The Dom of My Dreams: A BDSM Novel

by M. F. Sinclair

  Chapter One

  One of my favorite fantasies involved falling in love with a writer. Poets and novelists seemed so romantic to me. It was no wonder that I worked in publishing. I had dreamt of meeting with a famous author over coffee, where we’d fall madly in love, then get married, have kids and live happily ever after in a beautiful house with a white picket fence. I would go to all of his book signings and readings and everyone there would know that I was his wife and that he had dedicated all of his books to me. It was just a silly fantasy, one I indulged in whenever my cynicism took a momentary leave of absence.

  The aforementioned fantasy was the first thing that sprung to mind when I sat across from David J. Seton—the man who held the future of Bookends AtoZ in his hands. He was even more handsome in person than he was in the back-cover photo of his three consecutive bestsellers. I crossed my legs and smoothed down my blouse, hoping I looked poised and unconcerned as I stared into the loveliest pair of green eyes I had ever seen in a man.

  “May I ask why you’re interested in writing for us?” I said. “You’re a bestselling author and we’re an obscure publishing house.”

  He said nothing for a few moments, holding my gaze as he considered my question. He looked cool and relaxed in his tailored suit, with the self-possessed air of a man in control. The corners of his mouth twitched until he flashed me a sideways grin. “For my amusement,” he answered.

  Silence fell between us. Amiable chit-chat drifted from neighboring tables. A bored-looking waitress sauntered by, and I opened my mouth to order a drink but Seton, in a commanding, no nonsense tone, cut me short and ordered a bottle of red wine. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and tucked away a lock of chestnut-brown hair that had spilled across my forehead, wondering if I’d heard him correctly.

  “For your amusement?”

  He smiled again. “Yes. I thought it would amuse me to see exactly what you’d do and how far you’d go just to get me to write for you.”

  My jaw dropped at his words. It wasn’t just what he’d said, shocking as that was, but the way he’d said it. The tone of his velvety-smooth voice sounded a little too sensual and intimate for my liking. I closed my mouth and squirmed in my seat again.

  “By ‘you,’ you mean Bookends AtoZ, right?”

  He smiled an enigmatic smile and said nothing.

  “Look, if there’s anything I can do to help persuade you to join us,” I offered earnestly, “I’ll be more than happy to oblige.”

  More silence. He just sat there, grinning. Now he was just getting on my damn nerves. If he didn’t want to elaborate on what he’d said, then fine. I wasn’t going to play his game.

  It was our first private meeting. We were first introduced during a staff meeting, where my boss, Alfred Williams, had broken the staggering news that David James Seton, international bestselling author, might be joining Bookends AtoZ. My first reaction had been: why? We were, after all, located in Nowheresville—better known as Northampton, Massachusetts, a funky, bohemian city laden with angry poets and suicidal artists—which meant that big-name authors were few and far in between for us. We catered to local authors for the most part, a vast majority of whom were either poets or short fiction writers, and many of whom were gay. Northampton has a big open gay community. My best friend and colleague, Jeremy Walters, was gay and notoriously known for flirting with some of our authors.

  Apparently, David J. Seton moved here recently from England and was “intrigued” with our quaint little publishing house. He’d also said that he wanted me to edit his book, which was strange. I’d never met the guy before, only seen him during my occasional trips to Starbucks, but he had insisted on conducting this meeting with me, and Alfred had persuaded me to court Seton, claiming I was perfect for the job. I didn’t see why. All of my authors had already been writing for Bookends AtoZ when I began working with them. I had never courted a potential new author during the four years I’d worked there. What made Alfred think I could not only court but win over an international bestselling author? Call me suspicious, but something didn’t add up here.

  When the waitress brought the wine, Seton poured me a glass. His dreamy eyes traveled slowly over my upper body, moving over my breasts, sliding up my neck until they lingered on my lips. His gaze was full of smoky heat. Ice would have melted under such a look. Warmth stirred within me, and I felt my cheeks flushing pink.

