“What? No.”
“Another submissive?”
He growls. “Kitten—”
“Then we’re good.” I lift my head, finding his eyes. “I’ll start. I’m still mad at you for that stunt at the club, mainly because I thought they’d killed you.”
“I shouldn’t have left you,” he rasps. “Once again, I made the wrong call—”
I grab his coat and give him a shake. “Oh, shut up, Dominic. You’re human. You did what you thought was right. And you made it right in the end.”
“I killed Shultz.” The words come fast, breathy.
Careful to convey only acceptance, I nod. “I know.”
“I wanted to kill them all.”
My heavy exhale fogs the air between us. “I know. It’s okay. Thank you, Dominic. Thank you for ridding the world of that evil man.”
Finally… finally… his hands cup my face. They’re warm—searing against my cold cheeks.
“Do you mean that?”
“One hundred percent.”
“What you went through”—he swallows hard—“I want you to know I’m here, and I’ll listen if you want to talk about it. Whatever you need, it’s yours.”
I think of the body buried outside that shit-hole motel. Of the broken dolls in that warehouse outside Santa Fe, and the women who tended to me before the auction. And I think of the three young women whose lives ended because they dared to tell the truth.
I’m going to tell their story.
My story.
And I don’t give a shit if there’s an award at the end of it.
I look up at Dominic. “I love you, and I’m going to tell you everything. But right now, I’m only going to say I missed you more than you’ll ever know, and I’m dying for you to kiss me.”
Tears well in his eyes. “I love you, London.”
I grin. “I know. Now kiss me. Sir.”
He does.
Epilogue
(some years later)
Dominic
“Again.”
“Sir, we have to get back—”
“Did I say you could speak?”
My palm meets her ass in a deeply rewarding crack. Her low moan is the sweetest music. Poetry lives in the bloom of red, the way she wiggles unconsciously, hips jerking up for more. She doesn’t have much leeway, roped face down and spread-eagle to my desk. But that doesn’t stop her from trying. Beautiful woman.
I stroke myself from base to tip, prolonging my agony and hers, then step between her spread legs to tease her with penetration. She mewls, pushing back despite the pinching of the rope on her wrists. Panting with pain and pleasure. Needing what I can give her. Soaking my tip and the edge of the desk.
“Please, sir.”
Hot satisfaction pulses down my spine, making my balls throb with urgency. “Again,” I growl as I push an inch inside. I want nothing more than to drive inside her, thrust into her body. Own her pleasure, her pain, her heart and soul. Just as she owns all of me.
But even sweeter?
Making her wait for it.
Bending over her, I use both hands to stroke her crown, then toss her thick hair to one side. My fingers claim her neck, her shoulders, her arms with firm, possessive sweeps. I press a kiss to the back of her neck, licking a path down her spine. I tease her tight rim with my thumb until she’s poised on the edge, then reach beneath her and pinch her clit. And when she’s gone—trembling, soaring—I thrust inside.
She explodes, pulling me into her storm, her waves breaking fast and furious on my cock. Ah, fuck. If I didn’t have the patience of a saint, I’d come from the sheer wonder of her submission. Her absolute trust. The unequaled gift of her transparency.
She is my redemption.
A fist pounds on my office door, followed by a shout. “You’re missing my fecking wedding shower!”
London snort-laughs, which feels… interesting. Ignoring the irritating Irishman, I swirl my hips lazily, relishing in her answering gasp. My eyes lift to the wall over the desk, where a series of tasteful black-and-white nudes hang. Nathan was the artist, but the ropes on her body? Mine. The stripes on her shoulders? Mine. The soft, loving curl of her lips?
All fucking mine.
Liam kicks the door. “Come on. We’re about to open presents!”
“He’s so whipped,” whispers London.
I smack her ass, then smooth the sting. She trembles, laughing silently. I grunt at the resulting, vice-like effect and speed up my strokes.
“Unless you want to be whipped, kitten, you’ll tell the happy groom we’ll be right out.”
I punctuate my words with hard thrusts. She whimpers, her back flushing with humiliation and helpless desire. Anchoring her hips with my hands, I increase my pace to punishing.
“We’re—sorry—Be—right—there!”
“Assholes!” yells Liam. But he’s laughing as he walks away.
When I’m sure he’s gone, I grab London’s hair and pull her toward me as far as the ropes allow. She chants my name as my thrusts become vicious. Not until her walls seize around me again, until I hear her sweet cry of release, do I allow my orgasm to overtake me.
Wrecked and replete, I collapse onto her back. My lips find her neck and I nip lightly at the salty, damp skin.
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’re very welcome. Thank you.”
She sighs happily, fingers wiggling above her head where her wrists are tied together. The diamond on her ring finger glitters. The same diamond she wore around her neck for years—through her healing and mine, through testifying at Reznikov’s trial, through the long months in which she wrote her true-crime novel. Then, through the insanity of her success afterward, and through our joint-venture founding Road to Hope, a nonprofit to help law enforcement rescue and rehabilitate victims of sex-trafficking.
