Madison Layle's Blog, page 3
July 3, 2012
Spice It Up
He asked her to move in with him; she asked him to be her Dom.
ISBN: 978-1-60088-760-4
Buy the eBook
George Morgan smelled the mouth-watering aroma of food before he slipped the key into the lock of the front door to his townhouse. He smiled to himself as he walked in. “Honey, I’m home.”
His heart swelled with love as Sondra peeked her head around the corner from the kitchen, grinned at him, and said, “Hi, babe.” By the time he’d set his briefcase down and kicked off his shoes, she was walking toward him with that gorgeous smile on her face and a short shot of Black Label in a rocks glass in her hand.
Sweeping her into his arms, he kissed her deeply, cupping her butt in his palms and sinking his tongue into her mouth, tasting the sweet tang of the zinfandel she favored. “Mmm. Now that, you gorgeous woman, is how I like to be greeted when I get home from work.”
She chuckled and kissed him again, this time almost chastely, before she pulled from his arms. “Here. Take this. I’ve got to get back to the fish.”
He took the glass from her and sipped, sighed, and felt so…complete. The fact that she was here cooking him dinner could only mean one thing—she’d made up her mind. But Sondy liked to do things her own way, and he’d wait until she brought up the subject. He moseyed into the kitchen and watched her work at the counter, chopping veggies for salad, checking the fish filets every so often as they sizzled in a pan on the stove. When he moved up close, she glanced over her shoulder at him.
“What?”
“What, what?” he teased.
“What are you staring at?”
She’d obviously come over right after work, because she wore a silky, off-white blouse and matching slacks that hid her long, shapely legs but made her ass look good enough to eat.
“You. You look good there.”
She frowned at him. “Barefoot and in the kitchen?”
He laughed and cupped her butt again. “That, too.” He winked and then took another sip of his drink. “God, hon, you are gorgeous.”
She stood almost six feet tall in her bare feet, just a couple of inches shorter than him. She was built. From her long legs to her slender fingers, to the sexy, exotic tilt of her big, dark chocolate eyes, he’d never seen anything more gorgeous in his life. She had large breasts that made his mouth water, hips just right for holding on to, the perfect high, round ass, and when she wrapped herself around him, all long limbs and soft woman, he knew there was nowhere else in the world he ever wanted to be.
“You’re not so bad yourself, G.G. Why don’t you go sit down and stop making me nervous?”
He laughed again, pushing a handful of her long, thin braids to the side so he could kiss her neck, the little colorful beads woven into her hair clicking softly. He breathed in her musky, floral scent and sighed in contentment. “Nothing makes you nervous, so don’t even pretend.”
She batted her long eyelashes and tried to act very innocent, which failed when that wicked gleam entered her eyes.
“I love you,” he whispered against her lips.
She kissed him, softly, gently, and touched his cheek. “I love you too, George. Now, out of the kitchen or we’ll never eat.”
He waggled his eyebrows at her, which made her laugh, but he moved around the counter to the small dining room where she’d set the table with two place settings in his white stoneware and cheap stainless steel flatware. He wanted to buy her china and silver, diamonds and gold. Her agreeing to move in with him was just the beginning. He had an eighteen-month plan that would culminate in a wedding of her choosing, wherever she wanted, whatever she wanted, though he’d love to see her in a big white dress.
His Sondy had been raised in the projects, first generation American of Nigerian descent. But she’d fought her way out, went to college on scholarship, and now ran the HR department of a huge mortgage company, making a good enough living to buy her hard-working mother a small condo in the suburbs. He had never met a woman like her, and he knew she was the one for him. They were compatible in all ways. Never in his life had simply looking at a woman made him ready to drop to his knees and beg her to be his forever…until now.
She was very cautious, though, so he’d started with proposing she move in with him. She’d made it clear, very early in their relationship, that she wouldn’t jump into anything—except his bed, it seemed. She was the aggressor there, which had been thrilling, even though he’d known from day one she was special—too special to mess things up—and he’d tried valiantly to be a gentleman and not rush into bed.
She didn’t take relationships lightly. She needed her space, which he would give her even if they resided under the same roof. She’d had a fucked up childhood and some abusive relationships in her young adult years. Now she knew what she wanted, what she didn’t want, and she would do things on her terms. End of discussion. He’d waited until the six-month anniversary of their meeting before he even dared broach the subject of moving to the next step. He’d been terrified of pushing too hard. When she’d said she needed to think about it, he’d been a little afraid, but at least she hadn’t said no.
She was here, in his home—which she’d had the key to for a good four and half months—cooking him dinner the night after he’d asked her to move in. Things were looking good. Real good.
“Would you pour the water, please?” she asked, passing a glass pitcher of ice water onto the breakfast bar that separated the kitchen and dining room.
He got up and grabbed the carafe. She was very proper when they ate in. She could cook like no one’s business—he told her she should have been a restaurateur, at which she laughed so hard she snorted. When they ate in, she set the table, whether it was just take-out pizza or something fancy and meaningful, like tonight. They had their drinks; wine, beer, soda, milk, and always a glass of ice water. She said it didn’t matter what kind of shithole—her word—they’d lived in growing up, her mother had always set the table for dinner.
When she told him about the one Christmas dinner where she and her mother had split a can of baked beans her mother had stolen from the corner market, just so they wouldn’t starve, she said her mother served it on chipped china saucers she’d scrounged out of a trash bin. His heart had broken. And then when he met her mother, a scrappy little wiry woman with an accent so thick sometimes Sondy had to translate, he’d fallen in love all over again. He adored Asa as much as he did his own mother. Gracey Morgan, along with her second husband the retired army sergeant, had brought him and his two brothers up in an upper middle-class neighborhood, giving them anything they could possibly need.
Though his household had been a pretty strict one, with the sergeant keeping them all in line, they hadn’t had family dinnertime other than holidays, and those had been spent at one uncle’s or cousin’s or another. He and his brothers, all grouped in a four-year age range, had grown up close, got into fights often—mostly with each other—but had been involved in just about every after-school activity except cheerleading. Family time was going to one game or another together, not sitting at the dinner table…sharing.
He’d grown to love having dinner with Sondy, and often with her mother, sitting together, looking at each other over a wonderful meal—Sondy’s mother was a fabulous cook too—and sharing what had gone on in their day, their week, plans, wishes and dreams.
George planned to make sure the three of them, Sondy, Asa, and he, took a vacation to the Grand Canyon next summer. Sondy’s mother had once said it was the one place she dreamed of seeing—a spiritual place, she’d called it.
Sondy set a plate in front of him, placed one on the empty spot next to his, and turned around to grab her glass of wine.
“This smells wonderful, hon,” he said, spreading the paper napkin out and laying it over his lap. Grilled tilapia with a golden brown coating of panko, lightly buttered roasted red potatoes with onions and garlic, asparagus spears, and a small bowl of green salad. He even loved her green salad, because she put everything in it. This time he could see sliced green grapes and some dried cranberries. The vinegar dressings she made from scratch were to die for.
“I tried a new recipe for the fish,” she said as she spread her own napkin and picked up her fork. “There’s a little something in there that should be a surprise.”
He smiled at her and reached for her hand. “I’m glad you’re here, Sondy. And I like anything you cook.”
She smiled, but it was small and didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Uh oh.
“Honey?” he said softly. “You okay?”
She nodded, squeezed his hand, then pulled away and picked up the butter knife.
He watched her eat with precision for a few moments. She used the knife to cut the fish, even though it was so tender it practically fell apart. She cut her potatoes, already in bite-sized pieces, into smaller pieces. She poked her fork into her salad a couple times, picking up just the right combination of pieces.
Her eyes lifted, and she said, “What?”
He smiled. “I just like watching you.”
She put the forkful of veggies in her mouth and slowly chewed while keeping eye contact.
His gut tightened, and he couldn’t exactly figure out why. Something wasn’t right.
Oh, God. Was she going to say no? Was this dinner to soften the blow? She didn’t want to live with him? He set his fork down as the taste of the few bites he’d taken turned sour in his mouth. He lifted his glass of Black Label and drained it.
Sondra took of a sip of her wine.
“You’re not moving in, are you?” he asked.
She swallowed. “Please, eat first.”
He closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath as his heart shattered. “I can’t eat now. Just tell me, get it over with.” She loved him, he knew she did, so why couldn’t she commit? She’d had it bad, but she was in her midthirties now, and he thought she’d gotten over the trauma of asshole men who’d taken advantage of an innocent, young, scared—
“I love you, George.”
“But?”
She took another bite of fish, another bite of potatoes. Obviously the decision to rip out his heart didn’t affect her appetite. Finally, she set her fork aside, demurely wiped her mouth with her napkin, and said, “There’s something…I need…” She let out a tiny laugh and glanced away.
His stomach clenched so hard he thought he might throw up. “What do you need?”
Sondra was never nervous, never acted like this. She’d been straightforward from the moment he met her. Assured of herself in all things. “I’ll do anything, honey.” He leaned forward and picked up her hand from her lap. “Anything at all.”
“This was easier when I practiced it in my head.” She squeezed his hand then stood up and disappeared down the hallway. He waited, not so patiently, for her to return, carrying a black plastic shopping bag.
She sat back down, pushed her plate aside, and set the bag on the table in front of her. Finally she looked at him. “George,” she said softly. “Do you know what BDSM is?”