  “I’d like to work on my new book with you,” he finally said. “But first you’ll have to do something for me.”

  His voice suggested that this was more than just a conventional business proposition. Gathering my wits, I narrowed my eyes suspiciously at him. “And what would that be, Mr. Seton?”

  “Call me David, sweetheart,” he drawled smoothly. “I thought informality was Bookends AtoZ’s MO.”

  I ignored his comment and cut straight to the chase. “What are you suggesting, Mr. Seton? Because if you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting—”

  “And what am I suggesting, according to you?”

  I scowled and made no response.

  Seton laughed—a low, husky sound that made my breath catch somewhere in my throat. “All right. Let’s say I’m indeed suggesting what you think I’m suggesting. What would you do? You’d turn down the opportunity to work with me? You’d tell me to go away?”

  Annoyed, I shot him a look and gritted my teeth. Why? Why was I forced to have drinks with this dark-haired alpha male? And why did his licentious proposition send fluttery sensations down to the pit of my stomach, sweeping lower to…more interesting areas?

  “Well, you got me there,” I muttered, crossing my arms over my chest. “So you are suggesting what I think you’re suggesting.”

  He laughed again. “Miss Fordham, if you think I’m suggesting a brief encounter in a motel room somewhere then you are quite mistaken. A quick, meaningless fuck has never been my style. What would I gain from that?”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Your power over me?”

  “What I have in mind involves power, yes,” he purred. “My proposition is rather…particular.”

  The come-hither tone in his accented voice made me all goose pimply and hot. His words sounded too much like the number of fantasies I’d had about him since I met him last week, and they disconcerted and confused me to the core.

  This meeting wasn’t going the way I had expected. I’d expected him to be difficult—he was, after all, a bestselling author—but I hadn’t expected something like this to happen. What did this “proposition” of his entail? Well…I knew what it entailed. But why did he want it from me of all people?

  Then something occurred to me. Something so obvious that I wished I had noticed it sooner. I narrowed my eyes again.

  “Did you have this proposition of yours in mind before arranging this meeting?” I asked him.

  His eyebrows shot up in mock surprise. His lips weren’t smiling, but his eyes certainly were. They twinkled with amusement.

  “Look,” I said in my best no-bullshit tone, “just tell me the truth. This proposition of yours…it wasn’t spontaneous, was it? You had this in mind from the very beginning, didn’t you?”

  “Perhaps,” he drawled teasingly.

  I glared at him. It all added up. Alfred delegated the job of courting a bestselling author to a rookie. The aforementioned bestselling author was making sexual propositions to said rookie.

  Coincidence? Not friggin’ likely.

  “This is the reason why you told Alfred that you wanted me to court you, isn’t it?”

  He looked at me from underneath those thick eyelashes of his. “Whatever do you mean?”

  The mocking tone in his voice and the sheer am
usement in his glinting emeralds confirmed my suspicions. I blew out a breath, tearing my gaze away from his. Great. Just great. My first time meeting a superstar author and he turned out to be an egocentric, sexual-harassing jerk. I had no idea if I should be turned on or offended. I felt the former, but knew I should have felt the latter. Irritation surged through me, and I clutched my wineglass and gulped down what remained of the wine in a weak attempt to calm myself. I was getting nervous, and when I get nervous I get thirsty.

  I needed answers, but first I was going to give Seton a piece of my mind. I turned stormy eyes to him, and the look I gave him would have terrified anyone. Seton, however, seemed tickled by my glare. Obstinacy gripped me, and I was determined to wipe out the smirk out of that gorgeous face at all cost.

  “So this was a setup?” I asked him, voice sharp. “Alfred didn’t give me this job because I was perfect for it, he gave it to me because you forced him to, didn’t you? And all so you could play your sick power games just to ‘amuse’ yourself, as you so eloquently put it.” I paused while I sipped my drink, but it did little to ease the dryness in my throat. “Did you tell Alfred that you wanted to sleep with me?”