She’s more than I ever dreamed of. More than I thought I deserved.
“I love you,” I whisper.
“I know.”
Smug kitten.
I pinch her hip. She laughs.
The End
I hope you enjoyed London and Dominic’s love story! If you have a minute, please consider leaving a brief review on Amazon. xo, LM.
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Acknowledgments
As always, thank you. When I was a little girl, my favorite daydream was imagining life as a published author. You’ve made my longest, biggest dream come true. Thanks for taking a chance on me.
Massive shout out to my incredible beta readers. You guys rock my world. I can’t tell you how much I appreciated your early feedback and enthusiasm for PV.
Rachel C., thank you for recognizing my need to explore as a writer and for your honesty, integrity, and support as I wander forward on this journey.
Celinka, Marika, Katy, Steph, and the crew of SoCal Inkers—with all the insanity and drama that goes on, I’m so grateful to have a growing tribe of women who focus on positivity and lifting each other up.
To all the bloggers, editors, proofreaders, designers, and readers who work tirelessly for us indies. You amaze me daily.
This book… whew. Not gonna lie, this one was as much of a challenge (caning! yikes!) as it was fun and at times emotional. I’ve never directly grappled with sadism/masochism, a topic I believe shouldn’t be dealt with lightly. There’s a fine line between dramatization and damaging fabrication. In my research and through interviewing people who are/have been in the BDSM community, I was hugely impressed with how important consent is to the lifestyle. I wanted to be extremely clear about the pillars of Safe
, Sane, and Consensual. And I hope I was.
And finally, as always, to my incredible husband—your confidence and encouragement carry me through the worst of my doubts and lift me higher even on the best of days. I love you.
☆ Bonus Content ☆
➤ Check out the Spotify Playlist for Perfect Vision.
➤ Want an exclusive sneak peek of The Fall Before Flight, a full-length standalone coming Fall 2018? Click here for a teaser.
➤ Curious about the inspirations for London, Dominic, and other characters from Perfect Vision? Here’s my Pinterest Character Board.
➤ Turn the page for Chapter One of The Muse, a student/teacher romance by L.M. Halloran.
The Muse
Beautifully written, captivating… a hugely addictive roller-coaster of a read.
The Hopeless Romantics Book Blog
chapter one.
The three flights of stairs before me might as well be Everest, only instead of snow and rocks barring my way, it’s students loitering before their first class of the quarter.
Like them, I’m late. Unlike them, I hate being late. Especially today, as my class is a thousand times more important than whatever introductory English course these fresh-faced undergrads are too lazy to reach on time.
For starters, I’m not a student. At least not at the moment. I’m supposed to be assistant teaching a small group of English majors in a classroom that still, after two flights of stairs, seems to be a continent away.
On the plateau before my final ascension, I’m confronted by a group hogging the space. They’re talking and laughing loudly, unmindful of those of us who actually give a shit about academics.
“Excuse me, please!”
Despite my lofty graduate-student status, no one bothers moving. I’m forced to dive through them like I’m spelunking instead of mountain climbing. Not an uncommon occurrence, unfortunately. I blame my mother, who bestowed upon me her diminutive stature, pale blonde hair, and perpetually fey features.
A glance at my watch tells me I have less than a minute until I’m going to make a terrible first impression on the professor.
I break into a run, messenger bag bouncing against my hip as I dart up the final staircase and down a rapidly emptying hallway. Ignoring the twinge in my bad knee, I skid to a stop before the desired door and yank it open.
Thank God.
Pre-class antics are still taking place. Students are chatting, slapping notebooks and pencils on desks, fiddling with smartphones, or surreptitiously slurping coffee and munching breakfast bars.
A glance toward the head of the room gives me my first look at Professor James S. Beckett, who was supposed to be at the faculty luncheon yesterday but never showed. On paper he’s scary as hell: acclaimed poet, award-winning, New York Times Bestselling author of crime fiction, and newly appointed Director of the Creative Writing Program.
Thanks to borderline-obsessive Google searching, I know what he looks like. But all I can see right now is longish brown hair tousled to the kind of accidental perfection normally not seen out of magazine spreads. His face is downturned, eyes on the open notebook on his desk. He writes furiously, the movements harsh and slashing. Left-handed.
As I walk closer, I have an unhealthy urge to snatch the notebook away and read it.
“Professor Beckett?” I ask breathlessly.
He grunts, not looking up. A glance back at the class shows me faces angled toward us in curiosity. Some are familiar from previous courses, and I trade a few smiles.
“Are you going to talk or just stand there?”
The rude question is made irritatingly musical by a smooth British accent. My head whips back around, a flush rising to my face.
“I’m sorry?” I squeak, then clear my throat. “I’m Iris Eliot. Your TA.”