He choked. Literally. He gasped and started coughing.
“Oh…” Sondra picked up his glass of water and held it out to him, which he took and gulped.
Eyes watering, he met her gaze again. “What did you say?”
She licked her full lips, her pretty tongue so pink against her dark skin. “From your reaction, I think you heard me.”
He cleared his throat a couple of times. “BDSM. As in the whole bondage thing?”
She nodded. “Yes. Bondage, Domination, Discipline, Submission, Masochism.”
George shut his eyes as a cold sweat popped out on his forehead, his gut tightening. She’d found out. Dear God above, she’d found out his dirty, not so little, secret. It was over. He’d never see her again. “Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse with suppressed emotion. “Yes, I know what it is.”
“How much do you know about it?”
He opened his eyes, wanting to yell at her. She didn’t play games, so why this? To see if he’d be honest? What did it matter? His sweet, beautiful Sondra would run now. His once abused Sondra…
“I know what it is, Sondra,” he said honestly.
“Have you ever…” She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth. “Have you ever experimented?”
He ground his teeth and fisted his hands against his thighs. “Yes.”
A small smile flitted across her lips. “Oh, good.” And then her smile grew. “I was worried something like this would turn you off.”
It took a long moment for his brain to catch up with her words. “What are you talking about?”
She smiled even more now. “Okay, that was the hard part.” She seemed to be talking more to herself than to him as she reached into the black plastic bag and withdrew a book. It had a black and white cover with a pair of bound hands. The title was in an odd script that he couldn’t read upside down. “I love you, George. You’re…almost perfect.”
He frowned, so confused his head started to hurt.
“But there’s something missing in my life—in our life together—and it’s a deal breaker for me.”
“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”
“I know.” She reached to his lap and picked up his right hand in hers, bringing it to the tabletop. “I know, and I’m so afraid what I have to say will make you run. I was worried I’d have to start from the beginning, explaining what BDSM is and everything, and I’m glad I don’t have to go back that far. But I got you this book.” She pushed it across the table so it sat next to his plate. “It explains the psychology behind it, so you don’t think I’m completely messed up in the head for wanting—needing—this.
George was pretty sure he was going to throw up.
“I love you.”
“You’ve said that.”
“I know you love me, and you want me to move in with you.”
That was the plan. He nodded.
“I have…” She licked her lips, a nervous habit he’d never seen from her in the six months they’d been together. “I have a request. A need.”
“Tell me.”
She squeezed his hand. “I need to be dominated.”
George surged out of his chair and moved away from the table, into the kitchen and the liquor cabinet, and pulled out the bottle of Black Label.
“George?”
Fuck it. He didn’t bother getting his glass. He unscrewed the lid and tipped the bottle to his lips.
“George!” Sondra grabbed the bottle from his hand, splashing some of the alcohol on his face and shirt.
He turned to face her, his ears ringing, his heart thudding. “You can’t be serious, Sondra. You can’t mean that. After the life you’ve had, the…the abuse. You can’t want to be dominated. You’re the most unsubmissive woman I’ve ever met.”
She set the bottle of alcohol on the counter and took both of his hands in hers. “You need to read that book. Please. It has nothing to do with being strong or submissive in the real world. This is something I need in our private life. In the bedroom. I’m not into the whole living-as-a-slave thing or anything.”
She chuckled, and he winced. The thought of his Nubian goddess as a slave made him sick.
“This has to do with needing a man to…” She licked her lips again. “Oh, God, George.” She leaned against his chest and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face against his neck. “Please be open-minded about this.”
She sounded so desperate. Unsure of herself. It killed him. This was not his Sondy. His strong, strong-willed woman.
“I just need you to…”
He ran his hands up and down her arms. “What do you need?”
She loosened her grip around him and leaned back to look into his eyes. “I need you to overpower me. Dominate me.” She swallowed and slowly blinked. “You are the man of my dreams, and no one has ever treated me the way you do. You respect me, love me, make me feel like a princess. But I need…more.”
“You were abused.”
“Because he was a bastard who tricked me into believing he was a Dom. He wasn’t a Dom; he was a control freak who liked hurting women.”
“You didn’t tell me that.”
“I was embarrassed. I made a mistake.”
“What if you’re making a mistake now?”
“The only mistake I’d be making is if I moved in with you, committed to you, and had issues I hadn’t talked to you about.”
“I didn’t know you weren’t happy in the bedroom. I’ve always…I tried to be an unselfish lover.”
“You are. You’re amazing. It’s me who has the problem. I like a little pain with my pleasure.”
He started to shake his head, but she grabbed his face. “Don’t say no. Please, George, don’t say no like that.” It was the tears, making her eyes extra shiny, that stopped him. She didn’t cry. She was the strongest person he knew. “Give it a chance,” she whispered. “Please. Because this is a deal breaker for me.”
“You can’t be serious.” He throat was so thick with suppressed fear he practically croaked the words.
A tear dripped from her eye and rolled down her cheek.
“Oh, God.” He pulled her against him and buried his face against her neck. “Don’t cry. Please don’t ever cry.”
She sniffed once and wound her arms around him. “I’m not crazy, George. I’m not. I got introduced to the lifestyle while in college, and then I sought counseling because I thought I was sick and depraved for craving it. I’m not. I’m normal. It’s fantasy for me. Only in the bedroom, not in my daily life. I don’t want to walk around the house naked all the time. I don’t want to wear a collar or anything. I just want—need—a man to dominate me more often than not in the bedroom. Tie me up, spank me, whip me, blindfold me, sexually torture me. I need this to be sexually fulfilled. You are a beautiful man, a loving man, and I wish I could ignore this part of me.” She pulled back again and cupped his face between her hands. “I realize this might not be fair to you, but it would be more unfair to me to commit to you when I know there’s something missing in my life, that I’d never be totally, completely fulfilled. I want you to be the only one. I want it more than anything.”
George closed his eyes and touched his forehead to hers. “Sondra… I…”
She put her fingers over his mouth to stop his words. “Read the book. Check out the rest of what’s in that bag.” She moved her fingers and kissed his lips oh so softly. “You know where to reach me.”
She moved out of his arms, but he kept hold of her wrist when she would have walked away from him. “And if I can’t?”
She dropped her gaze and pulled from his hand. “I think I’ve made that clear.” And then she walked out of the kitchen, and he stood there, listening to her put her shoes on and pick up her purse and keys from the side table in the hallway. The door quietly clicked closed behind her.
He grabbed the bottle of Black Label from the counter and tipped it again, taking a long swig that burned from his throat to his gut.
Five years ago he’d walked away from the lifestyle for good. Trained himself to be gentle with a woman. Tamed his need to dominate. It had become a drug to him, and like a drug, he’d needed more and more and more of it. Until one night he’d gone too far.
He was terrified his addiction, if he gave in to it even a little, would consume him once again.
He wasn’t sure he could do that for anyone, even the love of his life.
Carrying the bottle, he went back to the table, picked up the black bag by the bottom and dumped it out. Silk ties, a blindfold, faux fur-covered handcuffs, and a sleek little vibrator. He ran his index finger over the smooth material of the blindfold and shuddered.
He asked her to move in with him; she asked him to be her...
He asked her to move in with him; she asked him to be her Dom.
ISBN: 978-1-60088-760-4
Buy the eBook
George Morgan smelled the mouth-watering aroma of food before he slipped the key into the lock of the front door to his townhouse. He smiled to himself as he walked in. “Honey, I’m home.”
His heart swelled with love as Sondra peeked her head around the corner from the kitchen, grinned at him, and said, “Hi, babe.” By the time he’d set his briefcase down and kicked off his shoes, she was walking toward him with that gorgeous smile on her face and a short shot of Black Label in a rocks glass in her hand.
Sweeping her into his arms, he kissed her deeply, cupping her butt in his palms and sinking his tongue into her mouth, tasting the sweet tang of the zinfandel she favored. “Mmm. Now that, you gorgeous woman, is how I like to be greeted when I get home from work.”
She chuckled and kissed him again, this time almost chastely, before she pulled from his arms. “Here. Take this. I’ve got to get back to the fish.”
He took the glass from her and sipped, sighed, and felt so…complete. The fact that she was here cooking him dinner could only mean one thing—she’d made up her mind. But Sondy liked to do things her own way, and he’d wait until she brought up the subject. He moseyed into the kitchen and watched her work at the counter, chopping veggies for salad, checking the fish filets every so often as they sizzled in a pan on the stove. When he moved up close, she glanced over her shoulder at him.
“What?”
“What, what?” he teased.
“What are you staring at?”
She’d obviously come over right after work, because she wore a silky, off-white blouse and matching slacks that hid her long, shapely legs but made her ass look good enough to eat.
“You. You look good there.”
She frowned at him. “Barefoot and in the kitchen?”
He laughed and cupped her butt again. “That, too.” He winked and then took another sip of his drink. “God, hon, you are gorgeous.”
She stood almost six feet tall in her bare feet, just a couple of inches shorter than him. She was built. From her long legs to her slender fingers, to the sexy, exotic tilt of her big, dark chocolate eyes, he’d never seen anything more gorgeous in his life. She had large breasts that made his mouth water, hips just right for holding on to, the perfect high, round ass, and when she wrapped herself around him, all long limbs and soft woman, he knew there was nowhere else in the world he ever wanted to be.
