“Which club?” Annie asked before taking a sip of her merlot.
As her eyes met Annie’s, Awai gave a small shrug. “A BDSM club.”
Annie choked on her wine and it shot up her nose. She grabbed her napkin and managed to cover her mouth before she spewed merlot everywhere.
“Are you all right, sweets?” Awai asked the question as if she’d just said she’d found toilet paper on sale at the grocery store instead of announcing she’d gone to a BDSM club.
When Annie had sufficiently recovered, she patted her mouth with the napkin then set it on her empty plate. “That’s why you were wearing that tight leather dress and those thigh-high boots when I came by to ask you to go with me to Alexi’s last year. You weren’t off to a masquerade party. You were going to a BDSM club.”
Awai smiled and raised her glass. “Does it bother you that I’m a Dominatrix? That’s Domme for short.”
Annie almost choked again as she visualized Awai wearing that black leather number and whipping a submissive male. “Um, no. Not at all.”
Cocking her head to one side, Awai said, “You should come with me sometime and find a good Dom. You’re a born submissive, you know.”
“I don’t think so.” Annie shook her head. “I’m not into, ah, floggers and handcuffs.”
“It’s not all about whips, chains, and pain, Annie.” Awai pushed her plate aside and folded her arms on the table as she gave Annie that penetrating look of hers that was sure to have won over plenty of accounts. Probably submissives, too. “For a sub, giving up control is more than bondage, more than pleasure and pain. It’s power. You have total control over your Master’s pleasure. You hold all the cards.”
Meeting Awai’s gaze head-on, Annie asked, “Why are you a Domme?”
With a shrug, Awai leaned back in her chair. “I enjoy having men obeying my every whim.”
“Like they do at the agency?” Annie asked as she arched one eyebrow.
Awai’s mouth curved into a half smile. “Something like that.”
Annie pulled her braid over her shoulder and absently played with the end. “If the submissive has all the control, then why aren’t you a sub?”
For a moment Awai was silent. When she finally spoke she said, “Until I truly learned the concept behind BDSM, I always thought the Domme had the power.” She brushed imaginary lint off her black skirt. “By the time I figured out otherwise, I had learned all about being a Domme—and now, I enjoy it too much to switch.” But something in Awai’s eyes held just a tinge of regret.
Before Annie could respond, Awai said, “How about I come over in the morning, and we’ll head over to Macy’s? They have a big sale going on, and I could use a new suit.”
No doubt Awai had changed the subject because the reason she’d become a Domme was something she didn’t want to talk about. Perhaps she even regretted being a Domme instead of a submissive. It would take a hell of a man to dominate Awai, though. Annie didn’t think men like that existed on Earth.
Even though Awai lived in San Francisco, closer than Annie, she always insisted on picking Annie up to go to the city. Awai had a sleek red Mercedes convertible Roadster, and she loved to drive it every chance she had.
“I could use a few things, too.” Annie smiled and gave a slow nod. “Why don’t you drop by around ten?”
“Ten sharp.” Awai pushed her chair back, gracefully stood, and headed toward the easel in the living room. “So, what are you working on? Something depressing, right?”
Annie rolled her eyes, but then she realized she had no idea what she’d done during those hours of painting today. With Abra at her heels, Annie followed Awai to the easel.
Awai pushed the stool out of the way, then folded her arms and pursed her lips as she studied the painting. “Oh, definitely morbid, but I like it.”
Annie’s frown deepened, but when she reached the easel and stopped in front of the canvas, her jaw dropped.
Cocking one eyebrow, Awai cut Annie a questioning glance. “Looks like it came right out of Wuthering Heights.”
“Yeah, it does.” Annie’s practiced eye scanned her work. It wasn’t quite finished, but it was damn good if not murky and mysterious. Maybe it was a sign she was more down about her cousins’ disappearances than she’d thought.
