Unable to extinguish it, she now struggled to keep it banked. If she allowed it to flare to life, she feared that it would consume her.
But there was no help for it. Marriage would reduce her to the status of chattel. She refused to put herself at a man’s mercy ever again, and no affair was worth the risk. She would lose her reputation, her livelihood, her home, and possibly her son. Should she be judged an unfit mother, the court would take Billy away.
She was doomed to live each day with the knowledge of what Matthew Donovan looked like naked, and a keen awareness that he shared that most intimate memory.
Things had been awkward between them ever since.
INDEPENDENCE DAY Excerpt 2
His hazel eyes were as serious as she’d ever seen them. “We can have a second ceremony in the Church when things settle, but we’re making it legal now. As soon as supper’s done, we’re paying the justice of the peace a visit. The only way to ensure that Francis West won’t get custody of Billy is for you to take a husband who can pass close inspection. I’m not perfect, Becca, but my reputation is as good as any man’s and better than most. Mr. West can look for dirt in Indiana or Kansas or California, but he won’t find anything on me. I’ve kept my nose clean and chosen my friends well. Being a lawman, you live a life of risk. Under other circumstances, I’d give you plenty of time to think about that. Once we’re married in the Church, that’s it for either of us. There’ll be no backing out. No divorce. I’ll go off to work each day, and you’ll be here, not knowing if I’m coming home in my boots or in a box.”
She paled at his words and the bleak picture that he’d painted with them.
He shoved five fingers into his hair and sadly shook his head. “Unfortunately, that will be our reality,” he said. “I’ve always hesitated to saddle someone with it. I wouldn’t now, but it can’t be helped. It’s the only sure way to keep you and Billy safe. But if we do this, I want us to be clear. I plan to be your husband, in every way.”
She felt her cheeks warm. A marriage had to be consummated to be legal. If they married, they would share a bed.
His brow knit with worry when she said nothing. “Some women who’ve survived what you did would rather die than be touched by a man. I’m hoping that you’re not one of them.”
She remembered him naked and felt her whole body go flush. “I don’t think so,” she whispered, blood thrumming in her veins to pool in her loins. “How can I know?”
“Well,” he said, “why don’t we start with a kiss and see if you can stand me when it’s done?”
“All right,” she croaked, already wondering what he would taste like.
“Let’s get your chair turned.” Taking hold of the seat from behind, he pulled her away from the table and turned her ninety degrees, so that she sat beside it. He put an empty chair next to hers but in the opposite direction, forming a makeshift courting bench. Folding his long body, he sat down, facing her, with their right hips nearly flush.
He inhaled deeply and exhaled, forcing himself to relax. His hazel gaze snagged hers with the look of a man facing a challenge that he was hopeful he would win.
The sheriff grinned crookedly. “It’s been a while for me, too,” he confessed, “but I think I remember how it’s done.”
Raising his right arm, he held her face in his hand, brushing her cheek with the pad of his thumb, letting her become accustomed to his touch. After a long minute, he reached to cup her head. Leaning forward, he gently pulled her to him.
They met in the middle.
He angled his head for perfect alignment and brushed his lips against hers. His breath smelled of whiskey and lemon, from one of the hard candies that he bought at the mercantile and kept for a treat. When she didn’t shy away, he grew bolder, pressing his lips fully to hers and holding them there, inhaling her breaths and letting her inhale his.
He pulled back his head and looked at her. Keeping her hands clasped tightly against her waist, she met his gaze, unflinching.
“Whiskey eyes,” he murmured. “I could drown in them, you know.”
Certain that they revealed the maelstrom that was wreaking havoc inside her, she was tempted to close them. It was all she could do to sit, trembling at his touch, bathed in the fire of his breath that threatened immolation.
She wondered, would she burn or rise like a phoenix from the ashes?
“Becca,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’m going to really kiss you now.”
Taking her head in both of his hands, he kissed her like a starving man. He consumed her, covering her mouth with his and feasting on it. His tongue came out, capricious at first, then deliberate, seeking her essence to claim for his own. After thoroughly tasting her lips, he urged them apart and delved inside.
She moaned from the feel of it, of him. Her curious fingers touched the faint shadow of his beard, delighting in their differences. Hard and soft. Masculine and feminine. Leashed power and burgeoning passion.
Sensing it, he groaned and pulled away. They stared at each other, motionless save for the rise and fall of their chests with each rapid breath. When the sheriff spoke, his voice was a delicious baritone rumble that echoed in her core.