“You’re not so bad yourself, G.G. Why don’t you go sit down and stop making me nervous?”
He laughed again, pushing a handful of her long, thin braids to the side so he could kiss her neck, the little colorful beads woven into her hair clicking softly. He breathed in her musky, floral scent and sighed in contentment. “Nothing makes you nervous, so don’t even pretend.”
She batted her long eyelashes and tried to act very innocent, which failed when that wicked gleam entered her eyes.
“I love you,” he whispered against her lips.
She kissed him, softly, gently, and touched his cheek. “I love you too, George. Now, out of the kitchen or we’ll never eat.”
He waggled his eyebrows at her, which made her laugh, but he moved around the counter to the small dining room where she’d set the table with two place settings in his white stoneware and cheap stainless steel flatware. He wanted to buy her china and silver, diamonds and gold. Her agreeing to move in with him was just the beginning. He had an eighteen-month plan that would culminate in a wedding of her choosing, wherever she wanted, whatever she wanted, though he’d love to see her in a big white dress.
His Sondy had been raised in the projects, first generation American of Nigerian descent. But she’d fought her way out, went to college on scholarship, and now ran the HR department of a huge mortgage company, making a good enough living to buy her hard-working mother a small condo in the suburbs. He had never met a woman like her, and he knew she was the one for him. They were compatible in all ways. Never in his life had simply looking at a woman made him ready to drop to his knees and beg her to be his forever…until now.
She was very cautious, though, so he’d started with proposing she move in with him. She’d made it clear, very early in their relationship, that she wouldn’t jump into anything—except his bed, it seemed. She was the aggressor there, which had been thrilling, even though he’d known from day one she was special—too special to mess things up—and he’d tried valiantly to be a gentleman and not rush into bed.
She didn’t take relationships lightly. She needed her space, which he would give her even if they resided under the same roof. She’d had a fucked up childhood and some abusive relationships in her young adult years. Now she knew what she wanted, what she didn’t want, and she would do things on her terms. End of discussion. He’d waited until the six-month anniversary of their meeting before he even dared broach the subject of moving to the next step. He’d been terrified of pushing too hard. When she’d said she needed to think about it, he’d been a little afraid, but at least she hadn’t said no.
She was here, in his home—which she’d had the key to for a good four and half months—cooking him dinner the night after he’d asked her to move in. Things were looking good. Real good.
“Would you pour the water, please?” she asked, passing a glass pitcher of ice water onto the breakfast bar that separated the kitchen and dining room.
He got up and grabbed the carafe. She was very proper when they ate in. She could cook like no one’s business—he told her she should have been a restaurateur, at which she laughed so hard she snorted. When they ate in, she set the table, whether it was just take-out pizza or something fancy and meaningful, like tonight. They had their drinks; wine, beer, soda, milk, and always a glass of ice water. She said it didn’t matter what kind of shithole—her word—they’d lived in growing up, her mother had always set the table for dinner.
When she told him about the one Christmas dinner where she and her mother had split a can of baked beans her mother had stolen from the corner market, just so they wouldn’t starve, she said her mother served it on chipped china saucers she’d scrounged out of a trash bin. His heart had broken. And then when he met her mother, a scrappy little wiry woman with an accent so thick sometimes Sondy had to translate, he’d fallen in love all over again. He adored Asa as much as he did his own mother. Gracey Morgan, along with her second husband the retired army sergeant, had brought him and his two brothers up in an upper middle-class neighborhood, giving them anything they could possibly need.
Though his household had been a pretty strict one, with the sergeant keeping them all in line, they hadn’t had family dinnertime other than holidays, and those had been spent at one uncle’s or cousin’s or another. He and his brothers, all grouped in a four-year age range, had grown up close, got into fights often—mostly with each other—but had been involved in just about every after-school activity except cheerleading. Family time was going to one game or another together, not sitting at the dinner table…sharing.
He’d grown to love having dinner with Sondy, and often with her mother, sitting together, looking at each other over a wonderful meal—Sondy’s mother was a fabulous cook too—and sharing what had gone on in their day, their week, plans, wishes and dreams.
George planned to make sure the three of them, Sondy, Asa, and he, took a vacation to the Grand Canyon next summer. Sondy’s mother had once said it was the one place she dreamed of seeing—a spiritual place, she’d called it.
Sondy set a plate in front of him, placed one on the empty spot next to his, and turned around to grab her glass of wine.
“This smells wonderful, hon,” he said, spreading the paper napkin out and laying it over his lap. Grilled tilapia with a golden brown coating of panko, lightly buttered roasted red potatoes with onions and garlic, asparagus spears, and a small bowl of green salad. He even loved her green salad, because she put everything in it. This time he could see sliced green grapes and some dried cranberries. The vinegar dressings she made from scratch were to die for.
“I tried a new recipe for the fish,” she said as she spread her own napkin and picked up her fork. “There’s a little something in there that should be a surprise.”
He smiled at her and reached for her hand. “I’m glad you’re here, Sondy. And I like anything you cook.”
She smiled, but it was small and didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Uh oh.
“Honey?” he said softly. “You okay?”
She nodded, squeezed his hand, then pulled away and picked up the butter knife.
He watched her eat with precision for a few moments. She used the knife to cut the fish, even though it was so tender it practically fell apart. She cut her potatoes, already in bite-sized pieces, into smaller pieces. She poked her fork into her salad a couple times, picking up just the right combination of pieces.
Her eyes lifted, and she said, “What?”
He smiled. “I just like watching you.”
She put the forkful of veggies in her mouth and slowly chewed while keeping eye contact.
His gut tightened, and he couldn’t exactly figure out why. Something wasn’t right.
Oh, God. Was she going to say no? Was this dinner to soften the blow? She didn’t want to live with him? He set his fork down as the taste of the few bites he’d taken turned sour in his mouth. He lifted his glass of Black Label and drained it.
Sondra took of a sip of her wine.
“You’re not moving in, are you?” he asked.
She swallowed. “Please, eat first.”
He closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath as his heart shattered. “I can’t eat now. Just tell me, get it over with.” She loved him, he knew she did, so why couldn’t she commit? She’d had it bad, but she was in her midthirties now, and he thought she’d gotten over the trauma of asshole men who’d taken advantage of an innocent, young, scared—
“I love you, George.”
“But?”
She took another bite of fish, another bite of potatoes. Obviously the decision to rip out his heart didn’t affect her appetite. Finally, she set her fork aside, demurely wiped her mouth with her napkin, and said, “There’s something…I need…” She let out a tiny laugh and glanced away.
His stomach clenched so hard he thought he might throw up. “What do you need?”
Sondra was never nervous, never acted like this. She’d been straightforward from the moment he met her. Assured of herself in all things. “I’ll do anything, honey.” He leaned forward and picked up her hand from her lap. “Anything at all.”
“This was easier when I practiced it in my head.” She squeezed his hand then stood up and disappeared down the hallway. He waited, not so patiently, for her to return, carrying a black plastic shopping bag.
She sat back down, pushed her plate aside, and set the bag on the table in front of her. Finally she looked at him. “George,” she said softly. “Do you know what BDSM is?”
He choked. Literally. He gasped and started coughing.
“Oh…” Sondra picked up his glass of water and held it out to him, which he took and gulped.
Eyes watering, he met her gaze again. “What did you say?”
She licked her full lips, her pretty tongue so pink against her dark skin. “From your reaction, I think you heard me.”
He cleared his throat a couple of times. “BDSM. As in the whole bondage thing?”
She nodded. “Yes. Bondage, Domination, Discipline, Submission, Masochism.”
George shut his eyes as a cold sweat popped out on his forehead, his gut tightening. She’d found out. Dear God above, she’d found out his dirty, not so little, secret. It was over. He’d never see her again. “Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse with suppressed emotion. “Yes, I know what it is.”
“How much do you know about it?”
He opened his eyes, wanting to yell at her. She didn’t play games, so why this? To see if he’d be honest? What did it matter? His sweet, beautiful Sondra would run now. His once abused Sondra…
“I know what it is, Sondra,” he said honestly.
“Have you ever…” She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth. “Have you ever experimented?”
He ground his teeth and fisted his hands against his thighs. “Yes.”
A small smile flitted across her lips. “Oh, good.” And then her smile grew. “I was worried something like this would turn you off.”
It took a long moment for his brain to catch up with her words. “What are you talking about?”
She smiled even more now. “Okay, that was the hard part.” She seemed to be talking more to herself than to him as she reached into the black plastic bag and withdrew a book. It had a black and white cover with a pair of bound hands. The title was in an odd script that he couldn’t read upside down. “I love you, George. You’re…almost perfect.”
He frowned, so confused his head started to hurt.
“But there’s something missing in my life—in our life together—and it’s a deal breaker for me.”
“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”
“I know.” She reached to his lap and picked up his right hand in hers, bringing it to the tabletop. “I know, and I’m so afraid what I have to say will make you run. I was worried I’d have to start from the beginning, explaining what BDSM is and everything, and I’m glad I don’t have to go back that far. But I got you this book.” She pushed it across the table so it sat next to his plate. “It explains the psychology behind it, so you don’t think I’m completely messed up in the head for wanting—needing—this.