A sprawling but gloomy mansion stood dark and foreboding in the background with only a single window dimly lit from within, as if by candlelight. Lightning illuminated the scene just enough that the viewer could see skeleton trees bowing close to the ground from raging winds, and in the distance whitecaps dotted a body of water below sheer black cliffs. In the lower right-hand corner was a single magnolia bloom lying on the ground, its petals pure cream beside a shadow.
She narrowed her gaze. A man’s shadow. How odd.
“Well, this is interesting,” Awai said, breaking into Annie’s thoughts. “How did you come up with it?”
Annie shook her head. “I have no idea. The twins still missing...maybe it’s bothering me more than I thought.”
Unable to bear the sheer strangeness of seeing a painting she had obviously created without remembering a damned thing about it, Annie turned away from the canvas. She forced a smile for Awai’s benefit and tried to ignore a creeping sense that the painting was somehow staring at her.
“Well, come on,” Awai said. “Chop, chop. We’ve got spumoni waiting.”
Relieved, Annie followed Awai away from the mystery on the canvas. She’d deal with it later—probably with scissors.
Awai stayed for a while longer, long enough to share the spumoni and polish off the bottle of wine. Annie wasn’t much of a drinker, but tonight she’d had two glasses of merlot. She felt mellow and relaxed, and definitely ready for bed.
Once Awai had left for her San Francisco apartment, Annie tried to stay away from the painting. She had decided to deal with it in the morning. In the sunshine, if there was any.
And yet, the painting pulled at her.
Mumbling a few wine-enhanced curses, she finally gave up and moved the easel in front of her overstuffed armchair. Still feeling the merlot, she sat and studied her day’s work, her elbow resting on her knee, her chin in her hand. Her braid fell over her opposite shoulder as she tried to interpret her own work. Abra bounded onto the armrest and started batting the end of Annie’s braid.
Where the heck did this come from?
The picture had a brooding, Gothic feel to it. It was unlike her usual landscapes and seascapes, but was still in her distinctive style. The painting was fascinating, really. She rarely had dwellings in her work, and this mausoleum of a mansion was beyond anything she thought herself capable of. Perhaps it was so captivating because it reminded her of the Gothic romance novels her grandmother was always reading when she was young and still lived in Tennessee.
At least it’s not giving me the creeps anymore. Who cares where it came from? It’s good. That’s what matters. For a moment, she smiled, studying the mysterious lines and shadows.
“Maybe I have a dark, wild side after all.” Stifling a yawn, Annie rose and turned away from the painting. “Wild. Yeah, right.”
She heard the crack of thunder. Abra hissed and arched her back, then darted under the end table. Lights in the apartment flickered.
Everything went dark.
Annie frowned. They never had thunderstorms in the Bay Area because of the cool onshore flow of air from the Pacific. She started to go to the window when a flash lit up her dark apartment for a moment. Thunder boomed again, rattling her windows.
But the lightning flash hadn’t come from outside.
It had come from her painting.
A strange buzzing started in Annie’s ears as she moved back toward the painting.
Her heart started pounding like mad.
She saw the same scene she had painted, only now it looked like a very tall and wide TV screen rather than a canvas. It was raining in the picture and trees swayed in fierce gusts of wind. She could even hear the haunting sound
of whistling wind and could feel wet air blowing from the painting. It rushed across her face and misted her glasses. Something that looked like a very large cat stalked across the picture. A white tiger with black stripes.
Abra hissed again from beneath the end table, this time louder and much fiercer.
Goose bumps prickled Annie’s skin and her nipples pebbled beneath her white T-shirt.
“Too much wine, sugar,” she murmured as she pulled off her glasses that were now too fogged to see through. “This is why you rarely drink.”
Although hallucinating after only two glasses of wine was mighty strange.
Lightning flashed in the picture again and Annie jumped. In the brief illumination, she saw the magnolia bloom—only this time a man was holding it.
A man. In the picture. Looking directly at her.
