The Ultimate Romantic Suspense Set (8 romantic suspense novels from 8 bestselling authors for 99c)

by Lee Taylor

  "Only a few?" He twirled a string between his thumb and forefinger.

  I pointed to his harp, perched on his lap. "May I touch?"

  "Um. . . sure, it's a shepherd's harp. My grandfather made it for me." He handed it to me.

  I trailed my fingers over the smooth curves. The wood where his hands rested was well-worn and polished. "It's splendid. Lighter than I thought."

  The scent was reminiscent of crushed bay leaves, clean and fresh. Swirls of tan, red, yellow and brown grain rippled along the contour of its body.

  "It's made of myrtle wood," he said.

  "And the strings?"

  "Sheep gut." He laughed. "Go ahead, pluck them."

  I picked the fibrous strings. The tones jarred. "Ooph. It sounds much better in your hands."

  David took the harp back. "Forgive me, the strings are not tuned. I'll finish and show you how to play."

  His nimble fingers made quick work of the restringing. With closed eyes, he plucked two strings at a time and adjusted the pegs until they rang true. His face took on an angelic aura, and his hair shimmered in the sunlight.

  The harp tuned, he placed it on my lap, arranging my hands to hold it, and plucked a few strings to demonstrate. "The pitch of the longer string is deeper. Those from the shorter strings are higher. Some intervals sound nice when plucked together. If we skip a string or two. . . this string, this one, and this. . ."

  My head swam with possibilities, and I could not catch his words. His hands touched my hands, his thigh pressed against mine, and his breath tickled my hair. My bracelets jangled as I strummed a cacophony of disharmony as wild and frothy as my feelings.

  He was so close, I could hardly breathe. My shoulders wobbled, and my fingers fluttered over the strings. Tempted to melt into his arms, I pushed the harp back and warned myself to behave as a princess should.

  "Giving up already?" His lips curved with barely concealed amusement.

  "No. . . I'm just hot. You know, the weather. Can you sing for me?"

  I caught my breath as he sang and picked the strings to the cadence of a rippling brook. The earthy timbre of his voice wrapped around the clean tones of his instrument. Wooing, seducing, trapping--he held me with the promise of his song.

  When he finished, he handed the harp to me, the frame still vibrating. His fingers toyed with my hair, and his warm breath caressed my face. His mouth drew near, eyes intent, seeking permission.

  Hesitant, my lips parted. Curious, my eyes closed. And his lips brushed the corners of my mouth, an invitation to taste, to touch, to hold. I accepted and held my breath as his tongue slipped over mine. A flurry of tingles danced around my waist and trailed down to my toes.

  I clutched the harp, unable to move. Everything was possible, and the world was mine, and life was glorious.

  And at the center of it all was David.

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  Boom!

  Listen To Your Heart

  By Roxanne Rogerson

  Copyright Roxanne Rogerson 2013

  Cover Art by Steven Novak

  COPYRIGHT

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright Roxanne Rogerson 2013

  ISBN 978-1-927619-23-0

  Published by BleuBelle Press

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author.

  All fictional characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author and all incidents are pure invention.

  CONTENTS

  Start Reading

  Dedication

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to Boomers everywhere

  --go for it!

  May the good Lord be with you

  Down every road you roam

  And may sunshine and happiness

  surround you when you're far from home

  And may you grow to be proud

  Dignified and true

  And do unto others

  As you'd have done to you

  Be courageous and be brave

  And in my heart you'll always stay

  Forever Young, Forever Young

  ~Rod Stewart

  Kevin Savigar Music, Special Rider Music, Griffon Investments Limited,

  Chrysalis Music, Ram's Horn Music

  SCALLYWAGS

  "I have mixed feelings about using a flogger on a woman I've never met," Michael explained. "But I guess Flogging 101 is the next lesson!"

  Frank, his mentor at Scallywags, the fetish club he'd joined in Vancouver, nodded his understanding as he adjusted Michael's mask.

  Had the guy understood? "I don't like the idea of inflicting pain, especially on a female. It's not in my nature."

  In his mind, the male of the species should be the protector. That's why he'd joined the Victoria police force in the first place, but he wasn't about to divulge his former place of employment to Frank, yet.

  He took deep breaths, trying to recall if he'd taken his medication. His heart was beating too fast.

  Was it the stress of the job, grief over his first wife's death, an unhealthy diet, or too many beers with the boys that had led to a heart attack shortly before his fiftieth birthday? But he'd heeded the warning of his near death experience, changing his lifestyle radically. Now he was fit and healthy. His cardiologist reckoned he had the heart of a thirty year old.

  What would doc say if I told him my cock thinks I'm thirty too?

  He'd turned to the Internet to explore new urges and desires that had surfaced after his heart attack. His research confirmed what he had secretly suspected for a long time. He craved an erotic relationship with a woman willing to be his slave in bed, a woman who would allow him to dominate her. It made sense that the term for a male with such sexual proclivities--another word he'd learned--was Dominant, often shortened to Dom.