George was pretty sure he was going to throw up.
“I love you.”
“You’ve said that.”
“I know you love me, and you want me to move in with you.”
That was the plan. He nodded.
“I have…” She licked her lips, a nervous habit he’d never seen from her in the six months they’d been together. “I have a request. A need.”
“Tell me.”
She squeezed his hand. “I need to be dominated.”
George surged out of his chair and moved away from the table, into the kitchen and the liquor cabinet, and pulled out the bottle of Black Label.
“George?”
Fuck it. He didn’t bother getting his glass. He unscrewed the lid and tipped the bottle to his lips.
“George!” Sondra grabbed the bottle from his hand, splashing some of the alcohol on his face and shirt.
He turned to face her, his ears ringing, his heart thudding. “You can’t be serious, Sondra. You can’t mean that. After the life you’ve had, the…the abuse. You can’t want to be dominated. You’re the most unsubmissive woman I’ve ever met.”
She set the bottle of alcohol on the counter and took both of his hands in hers. “You need to read that book. Please. It has nothing to do with being strong or submissive in the real world. This is something I need in our private life. In the bedroom. I’m not into the whole living-as-a-slave thing or anything.”
She chuckled, and he winced. The thought of his Nubian goddess as a slave made him sick.
“This has to do with needing a man to…” She licked her lips again. “Oh, God, George.” She leaned against his chest and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face against his neck. “Please be open-minded about this.”
She sounded so desperate. Unsure of herself. It killed him. This was not his Sondy. His strong, strong-willed woman.
“I just need you to…”
He ran his hands up and down her arms. “What do you need?”
She loosened her grip around him and leaned back to look into his eyes. “I need you to overpower me. Dominate me.” She swallowed and slowly blinked. “You are the man of my dreams, and no one has ever treated me the way you do. You respect me, love me, make me feel like a princess. But I need…more.”
“You were abused.”
“Because he was a bastard who tricked me into believing he was a Dom. He wasn’t a Dom; he was a control freak who liked hurting women.”
“You didn’t tell me that.”
“I was embarrassed. I made a mistake.”
“What if you’re making a mistake now?”
“The only mistake I’d be making is if I moved in with you, committed to you, and had issues I hadn’t talked to you about.”
“I didn’t know you weren’t happy in the bedroom. I’ve always…I tried to be an unselfish lover.”
“You are. You’re amazing. It’s me who has the problem. I like a little pain with my pleasure.”
He started to shake his head, but she grabbed his face. “Don’t say no. Please, George, don’t say no like that.” It was the tears, making her eyes extra shiny, that stopped him. She didn’t cry. She was the strongest person he knew. “Give it a chance,” she whispered. “Please. Because this is a deal breaker for me.”
“You can’t be serious.” He throat was so thick with suppressed fear he practically croaked the words.
A tear dripped from her eye and rolled down her cheek.
“Oh, God.” He pulled her against him and buried his face against her neck. “Don’t cry. Please don’t ever cry.”
She sniffed once and wound her arms around him. “I’m not crazy, George. I’m not. I got introduced to the lifestyle while in college, and then I sought counseling because I thought I was sick and depraved for craving it. I’m not. I’m normal. It’s fantasy for me. Only in the bedroom, not in my daily life. I don’t want to walk around the house naked all the time. I don’t want to wear a collar or anything. I just want—need—a man to dominate me more often than not in the bedroom. Tie me up, spank me, whip me, blindfold me, sexually torture me. I need this to be sexually fulfilled. You are a beautiful man, a loving man, and I wish I could ignore this part of me.” She pulled back again and cupped his face between her hands. “I realize this might not be fair to you, but it would be more unfair to me to commit to you when I know there’s something missing in my life, that I’d never be totally, completely fulfilled. I want you to be the only one. I want it more than anything.”
George closed his eyes and touched his forehead to hers. “Sondra… I…”
She put her fingers over his mouth to stop his words. “Read the book. Check out the rest of what’s in that bag.” She moved her fingers and kissed his lips oh so softly. “You know where to reach me.”
She moved out of his arms, but he kept hold of her wrist when she would have walked away from him. “And if I can’t?”
She dropped her gaze and pulled from his hand. “I think I’ve made that clear.” And then she walked out of the kitchen, and he stood there, listening to her put her shoes on and pick up her purse and keys from the side table in the hallway. The door quietly clicked closed behind her.
He grabbed the bottle of Black Label from the counter and tipped it again, taking a long swig that burned from his throat to his gut.
Five years ago he’d walked away from the lifestyle for good. Trained himself to be gentle with a woman. Tamed his need to dominate. It had become a drug to him, and like a drug, he’d needed more and more and more of it. Until one night he’d gone too far.
He was terrified his addiction, if he gave in to it even a little, would consume him once again.
He wasn’t sure he could do that for anyone, even the love of his life.
Carrying the bottle, he went back to the table, picked up the black bag by the bottom and dumped it out. Silk ties, a blindfold, faux fur-covered handcuffs, and a sleek little vibrator. He ran his index finger over the smooth material of the blindfold and shuddered.
June 14, 2012
Falke’s Renegade – Contracted!
Yeaaa!
We want to let you all know that book 3 in the Puma Nights series, Falke’s Renegade, has been contracted by Carina Press!
We will keep you posted and let you know when Heidi’s story (yes, it’s this one!) will be available.
June 10, 2012
Falke’s Captive finals in the Passionate Plume
A scientist on the hunt for big cats. Two puma shifters looking for a mate. A wild summer fling becomes a life or death battle when three hearts collide.
Just got the announcement this morning that Puma Nights book #2 – Falke’s Captive finalled in the Passionate Plume contest from Passionate Ink RWA!
March 19, 2012
Women’s fiction should not be a controversy.
There seems to be a controversy right now—according to one of the major morning news shows—over a trilogy written by E. L. James. The first book in the trilogy, which is what they were talking about, is called Shades of Grey and it is an erotic BDSM women’s fantasy.
Seeing that I write erotic BDSM women’s fantasies, I definitely take exception to the media’s take on these “kinds” of books. Even Dr. Drew had to get his nose in there and say how wrong this kind of writing is.
First of all, Dr. Drew admitted he had never read the book, but he says it’s not right to show violence against women. And then of course, had to go into claiming that people who want to read about violence against women also fantasize about violence against children!
About this time my hackles were really up, and I’m bitching at the television while my dear husband is desperately trying to make himself as small as possible and not get drawn into my one-sided discussion with a piece of electronics.
I will say I have not read Shades of Grey. I have read many reviews and a few excerpts, and I do plan to give it a read eventually—when I have the time. What I can say is that I don’t see much difference in E. L. James’s stories and the Incognito series I wrote with Madison Layle. Erotic BDSM women’s fantasy. These stories are written by women, for women, not Dr. Drew! And if Dr. Drew would have shut up long enough to listen to the female relationship expert seated next to him on the studio’s couch, he would have to realize that the books are not written for his approval.
I have nothing against Dr. Drew and have watched his shows now and then. I am fuming because I don’t think a man should be brought in to give his holier than thou opinion on something he hasn’t read, doesn’t understand, and isn’t aimed at his demographic.
So let me voice my feeling about erotic BDSM women’s fantasies.
First of all, there is a whole sub culture in the real world that live the lifestyle of BDSM. This means it’s a very real thing, and I can only speak for Madi and myself, but when we were researching for our series, we did everything we could to stay as true to the lifestyle as possible. It is not sick and depraved; it is as normal to the participants as a suburban household is to the “average married couple”. It does not condone violence against women. It’s based on a mutual agreement between consenting adults, and no one (in the real lifestyle) is ever “trapped” or “held captive” against his or her will. The BDSM lifestyle is not synonymous with sexual crimes like rape, human trafficking, or domestic abuse.
Now, on to these books we write for women. As a romance author, I can attest to the fact that sex sells. Women, free-willed women in the 21st century, women ages 18-80 (yes, I have some fans in their 80’s) like to read about romance and the sex that comes with a healthy sexual/romantic relationship. I write some sweet romances where sex is not the biggest factor in the romance, and I write some not-so-sweet erotic fantasies where sex is very important in the story. That mutual sexual pleasure is the most important. And women, no matter what the “experts” say, fantasize about some pretty dark stuff sometimes and enjoy fantasizing about those things! There is nothing abnormal in fantasizing about mature, consenting adults sharing mutual sexual satisfaction, no matter what goes on in those fantasies.
If it were abnormal, I don’t think so many women would read my books. I don’t think that our BDSM series would have become a bestseller. I am glad that I write books that women can read and enjoy. I like the fact that I get an email now and then from a woman who tells me she loves the series and how it has spiced up her relationship, given her and her partner some ideas to share in the bedroom.
So back off, Dr. Drew, and the unknowing, misunderstanding American Media. Women know what they like to read. Writers want to please their readers. I always congratulate a writer who pushes the envelope and finds a new niche.
As for me, I’m going to keep writing fantasies for women—of all kinds!
Thanks to my readers. I do this for you.
Women's fiction should not be a controversy.
There seems to be a controversy right now—according to one of the major morning news shows—over a trilogy written by E. L. James. The first book in the trilogy, which is what they were talking about, is called Shades of Grey and it is an erotic BDSM women's fantasy.