He moved closer so that he filled the scene and she could hardly see anything around him. Wind tugged at his black hair and clothing, which were soaked from the rain. He was dressed in an equally black shirt and pants, but he was too close to see what he wore on his feet. His eyes were black, too. Dark and haunting.
The man held his free hand out to her, and she took an automatic step back.
“Come, Annie,” he said in a deep, husky voice that caused a strange thrill to zip from her belly to straight between her thighs. “It is time.”
Stranded
By Jaymie Holland
“Tattoos and Leather” series
Erika gave a soft gasp as Dawson’s mouth met hers. He moved his mouth slowly over hers, his stubble scraping the soft skin about her mouth. His kiss was gentle and searching, so different than what she would have expected from him.
Her head spun from the wine, from the kiss, from her wild attraction to this man. She breathed in his scent of leather and pine and it filled her, drew her into him.
With a shuddering sigh she slid her palms up his biceps as she returned his kiss. She clenched the rock hard muscle as if it might keep her from sliding into a molten puddle at his feet.
He slid his tongue into her mouth, searching, tasting. He brought her closer to him and she melted against him, her body seeming to meld with his. His cock was hard, insistent, and she ached between her thighs, wanting him, needing him.
Just when she thought the kiss would never end, that they would stay there together forever, he parted his mouth from hers.
He looked at her and smiled. “Now that was a kiss,” he murmured as he stroked hair from her face.
She swallowed and managed to get out, “Not a good idea.”
A smile tipped the corner of his mouth. “Oh, I think it’s a very good idea.”
Somehow she found her strength and pushed herself back a couple of steps. He let his hands slide away from her.
“I’d better get back to—to—” For the life of her she couldn’t remember what.
He grinned. “The wine?”
She ran her tongue along her lower lip, tasting him. “Yes.” She dodged around him and strode back down the hallway toward the living room. Before she left the hallway, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, hoping like hell that her mouth didn’t look red from Dawson’s stubble and her lips swollen from his kiss. And she hoped her desire for him wasn’t clear in her eyes.
When she’d gathered her wits and composure the best she could, she walked into the living room. She was grateful to see that Holden wasn’t in the living room or kitchen. Maybe he’d gone into the master bedroom, wherever that was, to use his own bathroom.
She curled up on the couch again, this time clutching her glass because her hands were shaking from her encounter with Dawson.
A few moments later, Holden returned and sat beside her again. He picked up the bottle and gestured to the empty glass she was holding. “More wine? There’s at least a glass left.”
She felt silly for gripping an empty wine stem like a protective shield. She loosened her grasp on it and smiled. “I think I’ve had more than enough.”
He corked the bottle and grabbed the empty Spanish wine bottle as he stood. “You and me both.”
Dawson strode in from the hallway, a sexy smile on his lips. Erika’s body warmed as she remembered the kiss, reliving it in her thoughts. It was clear by the look in his eyes that he was, too.
“Erika and I have had enough wine.” Holden was holding the two bottles. “Would you like to finish what’s left?” He raised the Australian wine bottle to Dawson.
Dawson held out his glass. “Fill ’er up.”
Needing to put some distance between herself and Dawson, Erika got up from her seat. “I’ll carry the glasses.”
Holden nodded toward the TV. “Do you want to see if you can catch the weather report?”
Dawson grabbed the remote off the end table near the chair he was now sitting in. “Will do.” He reclined in the seat with his wine glass and the remote, and in moments the TV was on and he was flipping through channels.
Feeling some relief to be out of the same space as Dawson, Erika walked to the kitchen with Holden, where he set the wine bottles on the counter. The relief was short-lived, though, because the moment she handed the wine glasses to him, their fingers touched and her hormones went wild again.
The intensity of his stare sent heat flushing through her. She wasn’t a lip biter, but she had the urge to bite her lip just for the pain to get herself refocused on staying away from the Kennedy cousins.
She picked up the empty wine bottles. “Where’s your recycle?”
He set the glasses on the countertop. “In the mudroom.”
