By: Elizabeth SaFleur
Published by: Troll River Publications
When a man tells you who he is, believe him
Billionaire entertainment investor and resolute bachelor Derek Damon Wright learned at a young age women were trouble. He’s unprepared for dancer Samantha Rose who walks into his thirteenth, Washington DC nightclub opening with an authenticity and passion for life that quickly rocks his jaded, albeit privileged, world.
Samantha, an aerial artist and dance studio owner, hasn’t been lucky in love, and falling for the charismatic and Dominant Derek won’t draw her closer to her greatest dream of having a baby. Yet she’s helpless to resist his charm and sophisticated world of private jets, Caribbean islands and the sexual pleasures of dominance and submission.
As their whirlwind romance progresses, past mistakes rise up to threaten their future. Only when they rely on each other for safe haven do they find the answer to their dreams.
“Samantha, dim the lights.”
She wasted no time clicking off the fluorescents in the ceiling. The tiny white fairy lights she’d hung for ambience for her sexier classes remained on and bathed him in an eerily beautiful glow.
“When does your next class start?”
“Hmm. We’ll make it work. Go to the silks. The red ones.”
They were her longest pair, the ends pooled in a crimson puddle before a mirrored corner and connected by a big hook from the turreted ceiling. She placed herself between the two hanging ends and grasped them to steady herself. Had she just asked him to tie her up, in her studio, when anyone could walk in at any time?
He grasped the fabric above her fist and yanked on them, hard, as if checking their hold.
“They won’t come down.”
“I always check rigging.” His fingers slipped underneath her tee shirt and a rush of cool air hit her skin as he tugged down her yoga pants, taking her panties with them.
“Do I get to set any rules for—”
“No.” While soft, his voice broached no negotiation.
She yanked her feet out of the bunched up pants and kicked them to the side. “It’s my studio.”
“It’s my dance. Anticipation is half the game. Wondering what will happen next. When the next touch will come. How it will come.”
“This is a game?”
“Everything’s a game. Now we need to address a few things. Answer your questions. I know you have them.”
“About bondage and stuff? I’m kind of embarrassed to ask. It’d be easier if you were a woman right now.”
“I anticipated that. I have someone for you to talk with. Christiana Snow-almost-Brond.”
“Seriously? Christiana? I’d have never guessed.” One of her students was into BDSM. Who knew? Christiana only dropped into her classes occasionally. Perhaps she’d missed some signs along the way.
“Don’t let that innocent face fool you. Come to think of it, maybe you should ask me instead. I don’t want you to get any new ideas without me.”
“No, Christiana is a good suggestion. I will, if she’s willing.” She could use someone to talk to who wasn’t Derek. Now that she’d entered this relationship with him, if one could call it that, she’d go wherever he wanted to take her. She needed to know more about his lifestyle.
He cradled her cheek in one hand. “Until then will you trust me?”
“Good. We’ll go slow.” He grasped the cane chair she’d been sitting it earlier and placed it under the tent of the silks. After grabbing a handful of the red fabric, he motioned to the chair. “Sit. Knees apart, ankles hooked on the chair legs.”
The intensity of his eyes drove out any lingering thoughts about his intentions. Derek’s turn to Dominant energized her libido like no man had ever. The unmistakable, dark edge in his voice, the way his eyes cleared and spine straightened, flipped a switch inside her.
The chair creaked as she lowered herself to the seat. Her position put her at eye level with his chest. Yet his cock straining against the fabric of his pants caught her interest. The memory of him driving deep inside her—and her raw thoughts about where else she wanted that thick cock—broke free. She made a show of widening her legs, feeling every inch of the hard wood under her thighs. She circled one chair leg with one ankle. Then, the other.
He went to work.
While wrapping silk around each leg, he’d glance up occasionally to peer into her face. A second wrap with the fabric made her twitch. Watching his hands work—quickly and with confidence—drove more desire to places she rarely thought of while at work.
Oh, hell, her desire for him hadn’t abated one ounce after last night’s lap dance.
After he’d dropped her off, and gave her a kiss at the door that had numbed her lips, she’d made it to bed on quivery legs. She’d barely gotten her clothes off and crawled into bed before she touched herself. She’d never have fallen asleep without doing so. Hell, she got off twice, each orgasm called up by merely picturing his face, imagining his hands and his cock doing wicked things to her body. She’d also woken with her hand between her legs.
Lordy, she turned into a nymphomaniac around this guy—only without the pathology.
“You’ll tell me if this burns.”
He pulled the last wrap of fabric taut. She gulped when the chair screeched a little as he pulled it across the floor with the force of his wrap. Oh, she’d burn all right and not just from the silks.
“Samantha?” He grasped the curved back of the chair and held up two gloves he must have scooped up from where she’d tossed them. “How do you feel about blindfolds?”
“The blue ones would look better on me.”
“Eager to try new things, I see.”
“With you, I am.” She grasped her lip between her teeth.
He stepped backward. “I watched a Dominant in a club in Philadelphia go over limits with his submissive once. She listed five. No blood play, animals, sharing her, suspension and breath play. That was it, she’d said.” He focused his eyes on her face. “He then backhanded her across the face. Once her shock wore off, he asked her if she’d developed any new ones in the last minute.”
Samantha sucked in a sharp breath. “Now you’re scaring me.”
“I meant to.” He put his hands on the back of the chair and leaned in so she could feel his breath. “I will never hit you. I don’t hit women. But I must know what your limits are—all of them.” He straightened. “Given how new this is between us, we’re going to go about this a little differently, starting with a ‘yes’ list. What are you hoping I’ll do? Then, I’ll surprise you with other things along the same vein.”
Oh, the things she wanted him to do. She squirmed, as much as she could bound to her creaky chair.
“Spanking?” he asked.
“Bondage. How does it feel now?”
“Blindfolds?” He held up the two gloves he’d scooped up and tied them together.
“Gagging?” He held up a third glove.
A pang between her thighs answered that one, so she only nodded. She’d never view her burlesque class the same way. In stripping, the dancer inched the glove off, finger by finger, prolonging the baring of skin, teasing the onlooker with the possibilities. Now she’d only think about the way Derek fondled the satin between his capable fingers taunting her with how he might use them. To bind me. Gag me. She’d imagine the material stuffed in her mouth might mute the sharpest of her cries or if tied across her eyes all her senses heightening his touch, his maneuvering.
“Good start.” He circled the chair, pulling a wrist behind her. He tied one end of a glove around her wrist. “Give me your other hand.” After obeying, her two wrists slapped against one another in a rough tug.
Oddly, he didn’t blindfold her but held one up in front of her mouth. “Open. You’re going to hold it between your teeth. If you drop the glove, I’ll stop everything.”