Seeing that I write erotic BDSM women's fantasies, I definitely take exception to the media's take on these "kinds" of books. Even Dr. Drew had to get his nose in there and say how wrong this kind of writing is.
First of all, Dr. Drew admitted he had never read the book, but he says it's not right to show violence against women. And then of course, had to go into claiming that people who want to read about violence against women also fantasize about violence against children!
About this time my hackles were really up, and I'm bitching at the television while my dear husband is desperately trying to make himself as small as possible and not get drawn into my one-sided discussion with a piece of electronics.
I will say I have not read Shades of Grey. I have read many reviews and a few excerpts, and I do plan to give it a read eventually—when I have the time. What I can say is that I don't see much difference in E. L. James's stories and the Incognito series I wrote with Madison Layle. Erotic BDSM women's fantasy. These stories are written by women, for women, not Dr. Drew! And if Dr. Drew would have shut up long enough to listen to the female relationship expert seated next to him on the studio's couch, he would have to realize that the books are not written for his approval.
I have nothing against Dr. Drew and have watched his shows now and then. I am fuming because I don't think a man should be brought in to give his holier than thou opinion on something he hasn't read, doesn't understand, and isn't aimed at his demographic.
So let me voice my feeling about erotic BDSM women's fantasies.
First of all, there is a whole sub culture in the real world that live the lifestyle of BDSM. This means it's a very real thing, and I can only speak for Madi and myself, but when we were researching for our series, we did everything we could to stay as true to the lifestyle as possible. It is not sick and depraved; it is as normal to the participants as a suburban household is to the "average married couple". It does not condone violence against women. It's based on a mutual agreement between consenting adults, and no one (in the real lifestyle) is ever "trapped" or "held captive" against his or her will. The BDSM lifestyle is not synonymous with sexual crimes like rape, human trafficking, or domestic abuse.
Now, on to these books we write for women. As a romance author, I can attest to the fact that sex sells. Women, free-willed women in the 21st century, women ages 18-80 (yes, I have some fans in their 80's) like to read about romance and the sex that comes with a healthy sexual/romantic relationship. I write some sweet romances where sex is not the biggest factor in the romance, and I write some not-so-sweet erotic fantasies where sex is very important in the story. That mutual sexual pleasure is the most important. And women, no matter what the "experts" say, fantasize about some pretty dark stuff sometimes and enjoy fantasizing about those things! There is nothing abnormal in fantasizing about mature, consenting adults sharing mutual sexual satisfaction, no matter what goes on in those fantasies.
If it were abnormal, I don't think so many women would read my books. I don't think that our BDSM series would have become a bestseller. I am glad that I write books that women can read and enjoy. I like the fact that I get an email now and then from a woman who tells me she loves the series and how it has spiced up her relationship, given her and her partner some ideas to share in the bedroom.
So back off, Dr. Drew, and the unknowing, misunderstanding American Media. Women know what they like to read. Writers want to please their readers. I always congratulate a writer who pushes the envelope and finds a new niche.
As for me, I'm going to keep writing fantasies for women—of all kinds!
Thanks to my readers. I do this for you.
March 5, 2012
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February 26, 2012
Alaskan Nights
Isabella thought the wilds of Alaska the perfect place to be alone…
Buy the eBook from All Romance Ebooks
Excerpt:
Brandon Wilks compared the lay of the land below him with his chart, making sure he was still on course. Drizzling rain battered the rented Piper Super Cub’s windscreen, and visibility had been getting worse for the last half hour.
The hills north ofFairbanksrose steadily as the clouds lowered to meet them. A quick calculation told him those clouds had pushed him down to only two hundred feet above the ground. His gut told him this wasn’t good.
The weather briefer safe and dry back inFairbankscould look forward to a few choice words about the accuracy of his forecast whenBrandongot back to the airport. Another two hours, though, and he’d be on the tarmac. Tomorrow morning he would head back to the Lower 48, back to his life, back to his job. Back to reality and away from the land he loved.
Brandonlooked out his side window and watched the scrub trees pass by below him. Off the left wing a massive herd of caribou roamed over the tundra. This far north, fall tended to come early, and spring was always late. The ducks, geese, and graceful white swans gathered on the lakes and ponds preparing for their flight south, even though it was only mid-August.
From the icy tips of the distant mountain ranges, to the crystal-clear lakes and shining ribbons of rivers and streams winding from the ancient glaciers into the wet lowlands, even the wide, lonely expanses of northern tundra, every bit of Alaskacalled to him like a beacon flashing Home. It flowed through him like a sweet, healing balm, soothing parts of him he hadn’t realized had become so battered and bruised.
Like his soul.
A flock of geese took flight directly ahead, breaking him out of his reverie. At his low altitude, he couldn’t dodge the birds, and a fifteen-pound Canadian goose exploded through the windscreen with the impact of a cinder block.Brandon’s head and chest took the brunt of the bird’s impact as the cockpit filled with blood and feathers.
The Cub couldn’t sustain flight with no windshield. He was going down.
Blinking blood from his eyes—unsure if it was his or the goose’s—he frantically searched for a place to set down. Wind the strength of a tornado tore through the cockpit so loud he would never get a Mayday call off, even if he could find the radio mike.
~*~*~
Isabella Hammond sat on the porch, staring into her now cold mug of cocoa, in a chair made from hand-carved diamond willow and caribou hide, created by an artisan in years long gone by. Her foot propped on the bottom board of the porch’s handrail, she sat in the quiet afternoon gloom listening to the light rain drip, drip, drip off the roof over the tiny, one-room log cabin.
The cabin sat at the southern end ofIceWormLake, and she’d walked the less than four-mile circumference around the edge several times in the past week. Scraggly black spruce dotted the tundra, willow brush grew thick along the banks, and stunted birch and cottonwood sprang up here and there along the glacial stream that fed into the lake.
Blueberries and lowbush cranberries were just starting to ripen on the sloping hillsides surrounding her miniature oasis, and the air was thick with the scent of rain and tree sap. The thirsty moss soaked up the drizzle as if the ground were one big sponge. Hiking would gain her nothing but wet feet and clothes today, so here she sat with too many thoughts in her head and nothing to do but swat the errant mosquito that dared to defy her layer of bug repellant.
When a friend back inSan Franciscosuggested a flying service that would take her to a remote cabin in the Alaskan wilderness—someplace safe and secluded from any living being—she’d jumped at the prospect of spending a month in the wilds. In a place she’d never been. Alone to think.
And think… And think.
This trip had been a mistake. She shouldn’t be here. Even though she wasn’t sure where she belonged, this was definitely not it. She’d hoped solitude would help her gather her thoughts, force her to figure out what she was going to do with her life now that Cameron was dead, but all she’d found was intense silence and nightmares that invaded her waking hours.
The past seven days had seemed an eternity. For the first time in her life she’d discovered the meaning of loneliness. In the past when she’d sought respite and solitude,Cam had always been nearby, awaiting her return. The knowledgeCam would never again be waiting for her return engulfed her soul in a shroud of desolation from which she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to escape.
Uncle Cam, I need you!
She laid her head back, squeezed her eyes shut, and let the pain sweep through her. New tears streamed down her cheeks, adding to the tracks of old ones long since dried. No use fighting the pain, she’d come to learn.
Once again she was transported back in time.
Steamy, sticky heat of the Central American rain forest surrounded her. The sickly sweet aroma of rotting foliage turned her stomach. Bird calls and the insistent hum of insects rang loud and clear, pierced her brain, branding her forever.
And then the men appeared. Eight of them standing in their path, wearing torn, tattered military fatigues. Dirty, reeking of alcohol and sweat, they grabbed the group of reporters. Their rifles silenced those who dared speak out. Isabella andCamwere hauled back to the guerilla camp, their Brazilian guides murdered before their eyes.
The tears came again, as they always did when she remembered, hard and hot and fast against her chilled skin. Her only relative. Her closest friend. The man who’d laid down his life for her. The man who’d taken in a scared, parentless twelve year old and raised her as his own, was gone.
Isabella surged to her feet, swiping the tears away with her fists. Stop! She would not let the pain eat her to death. She couldn’t. Cam wouldn’t want it. Cam would tell her to go on, find a life, live that life.
But what am I going to do?
A strange noise pulled her from her thoughts.
Swiping her sleeve over her wet eyes, she stepped from under the sheltering overhang onto the top step of the porch and searched the horizon. The sound buzzed like the small, single-engine plane that had brought her to the cabin. But the engine kept growing louder then fading away, as if someone stomped on the gas then let up again. The plane sputtered wildly as it appeared through the drizzling rain and heavy, pewter-gray clouds just above the treetops at the north end of the lake.
Her ride wasn’t supposed to return for another three weeks. The grizzled bush pilot who’d dropped her there had sworn she was well off any normal flight pattern and, therefore, ensured the peace and quiet she’d demanded when she booked her stay. She hadn’t heard any sound other than twittering birds, chattering squirrels, that annoying high-pitched whine of mosquitoes, and the soft lapping water of the lake for seven long days. Literally in the middle of nowhere,IceWormLakesat somewhere a couple hundred miles northwest ofFairbanksin a shallow bowl surrounded by low-lying hills.
The plane came down toward the lake. Too fast and too unsteady, its wings waved almost frantically side to side as it came straight toward her. And it didn’t have floats. The stupid pilot is going to land on the lake with tires?