  He opened his mouth to answer, but I held up a hand and cut him off. “No! I don’t want to know. Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Seton. I’m a book editor, not a whore. I want to work for Bookends AtoZ, but not at the expense of being jerked around by a spoiled, egotistical asshole like you. Goodbye.”

  Outraged, I grabbed my handbag, got up and turned to leave. I looked over my shoulder at Seton before reaching for the door and noticed his jaw was clenching. It was evident from the incensed look that flickered across his face that my words had upset him. Good. Mission accomplished.

  I paused to give him a chance to stop me from walking out on him, but he made no move. It was obvious from the way he looked at me that, though clearly pissed off, he was neither impressed nor intimidated by my tour de force. Oh, well. It was too late to back down now. I had to leave behind a very famous author. Alfred wouldn’t be pleased, but I had the upper hand in all this. After all, my boss had, in the words of I Love Lucy’s Ricky Ricardo, some explaining to do.

  I gave Seton one last scowl before turning my back to him. I was reaching for the door when he thundered, “Sit down, Marjorie!”

  I jumped at the intensity in his voice. The murmurs from various patrons suddenly stopped. Alarmed, I spun back to Seton. He crossed his arms over his chest and shot me a severe, do-not-dare-to-contradict-me-or-else look. A flush of anger appeared in his handsome face, coloring the pale skin that contrasted against his jet-black hair. He clenched his jaw all the tighter. If looks could kill, I would have been dead meat.

  Heat rose up my neck as I quickly surveyed the bar. Viva Café was very small. Surely everyone could see and hear this spectacle?

  “Sit down, Miss Fordham,” Seton said in a low, threatening voice.

  Embarrassed, I shuffled over to the table and settled back in my seat, trying valiantly not to cower from Seton’s heated gaze.

  His fierce scrutiny never wavered. He glowered at me for a very long time and I began to feel uncomfortable. Averting my eyes, I cast a worried glance across the bar. The other patrons peered over at us, curious at the two impeccably dressed people having what appeared to be either a business disagreement or a lovers’ quarrel. I sighed inwardly and looked back at Seton. His angry flush had lessened and his eyes had gentled a little, but not by much.

  “I won’t tell you what my proposition is just yet,” he said, his English accent more pronounced now that he was angry. “Though I’m quite certain that you have more or less an idea of what I have in mind. But I shall tell you one thing. You are never to contradict me. Ever. Protestations of any sort will not be tolerated. Is that clear?”

  Stunned, I forced myself to nod.

  He shot me one last glare before reaching inside his jacket and pulling out a card. “Meet me here tonight at eight o’clock sharp. We shall discuss our deal then.” He handed me the card, which had a home and e-mail address and a cell phone number scribbled on it.

  “To answer your earlier question,” he continued, “yes, I told Mr. Williams I wanted you to court me, but he doesn’t know about this part of the deal. You may doubt it, but I am a gentleman.”

  A controlling, sexual-harassing gentleman. Amazing.

  “And in case you’re wondering,” he went on, “you’re under no obligation to accept my offer, and you won’t lose your job over it. I’ve made sure of that. So you see, Miss Fordham, you’re entitled to turn down my offer if you like”—a slight smile teased the corners of his mouth before he turned serious again—“but I’ve got a feeling that mine is not the sort of proposition you would want to turn down. I know what sort of woman you are. I’ve got you pegged from the moment I saw you.”

  Which begged the question: what sort of woman was that? But I wasn’t about to ask him that, not now that his mood seemed so dark and unpredictable.

  Suddenly, Seton leaned forward and ran a thumb slowly over my bottom lip. I gasped at the abruptness of the contact. Then, as if in its own volition, my tongue flicked out and tasted him. A slow smile curled Seton’s luscious lips.

  “What a naughty girl you are, Miss Fordham,” he said, the lilt of England intoning his vowels. “Just as I knew you would be.”

  He smoothed the tips of his callused fingers over my chin and traced a languid path down my neck to my collarbone. Then his thumb encircled my collarbone slowly, teasingly, making me gasp again. His intense green eyes bored into mine, his eyelashes fluttering as he blinked softly, and my heart skipped a beat. He was beautiful—oh, so beautiful—in a harsh, masculine sort of way.