“Well?” he managed. “What do you think?”
That she was mad to want him. Mad to marry him. She had vowed to never be at the mercy of a man.
She wished that he would kiss her again.
INDEPENDENCE DAY Excerpt 3
“I’m afraid that you’ll have to tell me what to do. Matthew, how do you want me? Where do you want me?”
He swallowed hard, his throat muscles working. Focused on him, she watched his Adam’s apple move above his cravat. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Tearing his gaze away from her lips, he looked towards her bed.
“Stand up and take off your dress for me.”
He offered his large, strong hands to help her off the floor. Staying close, she unbuttoned her cuffs and bodice, bent to catch the hem of her skirt, and pulled her dress over her head. Turning it right side out, she shook it straight and hung it back in her wardrobe.
Acutely aware of his gaze on her, watching, she untied the waist of her hoops and dropped them. They collapsed at her feet. Her two petticoats and corset cover were next to go, leaving her standing in her corset, shift, pantaloons, stockings, and shoes.
“Sit on the bed,” he rumbled, pushing himself to a stand. She watched, mesmerized, as he pulled off his frock coat and removed his vest. He reached for his belt buckle. She felt herself pale, remembering the bite of leather into her flesh. Noting her reaction, he tossed it aside. When he turned back, his lips were pressed tightly together and his brow was creased with concern.
“I’ll switch to suspenders,” he promised. “I never thought—”
“No!” she whispered. “Please. I need to get used to it, is all. I’ve managed with other things. I can do it with your belt, too, but it takes time. Just be patient with me, please.”
“You have my word, Becca. I’m a patient man. And in case you didn’t notice that day you came into the bathing room, I can control myself. Otherwise, I’d have pinned you against the door and taken you then and there.”
The husky timbre of his voice echoed in her core, triggering a primal response that left her swollen, wet, and aching with an emptiness that he would soon fill.
“You wanted me?”
He nodded slowly, his expression earnest. “I’ve wanted you since I first laid eyes on you again. Back in Jeffersonville, you were always a pretty thing, but you were young. Way too young. Next thing I knew, you were married. All I could do was watch from a distance and hope for the best. But when I walked into Harrell House and saw you again, all grown up…”
He pulled out his stickpin and untied his cravat. “I thought you were the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. I still do.”
She knew that she was passably pretty. The way he looked at her almost made her believe that she was more than merely easy on the eyes.
His hands went to the front of his pants. His nimble fingers worked the buttons to open his fly. Beneath the fabric of his shirt and drawers, she could see the bulge of his erect manhood, rising straight against his belly.
She was no authority, but to her eyes, he seemed very well-endowed. Very. He was large enough, he would have to prepare her to receive him.
The prospect was both tantalizing and terrifying.
The sheriff’s very life depended on being observant. Tonight, with all of his attention focused on her, he saw everything. The rapid lift and fall of her chest with every corset-constrained breath. The night breeze that lifted the curtain and sent gooseflesh rippling across her skin. The uncertainty on her face when she wondered just how large he was and thought of his possession.
“I’ll go slow,” he said. Dropping his gaze to her secrets, he looked determined to uncover them all. “We’ll fit. You’ll see.”
by Ree L. Diehl
Length 18, 365 words. A BBW/billionaire workplace romance (a contemporary novella with workplace bullying and body shaming).
Curvy Isabella DeLorean knows what it’s like to be the butt of jokes but she has brains, talent, beauty, an irrepressible sense of humor, and a plus-size body that matches her big heart. Tough as steel and built for comfort, this DeLorean would love nothing more than to take her new boss for a ride.
Nicholas Wentworth III is CEO of the Wentworth’s department store chain. His newest sales clerk is so popular with customers, Bella wins Employee of the Month and all the perks that come with it—a sizeable bonus, a premium parking space, and dinner with CEO. Bella’s hot Italian-American blood thinks that a boss with benefits might just be what she needs. She’s already dealing with vicious coworkers, a shady manager, and office gossip. Accepting the award from Nick puts an even bigger target on her back. Someone’s aware of their mutual attraction. Someone who’ll stop at nothing to keep her and Nick apart. With Bella’s life in peril, can Nick find her stalker before it’s too late?
Damage Control is Ree L. Diehl’s first novella, her first BBW, and first romantic mystery. It’s a sizzling addition to the Stand Your Ground anti-bullying anthology.
DAMAGE CONTROL Excerpt:
Bella put the credit card printout with the cash register receipt and handed them to Lola.