The plane’s engine sputtered out, an unnatural silence falling over the lake. She watched, eyes wide with surprise and horror, her fists clenched at her sides, as it glided over the lake losing altitude. “Too fast,” she whispered. “You’re going too fast.”
The oversized tires touched the water then ricocheted back into the air like a rock skipping along the surface. The wings tilted to the right. It bounced again. The nose came down, and the plane dove forward into the lake. A massive wave crested, pushed by the force of the fuselage through the water, as the tail went over the top, completely inverting the plane.
Heart pounding, Isabella ran to the edge of the lake.
It sank slowly, bubbles cresting and spurting all around it. When the nose and the front tires touched bottom, the tail still stuck out of the water at an odd angle. The plane sat less than a hundred feet from the easy-sloping gravel beach where she stood.
Nothing moved but the bubbles breaking on the surface of the lake and waves lapping at the shore. No signs of life appeared from beneath the water’s surface.
Isabella kicked off her hiking boots, stripped out of her jeans and sweater, and charged into the water before any second thoughts could push their way into her mind. With a deep gulp of air, she dove down through the crystal clear water, doing her best to ignore the urge to gasp as the frigid water closed over her head.
When she reached the airplane, she saw a man inside. One man, no one else. The door under the wing was on the opposite side. After scrambling to the surface for a gulp of air, she pushed herself back down to tackle the door. It wouldn’t budge.
The windshield had been broken out. She pulled herself around to the front of the plane and leaned in through the window, ignoring the jagged shards of broken Plexiglas that gouged at her arms and side.
The man was big, the window wasn’t. Dear God, how would she get him out?
She tugged at his shoulders until she had to resurface for more air. Sputtering and coughing, she tried to think. Think! she told herself even as shivers racked her body. Seatbelt. He probably had on a seatbelt.
Diving back down, she levered herself through the window once again and found his seatbelt. It had a central point where his lap belt and shoulder harness clipped together. After struggling to rotate the buckle, she managed to pull it open just as she used the last bit of air in her lungs.
The guy started floating up. Grabbing the shoulders of his shirt, Isabella struggled backwards out the window opening, tugging him along behind her. His shoulders were wide, but with a little twisting and turning, she got him through the window. As she pulled him through the opening, she used the wing to lever herself to the surface, hauling him along by the collar of his flannel shirt.
Breaking through the surface, Isabella gulped air into her burning lungs.
The plane began to shift.
Wrapping one arm around the man’s neck, she shoved off the side of the plane as hard as she could. The plane continued falling over onto its back and settled to the floor of the lake, completely submerged beneath the water.
Struggling through a one-armed backstroke, she dragged the man’s dead weight with her. Oh, God, please don’t let him be dead. Her toes touched the rocky lake bottom. Heaving, coughing, her limbs shaking from exertion, adrenaline, and the bitterly cold water, she stumbled backwards, dragging the man’s limp body up the gravely beach. Slipping on her cold-numbed feet, she landed hard on her butt, the man draped over her legs, his face against her thigh.
She didn’t feel any breath on her cold, wet skin.
He just lay there, still as death.
Isabella scrambled from under him and rolled him onto his back. Her fingers on his throat, her ear next to his nose, she felt no pulse, heard no breath.
As she’d learned in CPR class, she laced her fingers together and began chest compressions. She’d always been a stickler about keeping up her first aid certifications because of the places she andCamtraveled. There was no way to know if medical help would be nearby. Usually it wasn’t.
On the second compression, a bubble of water expelled from his mouth. Grabbing the front on his shirt, she jerked him onto his side to keep him from choking. He gagged, convulsed as he vomited water, then lay utterly still once again.
He was breathing. She felt for a pulse. His heart was beating, though not very strong.
“Come on, come on, wake up!” She lightly slapped his whisker-roughened cheek.
Nothing.
She glanced up at the cabin from where she sat. It seemed very far away all of a sudden. Rolling the man onto his back, she noticed something off about his left shoulder. She ran her hands over him, and her stomach flip-flopped. Dear Lord, his shoulder was dislocated.
Okay. She’d had to resetCam’s shoulder once when they’d been in theAndesand he’d taken a fall. He’d talked her through it, though. Biting her bottom lip, she wished he were here now to help her.
Her stomach took another dip.
The man wore an open, red plaid flannel shirt over a black T-shirt. She needed to get him out of the flannel to see better. Heaving him up on his right side, she yanked on his sleeve, trying to pull it off, until she realized that politely removing the soggy shirt would be impossible. She grabbed the sleeve of the shirt and the shoulder and jerked as hard as she could. The sleeve ripped away at the seam.
Okay. Better. She finished removing it and then shoved him down onto his back.
She checked his pulse again. Getting stronger. “Don’t wake up now,” she pleaded. “If you just wait a few minutes, this will be easier on both of us.”
Sitting on her bottom, the gravel digging into her flesh, she positioned her foot in his armpit and wrapped her fingers around his arm just above the wrist. Her stomach threatened to return her breakfast.
“Breathe,Hammond. Breathe,” she instructed herself between chattering teeth. “Come on,Cam, help me here.”
Slow, steady pressure. She pulled, and pulled. His arm gave with a soft pop. The sound made her gag, but it was over. His arm was back where it belonged. With a sob of relief, she raised his arm and tested its movement.
“Okay, okay. You can wake up now,” she told him as she swiped at her tearing eyes with her forearm.
He didn’t move. In fact, he looked very peaceful. Except for the lump over his right eyebrow. Talk about a goose egg. “Don’t you dare die,” she whispered, running her fingers lightly over the bump.
Shivering uncontrollably now, she ran her hands over the rest of his body to check for bones that didn’t feel right. He didn’t seem to be bleeding. Nothing else stuck out at odd angles. Gently spearing her hands through his thick, dark hair, she used her fingertips to check his scalp for more bumps but found none. Just the one on his forehead.
His hair was long, hanging over his collar, very dark brown and soft. He had a diamond stud earring in his left ear. The watch on his left wrist wasn’t overly expensive, but it was waterproof and still ticking.
Isabella said rose up off the gravel, her skin so cold she couldn’t feel the blood that oozed from the scrapes on her knees. She stripped off her waterlogged socks, bra and underwear and pulled on her slightly damp jeans and sweatshirt, then stuck her bare feet into the blessedly almost dry hiking boots.
Rubbing her arms, trying to get some warmth back into her, she wondered what the hell she was supposed to do with him now. She had to get him into the cabin and out of his wet clothes. She didn’t want to save his life just for him to get hypothermia or pneumonia or whatever else he could get from cold-water exposure. Especially if she was going to be stuck with him until her ride returned in three weeks. She didn’t even want to contemplate what kind of sickness he could get from a lungful of untreated lake water.
“Well, I guess this solves my loneliness problem, now doesn’t it?” she muttered, hands on her hips as she stood over him and tried to decide the best way to move him to the cabin. “Please, don’t get up.” She shook her head at her wandering tongue. “Jeez, I’m losing it.”
Clomping up to the cabin in her untied boots, she looked under the building. The small structure sat on four-foot tall stilts, the area beneath serving as a storage area. She’d stashed a blue plastic tarpaulin there when she’d arrived. Originally intended as a rain jacket for her tent if she decided to go off for an overnighter, it would have to do. She didn’t have anything else big enough or strong enough to drag the guy.
Returning to the unconscious man’s side she tried, once again, to wake him. They were only fifty or so feet from the front of the cabin, but he was a big man. Not fat, not at all. In fact, he seemed a little too thin for his size. His cheeks, covered in about two day’s growth of whiskers, were slightly sunken, which enhanced his masculine, almost sensual lips. His stomach, flat and solid, indented slightly below his ribs. He had sinewy arms and a long, lean body. Even his wet, denim-encased thighs looked impressive. Rather handsome, she thought as she stared at his wide shoulders and shapely pecs.
She’d been hauling packs and traipsing through jungles, up mountains and through deserts for ten years withCamand had always been proud of her physical strength and stamina. Never had she struggled to keep up with her male traveling companions. But after spending a month in a hovel, being fed nothing more than rice and flatbread, drinking water that was tainted with Lord only knew what and having lost a good twenty pounds, she wasn’t exactly up to her physical best.
She’d come here to regain her strength and the missing weight. To eat her fill of all the fresh fish she could catch in the stream and lake, and gorge herself on the potatoes that had been flown in with her. To hike up the hills and around the lake. To strengthen the muscles that had nearly atrophied with cramped quarters and malnutrition.
Dragging around a full-grown man had not been her expected choice of exercise.
Leaning down, hovering over the man’s face, she shouted, “It’s time to wake up!”
Isabella thought the wilds of Alaska the perfect place t...
Isabella thought the wilds of Alaska the perfect place to be alone…
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Excerpt:
Brandon Wilks compared the lay of the land below him with his chart, making sure he was still on course. Drizzling rain battered the rented Piper Super Cub's windscreen, and visibility had been getting worse for the last half hour.
The hills north ofFairbanksrose steadily as the clouds lowered to meet them. A quick calculation told him those clouds had pushed him down to only two hundred feet above the ground. His gut told him this wasn't good.