The pen finally stops moving—it’s not a slow fading of mind-body transfer but a savage stop. His head comes up, vivid green eyes narrowing on my face. I stop breathing for a few moments, feeling like an insect under a pin. The dissection of my person lasts long enough that I hear students begin to whisper.
Then, with no shift in expression, he glances over my shoulder toward the wall clock. “You’re late,” he says sharply, and stands with a screech of wooden chair legs to address the class.
Still frozen like a brainless golem beside his desk, I watch him similarly dissect the fifteen faces seated before him.
“If you’re here, it means you want to be writers. Maybe you want to teach, too, but this class isn’t about teaching. It’s about writing.”
Stalking around the desk, he leans against it to cross arms over his sweater-clad chest. After another sweep of his gaze across the classroom, he continues, “If even the smallest part of you is unsure about your identity as a writer, pack up your things now.” He points at a student in the front row, a mousy girl not more than twenty-one, with thick glasses and lustrous dark hair. “Are you a writer?”
She turns beet red, mouth opening soundlessly. Finally, she gasps, “Yes.”
Beckett nods, gaze swerving to the back of the room. “How about you? Yes, you, the young man with gum in his mouth, a bad shave, and greasy hair.”
I wince, my eyes finding the shocked student’s face. A wad of white gum is stuck to his bottom molars, visible inside his open mouth.
“Uhh—” he starts.
“Nope,” snaps Beckett. “Get out.”
The student flushes. “I’m an English major—”
“Creative Writing focus?” grates Beckett.
“Uhh, no—”
“Out!”
The command snaps like a whip, and a second later the student gathers his belongings and rushes out the door. I stare after him, then turn to glare at Professor Beckett. If there’s one type of person I truly loathe, it’s a bully.
I’m so incensed, I don’t care that he’s already looking at me, brows raised in inquiry. When I recognize the glint in his eyes as amusement, I lose my shit.
“You can’t do that!”
His lips curl, but I hesitate to call it a smile. A snarl, more like. “Oh, can’t I? Are you a writer, Iris Eliot?”
“Yes,” I snap.
Satisfaction flares in his eyes. “There,” he says, jerking a thumb in my direction as he addresses the class. “That is the response of a writer. How about you—third row. Yes, you. Are you a writer?”
“Yes? I mean, yes!” The soft voice grows firmer.
“You?”
“Y-yes.”
“Weak, but there’s fire in your eyes so I’ll let you stay.…”
He continues until every student has answered in the affirmative, their voices gaining in confidence until the last virtually shouts the response. Beckett grins his approval, the expression so transforming that my lips part in soundless awe.
Surly and scowling, he could pass as a prematurely crotchety forty. Grinning, however, he looks his age. Thirty-three, if my memory serves. And every bit as handsome as Google warned.
“Ms. Eliot, are you going to stand there for the next fifty minutes or would you like to take a seat?”
I blink away cobwebs of scandalous thoughts and realize he’s caught me staring. That snarly half-smile is back. My cheeks burning, I grip my bag tight to my side and stride to the back of the classroom to claim a desk. As Beckett begins his first-class spiel, I set up my laptop, listening with half an ear until I hear my name.
“…will send you an email with her office hours. The workshops for this class are Tuesday and Thursday mornings. Ms. Eliot will be sending me weekly assessments of your participation and progress, so do take her seriously. Unless you’re suffering from a debilitating disease, I recommend you attend every one. If you don’t, you’ll see your lack of commitment reflected in your final grade. I also plan on spot checking the workshops myself.” Another lightning-flash of a grin. “Not even Ms. Eliot will know which ones I plan to attend.”
As he continues rattling on about syllabus, midterm and final projects, and
weekly journaling assignments, I eventually grow used to his accented, rapid-fire speech. I even muse that his voice matches how he writes. Concise. Eloquent. Cutting.
Thinking of his smile, I add another adjective.
Dangerous.
“—all I have. Any questions?”
No one moves.
Beckett nods shortly. “Very well. Journals out. Twenty minutes of freestyle writing to be turned in at the end of class. Stop staring at me and start now. First impressions matter.” His eyes, electric emerald in the sunlight dancing through the nearest window, find my face. “Ms. Eliot, if you’ll join me in the hallway a moment?”
Taking a steadying breath, I close my laptop and stand. You can’t quit. You need the TA stipend. You need to finish your Masters. One more year. You can do this. However brilliantly talented and obnoxiously handsome he might be, he’s just a man. More importantly, he’s the freaking head of your program. Be professional.
Bolstered by my internal pep talk, I follow Beckett’s tall frame into the empty hallway. The door snicks closed behind us, sounding disproportionally ominous. Arms once again crossed over his chest, he stares down at me, a frown puckering the skin between his eyebrows.
“Aren’t you a little young for a graduate student in her final year?”
The question triggers a lifetime’s worth of emotional baggage and professionalism flies out the window. “Are you joking? Is there an age requirement I’m unaware of?”
His lips do an odd, quirking dance; I think he might be trying not to smile. “How old are you?”
Perfect Vision Page 21