The bride-to-be tucked them in her billfold. “I’ll give these to Vito when I get home. Thanks for all your help, doll. You’re the best.”
“Thank you, Lola. I wish you and Vito every joy.”
Glancing over, Bella saw Maria carrying Justinian on her hip. The way that he was gnawing on a finger, she wondered if a tooth was coming in.
She was so focused on her nephew that she didn’t see Ms. Cohen coming from the back with a spray bottle of perfume in her hand. “There,” she said, misting away. “Much better!”
For Ms. Cohen maybe, but not for Bella. One whiff and she felt her throat start to close. She stumbled to the chair just outside the lingerie display room, gasping for air.
“Someone get a doctor!” Maria yelled. Justinian burst into tears, wailing like a banshee. Lola called 911. “Bella, can you hear me? Do you have one of those shot things for allergies?”
Bella shook her head weakly. She had an inhaler if she started to wheeze. A runny nose and sinus headache were the norm. She’d never had a reaction this bad, with a fat tongue and dangerously constricted airways. Dear God, what if her throat swelled shut before help came? Not being able to breathe was the most frightening thing she’d ever experienced.
She felt dizzy. She couldn’t get enough air, and she was losing consciousness. Her eyelids closed, too heavy to keep open any longer.
“Hang in there, sweetie. Help is on the way. Stay with me, Bella. Stay with me. Come on, sweetheart. Stay with me.”
Strange, but Maria’s voice had changed to Mr. Wentworth’s.
Try as she might, she couldn’t force open her eyes. Couldn’t see him and couldn’t stay with him, as much as she wanted to. How ironic was it, to win a date with the man of her dreams and die before dinner?
“I agree. It is ironic.”
Bella stopped breathing again, but this time it wasn’t a medical emergency. She felt the sting of an IV in the back of her hand and heard the blip of monitors even before she opened her eyes and saw Nicholas Wentworth sitting by her hospital bed.
He looked exhausted.
She was pretty sure that she looked worse.
“Hi,” she croaked. “What are you doing here?”
He conjured a tired smile. “Checking on my Employee of the Month. Your mother tells me that you’re a fighter. She swears that you’ll be out of here in time for the presentation tomorrow night.”
Good lord. She’d lost a day? A day’s pay. No, two days. Yesterday and today and maybe tomorrow, depending on how soon they would let her go.
Bella burst into tears. “I’m s-sorry,” she keened. “It’s just—I can’t afford to miss work.”
“Workmen’s Comp,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “Everything’s covered. Your pay. Your stay. This is a result of an incident while you were on the clock. Trust me when I say that everything will be taken care of. All you need to do is relax and recover. Lingerie will be waiting for you when the doctor releases you. Ms. Cohen, however, will not.”
Bracing his elbows on the arms of his chair, he clasped his hands and leaned toward her. “After your review yesterday morning, I started checking, comparing department profits and sales commissions paid. The figures showed a disturbing pattern. When I called Ms. Cohen to discuss my findings, I was told that she was busy with a medical emergency. Yours.”
He rubbed a hand across his face and smiled grimly. “Miss Chin—Qua—found your phone on the counter, still recording. She had me listen to it. Ms. Cohen was ready to let your sales go through another register. But what she did next was worse. Ms. Cohen knew that you had fragrance allergies. That’s why we put you in lingerie, in a part of the store farthest from the makeup and perfume counters. Yet she deliberately sprayed perfume without your permission, without bothering to ask if you were allergic to that brand. It was an unconscionable act, and I fired her. The search is on for a new lingerie department manager. HR recommends the one from our Charleston, South Carolina, location. Ms. Jackson—Evalynne—has an excellent record but she’s not fond of hurricanes and is looking to relocate.”
“Same job, new boss. I can handle it.” Truthfully, she was relieved to have a job to come back to, especially if it meant that she could catch a glimpse of Nicholas Wentworth III from time to time.
He smiled softly. “I’m certain you can.”
“I’m a DeLorean,” she quipped. “Tough as steel and built for comfort.”
It was one of her standing jokes when someone pointed out her weight. Bella groaned when she heard what had flown out of her mouth. “Forget I said that. Jesus, take me now.”
Mr. Wentworth chuckled. “Sorry, he’ll have to wait until I’m done with you. We have a presentation tomorrow night, and there’s still your Employee of the Month dinner with me. Your mother is looking forward to the first, and I,” he said, “am looking forward to the second.”
She looked for the signs, but he wasn’t joking.