The weather briefer safe and dry back inFairbankscould look forward to a few choice words about the accuracy of his forecast whenBrandongot back to the airport. Another two hours, though, and he'd be on the tarmac. Tomorrow morning he would head back to the Lower 48, back to his life, back to his job. Back to reality and away from the land he loved.
Brandonlooked out his side window and watched the scrub trees pass by below him. Off the left wing a massive herd of caribou roamed over the tundra. This far north, fall tended to come early, and spring was always late. The ducks, geese, and graceful white swans gathered on the lakes and ponds preparing for their flight south, even though it was only mid-August.
From the icy tips of the distant mountain ranges, to the crystal-clear lakes and shining ribbons of rivers and streams winding from the ancient glaciers into the wet lowlands, even the wide, lonely expanses of northern tundra, every bit of Alaskacalled to him like a beacon flashing Home. It flowed through him like a sweet, healing balm, soothing parts of him he hadn't realized had become so battered and bruised.
Like his soul.
A flock of geese took flight directly ahead, breaking him out of his reverie. At his low altitude, he couldn't dodge the birds, and a fifteen-pound Canadian goose exploded through the windscreen with the impact of a cinder block.Brandon's head and chest took the brunt of the bird's impact as the cockpit filled with blood and feathers.
The Cub couldn't sustain flight with no windshield. He was going down.
Blinking blood from his eyes—unsure if it was his or the goose's—he frantically searched for a place to set down. Wind the strength of a tornado tore through the cockpit so loud he would never get a Mayday call off, even if he could find the radio mike.
~*~*~
Isabella Hammond sat on the porch, staring into her now cold mug of cocoa, in a chair made from hand-carved diamond willow and caribou hide, created by an artisan in years long gone by. Her foot propped on the bottom board of the porch's handrail, she sat in the quiet afternoon gloom listening to the light rain drip, drip, drip off the roof over the tiny, one-room log cabin.
The cabin sat at the southern end ofIceWormLake, and she'd walked the less than four-mile circumference around the edge several times in the past week. Scraggly black spruce dotted the tundra, willow brush grew thick along the banks, and stunted birch and cottonwood sprang up here and there along the glacial stream that fed into the lake.
Blueberries and lowbush cranberries were just starting to ripen on the sloping hillsides surrounding her miniature oasis, and the air was thick with the scent of rain and tree sap. The thirsty moss soaked up the drizzle as if the ground were one big sponge. Hiking would gain her nothing but wet feet and clothes today, so here she sat with too many thoughts in her head and nothing to do but swat the errant mosquito that dared to defy her layer of bug repellant.
When a friend back inSan Franciscosuggested a flying service that would take her to a remote cabin in the Alaskan wilderness—someplace safe and secluded from any living being—she'd jumped at the prospect of spending a month in the wilds. In a place she'd never been. Alone to think.
And think… And think.
This trip had been a mistake. She shouldn't be here. Even though she wasn't sure where she belonged, this was definitely not it. She'd hoped solitude would help her gather her thoughts, force her to figure out what she was going to do with her life now that Cameron was dead, but all she'd found was intense silence and nightmares that invaded her waking hours.
The past seven days had seemed an eternity. For the first time in her life she'd discovered the meaning of loneliness. In the past when she'd sought respite and solitude,Cam had always been nearby, awaiting her return. The knowledgeCam would never again be waiting for her return engulfed her soul in a shroud of desolation from which she wasn't sure she'd ever be able to escape.
Uncle Cam, I need you!
She laid her head back, squeezed her eyes shut, and let the pain sweep through her. New tears streamed down her cheeks, adding to the tracks of old ones long since dried. No use fighting the pain, she'd come to learn.
Once again she was transported back in time.
Steamy, sticky heat of the Central American rain forest surrounded her. The sickly sweet aroma of rotting foliage turned her stomach. Bird calls and the insistent hum of insects rang loud and clear, pierced her brain, branding her forever.
And then the men appeared. Eight of them standing in their path, wearing torn, tattered military fatigues. Dirty, reeking of alcohol and sweat, they grabbed the group of reporters. Their rifles silenced those who dared speak out. Isabella andCamwere hauled back to the guerilla camp, their Brazilian guides murdered before their eyes.
The tears came again, as they always did when she remembered, hard and hot and fast against her chilled skin. Her only relative. Her closest friend. The man who'd laid down his life for her. The man who'd taken in a scared, parentless twelve year old and raised her as his own, was gone.
Isabella surged to her feet, swiping the tears away with her fists. Stop! She would not let the pain eat her to death. She couldn't. Cam wouldn't want it. Cam would tell her to go on, find a life, live that life.
But what am I going to do?
A strange noise pulled her from her thoughts.
Swiping her sleeve over her wet eyes, she stepped from under the sheltering overhang onto the top step of the porch and searched the horizon. The sound buzzed like the small, single-engine plane that had brought her to the cabin. But the engine kept growing louder then fading away, as if someone stomped on the gas then let up again. The plane sputtered wildly as it appeared through the drizzling rain and heavy, pewter-gray clouds just above the treetops at the north end of the lake.
Her ride wasn't supposed to return for another three weeks. The grizzled bush pilot who'd dropped her there had sworn she was well off any normal flight pattern and, therefore, ensured the peace and quiet she'd demanded when she booked her stay. She hadn't heard any sound other than twittering birds, chattering squirrels, that annoying high-pitched whine of mosquitoes, and the soft lapping water of the lake for seven long days. Literally in the middle of nowhere,IceWormLakesat somewhere a couple hundred miles northwest ofFairbanksin a shallow bowl surrounded by low-lying hills.
The plane came down toward the lake. Too fast and too unsteady, its wings waved almost frantically side to side as it came straight toward her. And it didn't have floats. The stupid pilot is going to land on the lake with tires?
The plane's engine sputtered out, an unnatural silence falling over the lake. She watched, eyes wide with surprise and horror, her fists clenched at her sides, as it glided over the lake losing altitude. "Too fast," she whispered. "You're going too fast."
The oversized tires touched the water then ricocheted back into the air like a rock skipping along the surface. The wings tilted to the right. It bounced again. The nose came down, and the plane dove forward into the lake. A massive wave crested, pushed by the force of the fuselage through the water, as the tail went over the top, completely inverting the plane.
Heart pounding, Isabella ran to the edge of the lake.
It sank slowly, bubbles cresting and spurting all around it. When the nose and the front tires touched bottom, the tail still stuck out of the water at an odd angle. The plane sat less than a hundred feet from the easy-sloping gravel beach where she stood.
Nothing moved but the bubbles breaking on the surface of the lake and waves lapping at the shore. No signs of life appeared from beneath the water's surface.
Isabella kicked off her hiking boots, stripped out of her jeans and sweater, and charged into the water before any second thoughts could push their way into her mind. With a deep gulp of air, she dove down through the crystal clear water, doing her best to ignore the urge to gasp as the frigid water closed over her head.
When she reached the airplane, she saw a man inside. One man, no one else. The door under the wing was on the opposite side. After scrambling to the surface for a gulp of air, she pushed herself back down to tackle the door. It wouldn't budge.
The windshield had been broken out. She pulled herself around to the front of the plane and leaned in through the window, ignoring the jagged shards of broken Plexiglas that gouged at her arms and side.
The man was big, the window wasn't. Dear God, how would she get him out?
She tugged at his shoulders until she had to resurface for more air. Sputtering and coughing, she tried to think. Think! she told herself even as shivers racked her body. Seatbelt. He probably had on a seatbelt.
Diving back down, she levered herself through the window once again and found his seatbelt. It had a central point where his lap belt and shoulder harness clipped together. After struggling to rotate the buckle, she managed to pull it open just as she used the last bit of air in her lungs.
The guy started floating up. Grabbing the shoulders of his shirt, Isabella struggled backwards out the window opening, tugging him along behind her. His shoulders were wide, but with a little twisting and turning, she got him through the window. As she pulled him through the opening, she used the wing to lever herself to the surface, hauling him along by the collar of his flannel shirt.
Breaking through the surface, Isabella gulped air into her burning lungs.
The plane began to shift.
Wrapping one arm around the man's neck, she shoved off the side of the plane as hard as she could. The plane continued falling over onto its back and settled to the floor of the lake, completely submerged beneath the water.
Struggling through a one-armed backstroke, she dragged the man's dead weight with her. Oh, God, please don't let him be dead. Her toes touched the rocky lake bottom. Heaving, coughing, her limbs shaking from exertion, adrenaline, and the bitterly cold water, she stumbled backwards, dragging the man's limp body up the gravely beach. Slipping on her cold-numbed feet, she landed hard on her butt, the man draped over her legs, his face against her thigh.
She didn't feel any breath on her cold, wet skin.
He just lay there, still as death.
Isabella scrambled from under him and rolled him onto his back. Her fingers on his throat, her ear next to his nose, she felt no pulse, heard no breath.
As she'd learned in CPR class, she laced her fingers together and began chest compressions. She'd always been a stickler about keeping up her first aid certifications because of the places she andCamtraveled. There was no way to know if medical help would be nearby. Usually it wasn't.
On the second compression, a bubble of water expelled from his mouth. Grabbing the front on his shirt, she jerked him onto his side to keep him from choking. He gagged, convulsed as he vomited water, then lay utterly still once again.
He was breathing. She felt for a pulse. His heart was beating, though not very strong.
