I do not resign myself to:
1. Hiding my emotions from Mr. Masters, as I have very strong emotions about him.
2. Allowing Mr. Masters to kick me out of his house or my job or his life without a by-your-leave or at least a decent explanation.
Please sign and date this document if you agree to these conditions of continuing employment.
Christ. She’d missed fondling, touching, and caressing in her bullet points. He simply wanted to kiss her until he couldn’t see straight.
Lincoln closed his eyes. He wasn’t an old man too set in his ways to consider a new way. He wasn’t a dog reacting on instinct. He could change. He’d considered boredom to be his downfall, yet he realized now that his downfall was never feeling this for any woman: desire, respect, need, admiration, and a host of overwhelming emotions he couldn’t even define. While he enjoyed good sex, it was his feelings for Natalie that had turned what they shared Saturday night into making love. How the hell could he let her go?
She was too fucking special.
Despite the fact that his door was still open and he could call for her, he pushed his intercom button and said as sternly as possible, “Miss Beaumonde, in my office. Now.” He paused. “And close the door behind you.”
Then Lincoln signed on the bottom line.
*
Her heart lodged in her throat. She might have set herself up for the biggest slam of her life. He could fire her. Worse, he could politely say he wasn’t interested.
But if she didn’t take the risk, she’d never know.
Mr. Masters stood beside his desk, hands on his hips spreading his suit jacket, legs apart, eyes narrowed, lips a grim line.
He pointed to the desk where her memo lay. “Is that some sort of joke?”
She tried not to flinch. “No, sir.” This was worse than when she’d messed up his lunch with Jacobson.
Or maybe this was very, very good.
“Bend over my desk,” he ordered.
Her heart fluttered, then started to beat as rapidly as a hummingbird’s wings. Oh God, yes, please. She did as he ordered, elbows on the desk, ass high in the air for him.
“Lift your skirt.”
Natalie felt a tear of sublime happiness prick her eye. She raised her skirt.
As he stepped close, his body heat seemed to sear her bare butt. “Where are your panties, Miss Beaumonde?” he said in his deepest, angriest voice.
Her pussy dampened. “I took them off, sir.”
“When?” he barked.
“Right after I left the memo on your desk.”
He smacked her hard with his cupped hand.
Natalie moaned, and if she’d been wearing her panties, she’d have creamed them right then.
“You will accept a spanking at any time and in any place I deem it necessary.”
“Yes, sir,” she whispered, as his fingers trailed down the crease of her butt to the opening of her pussy.
“You will make mistakes at least three times a day so that you may be punished. Once in the morning before the rest of the staff arrives, once at lunch, and once again after everyone has left for the day. Do I make myself clear?” He punctuated with another tingling swat, followed by a finger’s gentle foray inside her. Then he leaned over her, breathed deeply, and groaned. “Christ, Miss Beaumonde, you smell so fucking good.”
If she wasn’t careful, she’d either cry or come. “Yes, Mr. Masters.”
He collected himself. “I will keep condoms in my bottom desk drawer so that I may bend you over my desk and fuck you hard whenever one of us needs it.” His cupped hand came down once more, and this time, his fingers caressed her clitoris.
Natalie writhed against him, his cock hard in his suit pants as he pressed into her. “Oh, God, yes, Mr. Masters.”
Covering her with his body, he continued the play as he whispered to her. “You will let me taste your sweet pussy and make you climax with my tongue. You will fill my mouth with all that delicious, sexy juice of yours. You will suck me and swallow my come. You will do every nasty thing I ask, and you’ll tell me every dirty thing you want me to do to you. And there’s going to be a lot of kissing, touching, fondling, and caressing, too, Miss Beaumonde. Do I make myself clear?”
She moaned, his touch, his voice, his words driving her mad. “Oh yes, sir. Very clear, sir.”
“You will come to my dungeon and let me do everything we both desire.” Now he used his thumb and fingers on her, inside, outside, his whole body a caress along hers. “Say, ‘yes, please, Mr. Masters.’”