She needed to make a major fashion statement. In her mind, she saw a basic black mermaid wrap with an asymmetrical draped bodice, crossing to one side and fastening at her waist.
“Two weeks,” she said. If they were going to do this, she wanted enough time to make the perfect dress.
“Good,” he said. “Good. You’ll be out of here and back to work. Speaking of which, I’d better get going. I have a conference call in an hour. I’m glad to see that you’re doing better, Miss DeLorean.”
That sounded so formal when she was sitting here with her ass hanging out of a hospital gown. “My family and friends call me Bella, Mr. Wentworth.”
Standing, he smoothed the creases from his suit pants and draped his matching jacket over his arm. “And my family and friends call me Nick. I’ll see you soon, Bella. Get some rest.”
She didn’t want to rest. She wanted to watch that fine specimen of manhood leave her hospital room and memorize how his bubble butt looked in motion. She wanted to bite it. Lick it. She wanted to bend over the bed and let the CEO of Wentworth’s own her every orifice.
God, what she wouldn’t give to have her vibrator right now.
In this a standalone BDSM erotic romance, Replay Dominant Richard Franklin has been with Tory a year now. The first five months were been the happiest of his life. All that ended when Tory’s sister-in-law lost her baby and his ginger-haired witch lost her fire.
He wants his old Tory back. The one who teased him. Who challenged him. The beautiful English heiress who captivated him even before she dared to cast a love spell using candle magick. She was locked in there, somewhere. He just needs to find the key.
Rich takes drastic measures and brings Tory to the Valentine’s party on the dark side of the resort, where RACK (Risk Aware Consensual Kink) scenes take place. Can he get through to Tory and reclaim her, or will he lose her to the master of the whip?
This standalone short story has adult situations and a consensual power exchange that includes public exhibition, voyeurism, discipline, bondage, fire play, and sharing a submissive with another Dominant. Written for Ages 18+.
A clutch of black-robed priests and wimpled nuns stood to one side of the chamber. Beyond them knelt five penitents, dressed in gleaming white robes and pointed hoods. Even if she weren’t in this ancient space, she knew enough history to not assign them to a more modern era. Their outfits predated the American Civil War by centuries. The hoods were capirotes, worn during the Spanish Inquisition by penitents who would be flogged until their backs bled.
It wasn’t yet Lent, but that didn’t stop the first one from being stripped and bound to a whipping post facing her.
She recognized Conner from the eighteenth-century scenes that he’d done at the Georgian House. When Rich slid his hands around her to cup her breasts and play with them, Conner didn’t even try to avert his gaze. Instead, he focused on her and accepted the first lash of the whip on his back.
Tory flinched to see his reaction. Pain twisted his features. Watching her being fondled, knowing that she was out of his reach, just seemed to make it worse.
The next stripe fell. The Dominant in priestly black robes wielded the whip like an extension of himself, each stroke as intimate as a bare-handed spanking.
“Watch,” Rich ordered when she started to look away. “He thinks he needs to be punished, like his PTSD is his fault. He feels responsible for what happened to his unit and guilty because he’s one of the few who survived. You and I know that he’s not to blame, but he doesn’t see it that way, does he?”
“No, Sir,” she breathed, flinching when the next stroke fell.
Rich made her watch until Conner was let down and led away, headed for aftercare by one of the nuns.
Another man took his place. Tory blanched when she saw that it was Luc Vashon and the priest wielding the whip was Replay psychiatrist Sir Josef. This time, the scene didn’t end with a whipping. Sir Josef tossed the whip aside, pulled up his robe, and impaled his submissive in one impassioned thrust that made Luc gasp and moan.
He took Luc where he stood, then freed him and led him away for aftercare.
Tory was a mass of seething lust by the time the fifth and final man was whipped. Rich had kept her aroused and hovering on the brink of orgasm for what seemed like an hour. She didn’t know how long that they had been here, but she was swollen and needy and craved Rich’s possession.
The whip-wielding priest scared her. When he walked past the whipping post and stalked towards her, she instinctively shrank against Rich, silently begging her Dominant to protect her.
The priestly Dom had the look of a Spaniard about him. Black hair. Dark eyes. Skin that looked kissed by the sun. He spoke in accented English. “I have seen your contract. Are there any changes that you wish to make?”
Tory had reviewed its terms three months after meeting Rich, once she’d had a chance to observe the scenes at Replay and had a better understanding of what she was agreeing to.
“No, Sir,” she croaked.