She grasped the wine bottles as he walked with her to the back of the kitchen and into the large mudroom with a door that joined it to the garage. The area had a washer and dryer, a big sink, cabinets, and a small shower. They’d walked through this room when they’d come in from the garage after leaving the restaurant.
When they were inside the mudroom, he took the bottles from her and set them in a large recycling container.
Before she had time to process everything, Holden pushed her up against the wall, completely catching her off guard.
He gave her no time to think. He brought his mouth down hard on hers, taking, controlling. She let out a moan that surprised her and he took thorough advantage of it. He buried his hands in her hair, pulling her to him, clearly dominating her as he kissed her.
And to her complete shock, she loved it. She loved the way he mastered her, devoured her. She could picture herself letting him do anything he wanted to with her. Anything.
He pressed himself firmly against her and for the second time that night, a man’s hard cock was against her belly—and it was not the same man.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and held on as she kissed him back, tasting him and breathing him in like she’d done with Dawson.
But this kiss was oh-so-different. Holden’s was harder, far more intense. His stubble was lighter but still scraped her skin that was still sensitive from kissing Dawson.
Even though the kisses were different, they were both just as amazing, but turning her on in ways she’d never been turned on before.
A part of her wondered what the hell she was doing. She was kissing Holden when she’d just kissed Dawson. Was she out of her freaking mind?
Then the other part of her said, “Screw it,” and she lost herself in the kiss, her mind flying as she held on to him for everything she had. She wrapped her arms even tighter around his neck.
It must have been from being kissed so thoroughly by two men in one night, plus all the wine that made her so loose and wild.
Five minutes had to have passed before Holden raised his head and stared into her eyes. His look was dark and intense, his breathing deep as he drew it in and blew it out. “We’d better get back.”
Trying to catch her breath, she nodded. He smoothed her hair as she did. No doubt he messed it up when he had clenched his fists in it. She straightened but couldn’t take her eyes off his, almost like she was waitin
g for him to lead her or tell her what to do.
She wanted to say, “This can’t happen again,” but like with Dawson, she couldn’t get words out that she needed to.
He brushed his lips over hers again before gesturing for her to leave the laundry room ahead of him. When she walked into the kitchen, Dawson was there, his hip up against a counter. He watched her and then Holden as they walked out of the laundry room.
She knew she must have gone six shades of red. She never blushed and she rarely got embarrassed, much less showed it, but this time she knew what had just happened had to be written all over her face.
Excerpt…Hidden Prey
“Lawmen” series
By Cheyenne McCray
Almost absently, he rubbed his thumb along Tori’s delicate jawline while they both remained quiet. He liked the way she fit in his arms. It felt…right.
It was the right time to tell her about what happened with Brian. Landon knew he should do it now.
And then every good intention vanished as she tipped her face up to look at him. Her eyelashes glittered from the remainder of her tears and her brown eyes seemed even darker than normal. As their gazes met and held, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to look away from her again. She drew him to her in so many ways and he was helpless to stop himself from wanting to get closer to her.
The other agents were downstairs and he was upstairs, alone. With Tori.
This wasn’t smart.
Hell, it was a long, long way from smart.
He held his breath, then let out a slow exhale as he lowered his mouth to hers.
The moment their lips met, she gave a sigh, surrendering herself to his kiss. That sense of surrender fueled him, somehow making him desire her even more than he already did.
He moved his lips over hers, hungry for the taste of her, the feel of her. Her scent filled him, as if a part of her was now inside him. Her lips were so soft, her taste exquisite on his tongue. God, he knew he could never get enough of her.
She leaned into him as their body heat melded, fusing them together in a way that defied explanation. Her sighs turned into a soft moan as he moved his hands over her shoulders, down her arms, and to her waist. She was wearing one of her new T-shirts and he pushed the hem up just enough that he could feel her soft skin along the waistband. He gripped her slender waist in his hands, his fingers brushing the base of her spine where she’d been tattooed.
Claimed by Pleasure: King of Spades (Wonderland Book 2) Page 21