“Oh, yes, yes, yes, please, Mr. Masters.” He’d given her almost everything she wanted. Almost.
“If we ever invite a third or fourth to play, or even more, we will do it together.” He buried his face in her hair to whisper, “Because no other woman could ever be as special as you, baby.”
His touch on her was rapture, his words heavenly. If he wasn’t holding her down, she might float away.
“You will accept my apology for being a complete asshole on Saturday night.”
“Oh Lincoln—”
She would have gone on, but he hit a spot inside her so sweet, she cried out.
“Just say you forgive me, Miss Beaumonde, that is all.”
He’d cut her off on purpose. “I forgive you, Mr. Masters.”
“Thank you, my dear.” He rewarded her with a faster pace. She hummed her pleasure. “One more thing,” he said on a sweet, panting breath as he drove her to climax. “You will never hide your emotions from me, and I will never hide my feelings for my darling, precious, perfect Miss Beaumonde.”
She could barely fathom the meaning of his words, they were too immense, too powerful. Her body burning, she knew what she felt, and she knew it was time. “Yes, yes, yes, I love you, Mr. Masters.”
She fell over the precipice into orgasm, spiraling down into his arms, but she didn’t miss one single syllable of his answer.
“Just as I love you, Miss Beaumonde.”
*
Lincoln meant every one of those words. He adored the sounds she made, her cries, the way her body clamored for his touch, her scent, her taste, but he loved Natalie Beaumonde for the sweet, caring, efficient, sexy, delicious woman she was.
And his body clamored for hers, his blood hot, his cock hard, his heart needy. He’d go mad if he didn’t have her. “I’m going to fuck you now, Miss Beaumonde.” The words were part of the game. They would always keep it exciting for each other.
“Oh yes, please, Mr. Masters.” She wriggled her bottom against his hips.
He trailed a hand over her ass cheek. “Stay right there.” Then he swatted her. “That’s a taste of what you’ll get if you move.”
She gasped, moaned. “No, Mr. Masters. I’ll be right here when you get back.” She turned to watch him, her eyes bright, her pretty little bare ass in the air, her sweet pussy glistening with her juices.
He popped his briefcase, retrieved one of the condoms he’d kept there since the day he’d spanked her in his office. Oh yes, he’d had so many plans for his beautiful, gorgeous Miss Beaumonde. He just hadn’t imagined how much better everything would be with the exponential growth of his emotions. His feelings for her added so much more to the pleasure.
Bending over her again, he whispered in her ear. “Feel how hard you’ve made my cock, Miss Beaumonde.” Unzipping, he took himself in hand, then stroked one sweet ass cheek with his crown.
“Goodness, Mr. Masters, you’re so big and hard.” She reached back to glide a hand down his shaft.
Lincoln shuddered. Donning the condom, he caressed her pussy, coating his cock with her juices. “And you’re so wet, Miss Beaumonde.” He breached her with just the crown.
“Oh,” she whispered reverently.
Holding himself rigid over her, Lincoln lowered his voice until his words were just a whisper of breath against her hair. “I wanted to do this while you were fucking Van with that dildo.” He took her hand, laced his fingers with hers. “I want
ed to lift your skirt and fuck you until I lost myself inside you.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“You hadn’t completely exorcised him yet.” His cock pulsed just inside her opening.
“He’s gone now,” she said.
Lincoln thrust home.
“Oh God,” she cried out, her fingers tightening around his.
He pumped slowly, riding her G-spot. She was so sweet and tight and wet. “You’re mine now.” He bit her neck lightly.
“I’m yours.”
Curled over her body, he captured her other hand, holding both tightly, covering her completely, like a wild animal takes his mate. She purred beneath him, her body hot and alive.
“Fuck me harder,” she murmured. “Make it so I feel you long after you’re done with me.”
“I’ll never be done with you.” But he gave her what she wanted, fast, hard, deep, groaning, forcing the air from her lungs as he pounded.