His sculpted lips tilted in the barest hint of a smile. “I am Don Diego,” he rumbled. “In Brazil, we would call you a bruxa. A witch. You are a woman of power but for good or evil? Not that it matters. Tonight, you will be purified. Bring her.”
Rich lowered her bound hands. Tory’s arms ached from being extended for so long. Rich rubbed at the tension, working her muscles once from the base of her neck to her wrists. Cupping her shoulders, he guided her to stand beneath what looked like an oxen yoke with metal rings dangling from it.
It was the medieval equivalent of a spreader bar.
Don Diego lowered it from the ceiling. Not to the floor, thank goodness. She didn’t think she could take being strung upside-down. She was freaking out enough when Rich untied her wrists and lashed each hand to one end of the yoke before it was hauled back up.
They didn’t stop until she was standing on her toes, feeling as close to a panic attack as she’d ever been. Taking another bullwhip that he wielded with such skill, Don Diego ran the lethal leather coils down her sides, across her buttocks, and up her spine.
He stepped closer. Close enough that she could feel the heat of his body and feel his breath stir her hair.
“Confess,” he rumbled. “Unburden your soul. What do you have to say, my child?”
Tory shivered, as much from Don Diego’s words as from the searing heat in Rich’s eyes. But no words came.
Instead, there was a long moment of silence, then the lightning crack of the whip that left a fiery stripe on her skin.
Tory thought that she could take a lot, but the bullwhip was nearly too much for her to bear. Rich was kinder in his discipline. Firm but fair, he preferred rewards to threats of punishment. Psychologically, she didn’t know if he would have been able to whip her. He had spanked her and flogged her, but whips were far beyond the level of anything that they’d done. She could tell that he was forcing himself to watch, yet he also enjoyed having her at their mercy. His body didn’t lie. There was a telltale tent in the front of his robe.
He wasn’t the only one who was excited. When Don Diego inspected his work, he grasped her hips and pushed his pelvis into her backside, letting her feel his arousal.
Rich knew what was happening and was okay with it. His silence spoke volumes.
Katya Dostoevsky is a “little” and the young, submissive mistress of a Russian mobster. Posing as a mercenary, Simon Tolliver is a forty-five-year-old British operative who’s been ordered to kill her.
Neither of them is what they seem.
Sold by human traffickers at the age of 14, Katya has endured eleven years of forced consent, serving the needs of Alexei Papanov, head of the Bratva in upstate New York. She thinks that Simon is taking her toy shopping ahead of Christmas, but he’s been instructed to kill her en route. After what she has suffered, he plans to be her Secret Santa and give her the quick, clean death that she deserves.
It was supposed to be his last night on his last mission before retiring. Instead, this British spy with a gun and a girl on the run embark on a dark, thrilling ride that can only end one way.
Nia Farrell’s way. Yippee ki-yay.
Contains guns, an ambush, a car chase, a kamikaze deer, and bad guys after flawed but endearing characters who would love peace on earth but find themselves looking over their shoulders and loading another clip. Mandatory bedroom scene included. Have a cold drink on hand. Obviously written for Ages 18+.
Simon followed Papanov upstairs, past three armed guards and a half-dozen rooms. Stopping short of his private office, the Bratva kingpin opened a door and stepped inside, motioning for Simon to follow.
The room was decorated like a little girl’s dream with a fairytale four-poster bed, an ice cream parlor table and chairs, and an antique baby carriage full of dolls and stuffed toys. An ornate desk sat in front of a bank of curtained windows. Light from the crystal chandelier added to the soft glow from the computer screen of the laptop perched on the thighs of Papanov’s much-younger mistress.
Simon’s cock twitched at the sight of the pretty brunette. Dressed only in a black bra and panties and red fuck-me heels, she sat on an office chair with her face lit and her gaze locked on the screen, oblivious to their presence.
Simon felt like a dirty old man for wishing he could stand there and watch her. He was a spy. He should be focused on Alexei. Instead, he looked at the exquisite turn of Katya’s ankles and imagined them around his neck.
Katya Dostoevsky was twenty-five years old, five feet, three inches, a former gymnast, and an obedient servant to the whims of her master. Sold by her father to Papanov when she was fourteen, she’d grown into a stunning young woman.
Too bad Alexei didn’t share.
Or did he?
“You remember Katya.” His inflection made it a statement rather than a question.
Two sets of eyes darted to Alexei—hers alarmed and his wary. What was Papanov’s game?