  But a compulsion to introduce into their love life what Linda, his second wife, referred to as disgusting erotic shit, led to divorce--that and a million other factors.

  Frank was eyeing him. "You look good. Wish I could lose a few pounds. Now relax. You'll do fine."

  Michael tried for levity. "You know, Frank, when I first Googled fetish clubs in Vancouver and found Scallywags, I had to laugh. I expected well muscled young men with an evil glint in their eye holding sway over full breasted slave girls."

  "Yeah," Frank chortled. "Then you saw the picture on our home page. Happens all the time. Folks think we're weird."

  The website sported a photograph of broadly grinning older folks, dressed in all kinds of outlandish getups. It reminded Michael of an old-fashioned snapshot of a company picnic. His first reaction--Holy Cow, they're older than I am!

  Second reaction--they all look so fucking happy!

  He'd chosen a club in Vancouver, far enough from his home town of Victoria that he wasn't likely to run into any of his neighbors or former colleagues. The tiger mask covered most of his face, but he could imagine how fast the news would
spread in the corridors of Victoria PD if he were recognized.

  Hey, did you hear? That old geezer Mike, he's into BDSM. Yeah, no shit. Saw him in a club. Whips and chains and all that.

  Of course, that would mean the snitch was in the club as well.

  "I almost reneged on coming to my first meeting."

  He didn't admit to Frank he'd driven back and forth in front of the converted Tudor mansion on a quiet street off Granville before finally plucking up the nerve to park and go inside.

  "It's normal. Do you feel more comfortable now?"

  "I do."

  It was true. Scallywags patrons weren't judgmental, nor did any of them come across as evil or even weird. They were ordinary.

  Frank understood his confusion about his fears of exploring his Dominant side, reassuring him no two Doms were exactly the same. "Depends what you want," Frank explained. "Most Doms want to nurture and protect their women. It's about sharing power, negotiating, bringing each other pleasure. Some men want their women to be submissive 24/7; others seek only to dominate in sexual matters."