  Discreetly, I leaned toward him and breathed in his scent. The rich combination of cologne, aftershave and man was almost intoxicating. I swallowed hard and tried to ignore the flaring sensations that were coursing through my body.

  “You weren’t as outraged about my proposition as you wanted to seem,” he murmured, his breath fanning hotly against my cheek. “I think you’re quite intrigued.”

  I shivered and looked away. A couple of people were openly staring at us, an odd mixture of perplexity and amusement passing over their inquisitive faces. Seton and I must’ve looked like a couple of horny lovers out on a sexy tryst. Embarrassed, I pushed Seton’s hand away and clutched my handbag over my heaving chest.

  “I trust that you will give me time to digest this information?” I asked, flustered.

  “You have until tonight.”

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “And I can count on your total discretion?”

  He leaned back in his seat and cast me a playful smile. “Of course! I don’t boast about my conquests, Miss Fordham.”

  “Conquest? But I’m not your lover.”

  Yet. The unspoken modifier hung in the air between us. He knew as well as I that this arrangement was almost a done deal. But I didn’t have to be obvious about it. A little game of hard to get never hurts anyone.

  I took another deep breath. “And this is strictly a business arrangement and nothing more…right?”

  I could have sworn I saw his jaw clench before he nodded. “Why, certainly, Miss Fordham,” he said dryly. “How about a trade. You give me what I ask for, and I’ll hand you over my novel once it’s finished. Maybe. No guarantees. Is that a deal?”

  Trepidation took over me. No guarantees? That meant he wouldn’t necessarily sign with Bookends AtoZ even if I did sleep with him. Ah, well. When push came to shove, I wouldn’t do it for his book. I might have done some pretty low things in my life, but I had never slept with someone for financial gain. That I would never do.

  The truth was, I wanted Seton. It didn’t matter that I barely knew him, or that his proposal was tantamount to sexual harassment. His dominant nature turned me on. For the past week, he had kept my kinkiest fantasies all the kinkier, and I was curious, very curious, and my curiosity was twenty times stronger than my ambition. Besides,
it wasn’t like I’d never had flings before, and what could be better than to have a fling with this god-like alpha male?

  I took a deep breath and said, “It’s…a deal.”

  Something flickered in the depths of his eyes that I didn’t recognize or understand. “Very well,” he said, voice remote. “But it’s not a done deal yet. You have to hear the full proposal first. I shall give you further details tonight.”

  My hands quivered a little as I fought a fresh wave of confusion over the sexy, enigmatic man sitting across from me. “May I please go now?”

  He leaned farther back in his chair and let out a low, husky laugh that sent a flash of heat through me. “Now that’s a bloody good start! Yes, you may leave now, Miss Fordham. But wait!”

  He reached underneath his chair and pulled out a large black shopping bag I hadn’t seen before. He offered me the bag. “This is for you.”

  “What—?”

  “No questions. Just take it. I want you to wear all of the items in the bag for me tonight. And I do mean all of it. All right?”

  Dazed, I nodded and grabbed the bag.

  Seton paid for the wine, rose from his seat and offered me a hand. Then we walked over to the exit side by side without saying a word. His hand pressed into my back, sending tiny frissons of delight flowing through my skin. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of him staring down at me. He opened the door for me; his warm body brushed briefly against mine as I walked out into the piercing afternoon sun.

  “Until tonight then, Miss Fordham,” Seton said formally, reaching into his immaculate jacket and pulling out a BlackBerry. He walked away without giving me another glance.

  I watched him disappear down the street, my gaze traveling down the full length of him. It wasn’t only his elegant and formidable disposition that was magnificent. He was built to perfection—a little over six feet tall, with broad shoulders, a powerful back, slim hips and long, lean legs. He had the best ass I’d ever seen in a fully-clad man. God, I bet he looked even better naked!

  I wondered why he wore a suit. Did he do something else for a living other than write books?