Simon schooled his features. “Yes.”
“Myshka, you remember Mr. McCartney?”
She jerked her head in a stiff little nod. “Da.”
She was careful to not look at Simon when she answered. She knew Peter McCartney’s reputation, but she hadn’t really seen what he was capable of. She’d only witnessed a clean kill.
Alexei had backhanded her, busting her lip when she wouldn’t stop crying.
Papanov nodded. “Khorosho. Good. Myshka, I want you to pack a suitcase. Take enough to last you a week. Christmas is coming, and my mouseling wants her favorite bear fixed. I say it is time for new ones if the old ones fall apart when you ride them. Mr. McCartney will drive you to the apartment in Manhattan. I will finish things here and meet you there. Then we shop, da?”
Interesting. Katya masturbated with teddy bears. Knowing Alexei, he jacked off to the show and made her play the virgin to deflower as an encore.
Simon didn’t miss the look of dismay or the slight tremor that shook her shapely frame. She swallowed the objection on the tip of her tongue and answered meekly, “Da, Papi.”
Alexei’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s my good girl. Set your luggage by the hallway door when you have it packed. I want you downstairs and ready to leave in twenty minutes. Come, Peter.”
Katya flew into action, kicking off her heels and sprinting to her closet. Simon followed Papanov to his office one door over. Katya’s room had been chosen for the Pakhan’s convenience. When Alexei got an itch, he wanted it scratched immediately. His personal sex slave was on call around the clock, anytime, day or night, in public or in private.
Alexei thought nothing of ordering Katya to please him while he entertained guests. Humiliating her only added to his pleasure.
“Close the door.”
Simon did as ordered, questions writhing like Medusa’s snakes in his head. He was pissed. Alexei should have asked him first. Instead, he’d told him in front of Katya. Now Simon was stuck driving her down to the city. He’d spend hours on the road and in traffic, closed in a car with a woman he wanted and could never have—
Unless he wanted to spend the rest of his life as a eunuch.
The last man who’d touched her without permission had his balls cut off and shoved up his arse. Simon hadn’t seen it, but he’d heard the story, now shared as a cautionary tale.
“Sit.” Alexei pointed to the closest chair. Simon took it. Papanov did the same, settling into place behind a heavy wooden desk.
They stared at each other, a pissing contest that lasted all of fifteen seconds.
“What the fuck?” Simon growled. This was supposed to be his last night as a spy. The final time he’d risk life and limb for his Queen and country. His goal in recent years was to be the exception to the rule. He knew when he left the SAS and joined the Secret Intelligence Service that spies didn’t live long and prosper. Retirement from MI6 was a three-by-eight piece of land and a bed six feet under, not a secret, off-the-grid cabin in the Great North Woods with a prepper’s pantry, a growing library of first editions, and an arsenal that had taken half of his life to amass.
His trip to Canada would have to wait.
Alexei let his mask drop for a moment so brief, Simon almost missed it. Whatever this was, it wasn’t good.
The head of the Bratva in upstate New York looked out the bank of bullet-proof windows. The clouds obscuring tonight’s full moon did nothing to dilute its effects. Driving Katya to Manhattan was lunacy.
He told Alexei so.
Papanov sighed heavily. “You are right,” he said, sounding weary and oddly torn. “You will not go there. When you leave here, you take her somewhere… and kill her.” He huffed a breath and tapped his fingers on his desk. “I do not need to know details. Send word when it is done.”
It was a bloody miracle that Simon managed to look like he didn’t care, that this was just another assignment, no different than the other jobs that he’d done for Papanov. But the men and women he’d killed before had earned it. They were criminals. Rivals. Chechen Mafia. Albanian Mafia. Hell, he’d even killed someone from the Visconti crime family who had somehow given offense.
Alexei narrowed his eyes. “You will do this, da?”
“Of course, I will. I just—”
“You wish to know.” Papanov pursed his lips, considering the wisdom in telling him. He rarely bothered with explanations unless his blood pressure was up and he needed to vent.
“She is… too soft for this,” he said, waving an imperious hand. “It was… mistake to bring her here.”
Papanov had had her since she was fourteen. He’d gotten bored or annoyed or both. Clearly, he didn’t like her asking to fix her broken bears. After nine years of statutory rape and forced consent, he was discarding Katya as casually as a toy that he’d outgrown. The trouble was, he couldn’t pass his plaything down, and he didn’t dare release her. His mouseling was a liability. She knew too much. She’d seen too much for him to ever let her go.