  The latter sounded right up Michael's alley. But first he had to get through the flogging lesson--his first big test.

  ~~~

  "Spread your legs."

  A jolt of fear zinged through Jessie. She'd been nervous when the inch-wide leather cuffs were being attached to her ankles, lamenting too late that she hadn't taken the time to put polish on her toenails.

  This was the point of no return. Should she do as Marjorie instructed and allow her cuffed ankles to be fastened to the St. Andrews Cross? Her wrists had already been securely attached to the device, which hadn't seemed so bad, but opening her legs in the bottomless and crotchless leather gaucho pants she'd been outfitted in--maybe this was carrying her investigation into the Dom/Sub lifestyle too far.

  She'd managed to produce a bestselling novel about the relationship between a Dom and his Sub without knowing a thing about the lifestyle except what she'd researched on the Internet and read in erotic novels. His Willing Slave had soared to the top of the New York Times bestsellers list.

  However, Gary, her agent, had suggested more "hands on" research for the second book. "It will make it an absolute block buster if readers feel you've actually experienced this D/S stuff."

  She wondered if that meant there'd been questions raised by aficionados of D/S about the authenticity of her writing. Had readers seen through her?

  Research was all very well, but how had she ever let herself be talked into playing the role of the submissive recipient in this flogging lesson?

  She wished someone would dim the lighting that seemed altogether too glaringly bright for such a place.

  She'd drawn the line at Marjorie's suggestion she strip, but might as well be naked with her bottom hanging out of the pants they'd finally compromised on. With her legs spread-eagled she felt very vulnerable, though her most intimate parts weren't visible to anyone--unless they lay beneath her and looked up.

  She inhaled deeply. That thought had done nothing to slow her raging heartbeat, nor the throbbing in her pussy.

  What am I doing here?

  She'd opted for a flogging on the back and bottom, cold with fear at the thought of having her breasts whipped, despite Marjorie's assurances it could be very arousing. The Dom scheduled to flog her--how weird did that sound, like she was in some historical romance about the British Navy--was a novice learning the ropes. She didn't find any reassurance in that, so here she stood, immobilised, handcuffed to the St. Andrew's Cross, unable to see her trainee Dom, feeling like an utter fool--a terrified one at that.

  She took a deep breath as Marjorie patted her shoulder. "Your Dom is here. Remember, if he does address you, call him Sir when you answer."

  She squirmed. She'd never called anyone Sir in her life. But she'd swallow her pride if it meant creating another bestselling novel. She enjoyed the unbelievable amounts of money writing brought in. She couldn't stop logging on to online banking to check her balance after receiving the publisher's advance for the second book. She'd no desire to go back to the brink of bankruptcy where Radu Antonescu had left her.

  Frank, Marjorie's husband, came to stand where she could see him. He was easily recognizable despite the black costume that made him look like an overweight Batman without the pointy ears.

  She felt the presence of another man directly behind her, breathing steadily. The scent of healthy male sweat and a lemony aftershave teased her nostrils. She clenched the muscles of her pussy, trying to stop the sudden spurts of warm liquid. If it trickled down her legs--

  She fisted her hands, straining slightly against the cuffs. What the hell was the safe word? She should yell it now at the top of her lungs before this madness began and she shit her bottomless pants.

  Coward!

  Frank smiled reassuringly. "Your Dom's name is M."

  M for Master.

  Frank frowned. Had he noticed her inattention? "Normally a Dom and his Sub negotiate the scene together, but I'm his instructor and I'll be monitoring the session very carefully. Marjorie and I will act as go-betweens since you're both newbies. You have a safe word, and we'll stop if and when you say it. Tell me now what it is."

  Jessie swallowed, irritated that when she nodded, her hardened nipples chafed on the inside of the strapless brassiere contraption Marjorie had loaned her--probably a leftover from the burlesque movie Gypsy. "Red. My safe word is red."

  "Good girl," Frank said.

  He moved out of sight to talk to the man behind her. "Your submissive this evening is J. She's new to this lifestyle too."

  "We'll learn together, J," M said, close to her ear.

  His voice was a deep, husky caress that travelled up the back of her thighs. Her throat was suddenly as dry as dust, her pussy wetter than ever. "Sounds good, M. I mean Sir."

  She had a sudden urge to turn her head to catch a glimpse of him, but no doubt he wore a mask as she did.

  "Marjorie has already shown you the leather flogger M will use," Frank said. "So if everyone is ready, we'll begin. Remember, M, what I explained about your stance. Let's not forget this is about giving and receiving pleasure."

  Jessie's mind filled with the instructions Marjorie had given her. Breathe. Let the Cross take some of your weight. The discomfort will be minor.

  She braced herself, but gasped when the lashes of the flogger danced over her back and neck. It tickled. Gooseflesh marched over her skin. She stifled a giggle.

  "Good," Frank said.

  Jessie flexed her bottom cheeks, regretting it instantly--it probably emphasized the flab.

  "Change up, now," Frank ordered.

  The lashes flicked more forcefully, back and forth, back and forth, as if M was whitewashing a wall.

  Frank crowed like a proud teacher with his prize pupil. "That's it. Perfect wrist movement, M."

  It wasn't painful, but after ten or twelve flicks, the skin on Jessie's back felt warm, like prickly heat.

  M paused. "Okay, J?"

  Jessie swallowed as desire spiralled up her thighs, into her clit and up her spine. What was it about his voice that turned her on? Surely her heightened sexual tension wasn't caused by the slight discomfort she felt? "Fine, Sir."

  He tickled her with the flogger again. Her breasts tingled. She heard a moan, appalled to realize it had emerged from her throat.

  "I didn't say you could moan, J."

  "Sorry, Sir. I didn't mean to."

  Suddenly M delivered a more stinging flick, followed by two more, then he danced the flogger against her bottom. She squeezed her eyes shut. Her pussy was soaking wet.

  "That was punishment for moaning without permission," M said.

  Hell's bells, this guy might be a novice but he seemed to be really into the whole thing. She was tempted to tell him where to stick his punishment.

  M put a hand on her shoulder. His warmth sent tingles into her nipples. His hand was sweaty. Was he nervous too? She rolled her eyes, stupidly glad she h
ad that small amount of freedom to express herself. This was beyond ridiculous--aroused by a man she couldn't see.

  His hand stayed on her shoulder, pressing gently, as if keeping her in place. Something soft and furry moved over her back. It felt wonderful after the prickly heat of the lash. She lifted her head to look at the ceiling.

  The flogger stung her bottom, harder this time, then again. How many hands did the guy have?

  "I didn't say you could raise your head, J."

  Jessie bit her lip. "Sorry, Sir."

  Frank appeared in front of her. "You're doing very well. Your bottom is beautifully pink. Want to try the crop? If so, tell your Dom. This is all about being forthright, communicating your needs."

  A crop? Nobody had said anything about a crop. Jessie was torn between apprehension, and an inexplicable longing to have M keep his hand on her shoulder. She thought about what the heroine of her book would say. "I'd like the crop, please, Sir."

  "That's my girl," M said.

  Could she be more aroused? If she wasn't careful she might come. How embarrassing! Years (make that a lifetime) without a satisfying orgasm, and she was close to flying apart while half a dozen people watched. Many Doms insisted their Sub not climax until given permission.

  Damned if she was going to ask permission.

  "Ouch!"

  The sting of the crop on her bottom took her completely unawares. All thoughts of orgasm fled.

  ~~~

  Michael was reasonably confident his black leather vest concealed the sweat trickling down his spine. He resisted the temptation to check his crotch, knowing full well his rock hard erection would be only too evident in the tight leather pants. Frank and Marjorie had definitely noticed, if their knowing grins were anything to go by.

  Fuck! His cock had hardened at first sight of J spread-eagled on the Cross, her butt cheeks hanging out of the ridiculous pants she wore. Were they crotchless too? Nice ass though.

  As Frank talked on, detailing the instructions once more, Michael studied his Sub from head to toe. Short hair--too short. He preferred something he could run his fingers through. Her mask had been tied with a bow at the back of her head, making her blond hair stand up in tufts, revealing a few streaks of grey at the roots.