She quaked beneath him, her tremors throwing him into high gear. Her pussy contracted, milked him, the ache in his balls reached fever pitch, and with a blinding flash he began to come, an explosion at his very core.
Above it all, he heard her whisper, “I love you.”
He buried himself deep in her body, claiming her, their breath becoming one, his blood pumping to her heart’s rhythm.
As he drifted down off that perfect high, he gave her the one last piece of himself he’d given no other woman. “I’m yours completely, Miss Beaumonde.” He kissed her hair, then tapped her memo on the desk. “And I’ve signed exactly that on the bottom line.”
The End
About the Author
Jasmine Haynes, Rita Finalist for Somebody’s Lover, plus two-time Holt Medallion and National Readers Choice Award winner, is the author of over 35 classy, erotic romance tales. In 2013, she’s started a sexy new series for Berkley Heat, beginning with The Naughty Corner coming Oct 2013 and Teach Me a Lesson in Apr 2014. And there will be more in the sensual West Coast series! Look for Book 4, The Other Man, available now. Of course, she’s also the author of the award-winning Max Starr psychic mystery series. And don’t miss her writing as Jennifer Skully, KOD Daphne du Maurier award-winning author of contemporary romance, bringing you poignant tales peopled with hilarious characters that will make you laugh and make you cry. Visit her website at www.jasminehaynes.com and her blog at www.jasminehaynes.blogspot.com.
Connect with Jasmine Haynes & Jennifer Skully online
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www.jasminehaynes.com
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www.jenniferskully.com
Max Starr Website:
www.jbskully.com
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BENEATH THE BURN
PAM GODWIN
They meet by chance. The timing is wrong.
Three years later, she finds him again, but their separation was poisoned with narcotics and bloodied by enslavement.
Her freedom gambled away, Charlee Grosky escapes the international businessman who held her captive. But his power reaches beyond her protective barriers and threatens everyone she has come to love.
Jay Mayard wears his tortured secrets under his rock god facade. Drugs are his release, even as he seeks to be the man forged of the steel only she can see.
In a celebrity world filled with paparazzi, groupies, and drugs, Jay and Charlee must face their worst fears. When the battle is over, what will be left…Beneath The Burn.
“Tore me apart and moved me implicitly, it lifted me to dizzying heights and plummeted me to the pits of despair, all from the very first page and with my heart in my mouth.”
—Totallybooked Blog
Chapter One
‡
The aroma of rotting food crept in from a dumpster and clung to the humid air clogging the back of Jay Mayard’s van. The brunette writhing beneath him smelled worse. Stale smoke and hairspray infected her gaping pores.
Facedown and arms spread over a speaker box, she nudged him with her bony backside. “Come on, Jay. You’re so damn hot. I’m dying here.”
He ground his dick against her. He wasn’t hard, not even close. “I told you to shut up.”
“But I want you.” A husky, ashtray-laden whine.
He grabbed her neck, and she squeaked. Why was he even here? Maybe it was hope that sex would drown out the din in his head. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t. Dammit. His dick had been hard when they left the bar. Maybe he’d picked the wrong groupie.
He drove her face into the casing. “If you keep your fucking trap shut, I’ll give it to you.”
“Mmm.” She relaxed, waiting.
He could do this. He needed this, as long as she didn’t touch him. “Put your hands on the edge. Yeah, just like that. Now hold on and don’t let go.”
She panted and wiggled as he fished for the condom in his pocket and unzipped his leathers. Come on, fucker. Get hard.
The bastard lay limp against his thigh. He stroked it. Tried to drown out the body odor lingering in the band’s lived-in van. Tried to tune out the metal guitar chords vibrating from the back of the bar. Tried to attenuate his thoughts to the one thing that could give him five mindless minutes.
Willing, wet cunt.
His cock half-woke. He wrapped it, positioned it, and worked it into her.
Numb. The hole encasing his dick offered nothing but empty, dead space. He might as well have humped the air. He thrust harder, deeper and felt nothing.