"Come on, come on, wake up!" She lightly slapped his whisker-roughened cheek.
Nothing.
She glanced up at the cabin from where she sat. It seemed very far away all of a sudden. Rolling the man onto his back, she noticed something off about his left shoulder. She ran her hands over him, and her stomach flip-flopped. Dear Lord, his shoulder was dislocated.
Okay. She'd had to resetCam's shoulder once when they'd been in theAndesand he'd taken a fall. He'd talked her through it, though. Biting her bottom lip, she wished he were here now to help her.
Her stomach took another dip.
The man wore an open, red plaid flannel shirt over a black T-shirt. She needed to get him out of the flannel to see better. Heaving him up on his right side, she yanked on his sleeve, trying to pull it off, until she realized that politely removing the soggy shirt would be impossible. She grabbed the sleeve of the shirt and the shoulder and jerked as hard as she could. The sleeve ripped away at the seam.
Okay. Better. She finished removing it and then shoved him down onto his back.
She checked his pulse again. Getting stronger. "Don't wake up now," she pleaded. "If you just wait a few minutes, this will be easier on both of us."
Sitting on her bottom, the gravel digging into her flesh, she positioned her foot in his armpit and wrapped her fingers around his arm just above the wrist. Her stomach threatened to return her breakfast.
"Breathe,Hammond. Breathe," she instructed herself between chattering teeth. "Come on,Cam, help me here."
Slow, steady pressure. She pulled, and pulled. His arm gave with a soft pop. The sound made her gag, but it was over. His arm was back where it belonged. With a sob of relief, she raised his arm and tested its movement.
"Okay, okay. You can wake up now," she told him as she swiped at her tearing eyes with her forearm.
He didn't move. In fact, he looked very peaceful. Except for the lump over his right eyebrow. Talk about a goose egg. "Don't you dare die," she whispered, running her fingers lightly over the bump.
Shivering uncontrollably now, she ran her hands over the rest of his body to check for bones that didn't feel right. He didn't seem to be bleeding. Nothing else stuck out at odd angles. Gently spearing her hands through his thick, dark hair, she used her fingertips to check his scalp for more bumps but found none. Just the one on his forehead.
His hair was long, hanging over his collar, very dark brown and soft. He had a diamond stud earring in his left ear. The watch on his left wrist wasn't overly expensive, but it was waterproof and still ticking.
Isabella said rose up off the gravel, her skin so cold she couldn't feel the blood that oozed from the scrapes on her knees. She stripped off her waterlogged socks, bra and underwear and pulled on her slightly damp jeans and sweatshirt, then stuck her bare feet into the blessedly almost dry hiking boots.
Rubbing her arms, trying to get some warmth back into her, she wondered what the hell she was supposed to do with him now. She had to get him into the cabin and out of his wet clothes. She didn't want to save his life just for him to get hypothermia or pneumonia or whatever else he could get from cold-water exposure. Especially if she was going to be stuck with him until her ride returned in three weeks. She didn't even want to contemplate what kind of sickness he could get from a lungful of untreated lake water.
"Well, I guess this solves my loneliness problem, now doesn't it?" she muttered, hands on her hips as she stood over him and tried to decide the best way to move him to the cabin. "Please, don't get up." She shook her head at her wandering tongue. "Jeez, I'm losing it."
Clomping up to the cabin in her untied boots, she looked under the building. The small structure sat on four-foot tall stilts, the area beneath serving as a storage area. She'd stashed a blue plastic tarpaulin there when she'd arrived. Originally intended as a rain jacket for her tent if she decided to go off for an overnighter, it would have to do. She didn't have anything else big enough or strong enough to drag the guy.
Returning to the unconscious man's side she tried, once again, to wake him. They were only fifty or so feet from the front of the cabin, but he was a big man. Not fat, not at all. In fact, he seemed a little too thin for his size. His cheeks, covered in about two day's growth of whiskers, were slightly sunken, which enhanced his masculine, almost sensual lips. His stomach, flat and solid, indented slightly below his ribs. He had sinewy arms and a long, lean body. Even his wet, denim-encased thighs looked impressive. Rather handsome, she thought as she stared at his wide shoulders and shapely pecs.
She'd been hauling packs and traipsing through jungles, up mountains and through deserts for ten years withCamand had always been proud of her physical strength and stamina. Never had she struggled to keep up with her male traveling companions. But after spending a month in a hovel, being fed nothing more than rice and flatbread, drinking water that was tainted with Lord only knew what and having lost a good twenty pounds, she wasn't exactly up to her physical best.
She'd come here to regain her strength and the missing weight. To eat her fill of all the fresh fish she could catch in the stream and lake, and gorge herself on the potatoes that had been flown in with her. To hike up the hills and around the lake. To strengthen the muscles that had nearly atrophied with cramped quarters and malnutrition.
Dragging around a full-grown man had not been her expected choice of exercise.
Leaning down, hovering over the man's face, she shouted, "It's time to wake up!"
February 13, 2012
Valentine Wish
Spicing up her marriage only takes sexy lingerie and a little nighttime magic.
ISBN: 978-1-60088-746-8
Buy the eBook
Excerpt
Marianne Corruthers sat in her twenty-year-old subcompact clunker in the parking lot of the Midtown Mall, staring at the flourished red and black printing on the window of the store she'd been trying to work up the nerve to enter for the last twenty minutes.
Dreams Come True, the window read. Red and pink sparkling hearts decorated the window display behind a mannequin dressed in a tasteful, yet barely there, black silk nightie with red lace trim. A red feather boa accented the outfit, as did black fishnet stockings held on by lacy red garters. Shoes—the kind her husband called fuck-me heels—in black with a good two-inch lift and six-inch heel, sat on the floor of the display as if kicked off in a perfectly sexy pile.
The window dressers here knew how to do it with style, Marianne thought. She'd been coming by here for nearly a month, a couple of days a week after work, trying to work up the nerve to go inside and see what was in there. What was behind the sexy, yet always tasteful, window display.
They sold other things besides lingerie. The small printing under the name of the store stated they had: Adult Novelties and More…
More.
That was all she wanted. Something more. And today being Valentine's Day would be the perfect time to do…more. Get more. Experience more.
What would Frank say if she walked into the bedroom in those fuck-me shoes and that silky, lacy black and red thing? What would he do? Would he drool? Be speechless? Attack her, throw her on the bed and ravish her?
Marianne shivered, and her pussy clenched at the thought. To be ravished…
She bit her lip.
Frank hadn't ravished her in too many years to count. Hell, they hadn't even had sex since before Christmas, and then she'd practically had to jump him. What guy would say no to a blowjob?
Her sexual frustration was darn near maximum capacity. Her fingers weren't doing the trick any longer. She really just wanted her husband to look at her with lust in his eyes again.
Then again, after twenty years, maybe it had all been used up.
She'd been a child bride. Just barely legal, less than a month out of high school, when she married Frank. He'd been older—by a whole three years—working at his dad's garage. He had cash to blow back then and treated her like a queen. Fucked her like she was a whore. God, she missed those days. The days when he'd walk in the door of their tiny apartment after work smelling of oil, monkey grease, and that green, abrasive hand cleanser, shove her against the wall and bury his tongue in her mouth. Times when they were so hot for each other they never made it out of the entryway and fucked like rabbits on the floor, on the sofa, on the kitchen table, anyplace with a flat surface, and sometimes not even that. The backseat of the car, against the wall, behind the bowling alley when they couldn't even make it to the car they were so hot for each other.
Twenty years later, they had a mortgage, a daughter in college they tried to help out, and Frank now ran his dad's garage since his father's heart attack a few years back. Marianne worked as a waitress part time, her tips paying for the groceries, and her meager wages going into retirement funds for the two of them.
They were both tired. Worn out before either of them reached forty. Frank was only forty but acted seventy most days. Came home from work after seven after the garage closed, sat in front of the television and ate whatever dinner she'd prepared for them, then took a shower and was asleep by nine. He was out of the house by seven in the morning. Six days a week. On the seventh, he rested, watched whatever sport was on TV, or went fishing with his dad, or hunting with his brother, or…almost anything not involving her because she worked most Sundays at the diner.
One of them had to do something to spice up their marriage or, she feared, they'd become like her parents. Resentful, hateful almost, residing in the same house but living completely separate lives.
Marianne wasn't in bad shape. She cooked healthy food for them, got a lot of exercise waiting tables, tried not to indulge in sweets—though that was tough when chocolate was not a bad substitute for love.
She shook her head. Frank still loved her. He always gave her a kiss when he came home from work. It might be on the forehead now rather than a tongue-dueling kiss, but he showed affection. Somewhat. A little peck, a quick hug before he left in the morning for work, a tender word now and then.
She felt loved.
She just didn't really feel…loved. Sex. She wanted sex! And she wanted lots and lots of it. Hot, hard, dirty, nasty, up-against-the-wall, teeth-crashing, boob-smashing, pelvic-grinding sex. She wanted to lie panting in his arms, their bodies stuck together with sweat, her panties ripped, teeth marks in her skin, fingernail marks in his.
Ohh, it had been so long!
Girding her nerve, she shoved open the car door into the blustery February wind and headed into Dreams Come True, hoping that hers would tonight. It wasn't as if she was asking to win the lottery; she just wanted a mind-numbing fuck from her husband.
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