“Ahh, yeah, rock star. Give it to me.” She pumped her hips and smacked her gum.
Could she not feel him shriveling? He fisted her ponytail. “Shut. Up.” He released her hair with a shove of her head.
The pace of their thrusting increased, out of sync, but the finish would come. It had to. He kept his eyes open, focused on the music equipment stacked around them, the bed rolls he and his bandmates slept on, anything but the self-destructive thoughts prowling the edges of his mind.
Something moved over his thigh, clenched on his ass. He froze mid-thrust. His skin recoiled from the sensation. Fingernails raked down his leg, searing a trail of heat. Hurt. Burning skin. Oh God, too much burning.
He stumbled backward and knocked over his guitar case. “Never fucking touch me.” His roar was harsh and clotted with spit.
Glittery black smudges caked her round eyes. She didn’t know what was going on inside him, and she wouldn’t be around long enough to find out.
The condom fell off in his hand. He flung it at her. “Get the hell out.” His fingers shook as he stuffed himself in his pants and zipped up.
The clueless twat tried to rise from her squat on wobbly heels without bothering to pull down the skirt bunched at her waist. “You are one messed up motherfucker. What the hell is wrong with you?”
His memories were tearing open, spewing flickers of the shed, the rumble of the oven, the stifling darkness, the trudging footsteps, and the creaking door. Oh God, he needed to get out of there before he gave her a sampling of his madness.
He shouldered out the passenger door and jogged down the alley beside the bar. Boosting his pace, he left his bandmates celebrating their successful show with booze and girls. His sprint, however, put an effective distance from the bitch screaming after him.
“You’re just a wannabe rock star. You and your limp dick.”
He rounded the bend and slowed to plod along the main drag. He didn’t want to be a rock star. He wanted to lose himself in his music, singing and playing guitar, town after town, night after night. Above all, he just wanted to forget.
Nightclub crawlers lingered in the south St. Louis streets, hanging on one another and howling with unrestrained laughter. He could be right there with them, immersed in all the trappings of a good time, if he figured out how to deaden his hang-ups
.
He could go back to the van and write a song. He could find another groupie to screw. Or he could get high. Temporary distractions. He needed something permanent, something that would erase the hideous reminders that sucked sound judgment from his brain and his dick.
A tattoo could do that. A needle hammering ink into the second layer of skin was about as permanent as he could get. He’d wanted one for years, just couldn’t work up the courage to expose his skin.
Fuck it. He’d spotted a shop on his way to the show. If it was still open, it was meant to be.
Another turn. Another crosswalk. He veered around the milling bodies, the parked cars, the huddled groups of smokers.
There it was, Kilroy Tattoo illuminated in neon overhead. It flickered then blinked off. Shit. He checked his watch. Midnight. The door knob turned.
A woman with a white-blonde pixie haircut backed out of the shop, and dammit if he could stop himself from gawking. She was slender but not in a bones-pressing-skin kind of way. She had a figure that could only be toned with good nutrition and rigorous activity. Oh yeah, she was built for stamina.
She locked the door and turned toward him, tipping back her head.
The bluest eyes he’d ever seen stared up at him. They were ringed with navy and glimmered with silver flecks. They were also wide with…fear? No, that couldn’t be true if her smile were anything to go by. Her beautiful face seemed to swallow up the glow of the streetlamps, the passing headlights, the goddamned moon.
“Hi.” Her smile wavered. “You look lost. Can I help?”
Oh Christ, her voice. It was the complete package, like the full-bodied Fsus2 chord humming from the hole in his Martin Acoustic. Gentle, cool, hypnotic—
“You’re lost, right?”
She had no idea. “Just found what I’m looking for.” Smooth, Jay. What the hell was he doing? Shades of pink tinted the curve of her cheeks and parted lips. Distractingly adorable. He smiled despite himself. “I need some work done.”
Those perfect lips formed an O. “Well, crap. I’m closed for the night. Come back tomorrow. I open at two.”
Make Me: Twelve Tales of Dark Desire Page 110