by Cathryn Cade
“Yeah, right.” Kevin shook his head in disgust.
Mason eyed her, his head cocked to one side. “No, hold on. I think she’s telling the truth.”
“Daisy.” She looked at Dack, willing the tears clogging her throat not to fall. She’d finally gotten the courage to follow through on her fantasies, and now her exciting adventure was going to hell for reasons she didn’t even understand.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the pretty blonde sitting with her arms crossed, watching. She shook her head as if unable to believe how much trouble Daisy was in.
Dack took her hand in his, lifting it so the key hanging from her arm was displayed. “You don’t know what the keys mean? Rochelle didn’t explain that to you when you came in?”
“No. Wait, she mentioned keys, but she—she wasn’t feeling well.” Daisy didn’t want to get the receptionist in trouble. Seemed like she had enough. “She didn’t finish whatever she was going to say. I thought she was going to faint. She waved me in and ran for the restroom.”
Dack grimaced. “I’ll deal with that in a bit. Now, where are their keys?”
Daisy handed him his sunglasses and dug the other keys from her purse. They lay in her palm.
She tried to hand them to him, but he shook his head, shoving his sunglasses on the top of his head. “Daisy, when someone—a guy or a gal—offers you their key, it means they’re a dom. And they’re asking you to be their partner, to submit to them for the evening.”
Her breath froze in her throat, her tears forgotten. He held her gaze, his quizzical. “And when you take it, you’re agreeing.”
“Oh.” The work came out in a squeak. Holy crap, all three of these guys thought she’d agreed to—to let them do stuff to her, with her?
Dack rose, towering over her. “Now choose. And hurry your ass up about it. I’ll be back in a minute.” He turned and strode away.
Oh God. Daisy watched him go. Was he coming back? Did she even want him to? Well, one thing was for sure, she had to deal with these two guys first.
She turned to Mason and held out his key. “I’m really sorry.”
He nodded, looking as if he were trying not to grin. “’S okay. Put it in my pocket, eh?”
She looked at his tight jeans and blinked at the size of his male package. She was not going there. Instead, she tucked the key in a small pocket of his vest.
“You’re not getting one of my margaritas,” he teased, waving the drinks enticingly.
Daisy smiled back, feeling a twinge of regret. “There’s a blonde behind you who looks like she needs a drink.”
His eyes gleamed. “Good idea.” He turned away.
Daisy turned to Kevin. He gave her a cocky grin as if sure she’d choose him. He was handsome, but he was not someone Daisy would consider actually hooking up with. With an inward shudder, she held out the black key to him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I, um, hope you have a great night.”
“Oh, I will,” he said, grabbing the key from her. “Hope you can say the same.” He turned his back on her.
Well, okay. So he wouldn’t be forgiving her anytime soon.
She sank onto the sofa, leaned her forehead on her hand. Geez, what a night. Was this going to work for her? She felt like there was a whole secret rulebook someone had forgotten to show her.
The music started again, a bluesy number with lots of saxophone. Daisy leaned her chin on her hand and looked around. Mason was perched on the arm of the blonde’s chair, his back partly turned to Daisy. They were sipping margaritas and smiling at each other. The woman’s eyes were sparkling as if her dreams for the night had come true.
Daisy felt Dack’s presence before she saw him—a kind of electric awareness. She sat up straight as he resumed his former perch on the arm of the sofa. He said nothing, and her nerves sizzled with anticipation. Finally, she could stand the wait no longer and looked up at him.
He was looking down at her over his crossed arms, like a potentate regarding a recalcitrant harem girl. His sunglasses had disappeared. Oh, man, the pose highlighted his huge shoulders and gorgeous biceps. She wanted her hands all over those arms.
“Still here, I see,” he rumbled.
She shrugged. That was a no-brainer.
“Stand up.”
Scooting forward off the sofa, Daisy rose and turned to him. Was he going to ask her to dance?
“So, now that you know what my key means, you gonna wuss out?” he asked her, one corner of his mouth pressing in, as if he was trying not to grin.
She scowled at him, planting her hands on her hips. “No.”
“Good.” He uncrossed his arms and crooked his forefinger. “Then c’mere.”
Daisy took the single step that placed her between his spread knees. He took his key from her wrist, stretched the choker with both hands, and lifted it over her head. The warmth of his big hands ruffled her hair, ghosted over her cheeks.
The choker settled into place around her throat, a light caress, the key dangling in the hollow of her throat. He eyed it with satisfaction, his hands spread on his knees.
Disappointment trickled through her. She’d hoped he would put his hands on her, maybe kiss her.
He looked up into her eyes. “Now, since you won’t take your top off,” he said, “let’s have your skirt instead.”
He’s got her tied up, but she’s got him out of control.
Out of Control
© 2014 Teresa Noelle Roberts
Glass artist Jen Kessler has hit the jackpot—a cheap apartment in a charming Victorian house, complete with a sexy, intense, buttoned-down landlord…who may or may not have a riding crop in his bedroom.
She’s not looking for a lover, but when her innocent, impulsive hug sparks kisses as hot as molten glass, it leads to bondage, spankings, and more naughtiness that, up to now, she had only tasted.
His new tenant may have wild, dyed hair and an unconventional job, but Cornell math professor Drake Matthews admires the work ethic that got her out of debt. Then he’s stunned at how quickly she destroys decades of carefully cultivated self-control.
Soon their sexual and emotional passions push them to the edge—and beyond. But it’s not all good, dirty fun. As Drake takes more and more control of Jen in the bedroom, her deeply ingrained independent streak pushes back. And it’ll take more than a shared penchant for ropes, paddling, and coffee to overcome pasts that could unravel their relationship before it begins.
Warning: Contains kinky sex, molten glass, geeky higher mathematics, family secrets, and irresponsible consumption of coffee.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Out of Control:
“Do you need a hand with anything? More coffee maybe? Or should I leave you alone to unpack?” Drake stood in the doorway, and Jen couldn’t tell if he wanted her to ask him to stay or dismiss him. He was wearing his serious, professorial face, but there was something in his eyes, something in the way he watched her, something in the way he leaned on the doorframe, lazy as a cat, but like a cat sometimes was, active in his laziness, that suggested his thoughts might be more serious than fun. Naughty, even.
“I can think of a few things I could use a hand with.” She stifled laughter. She honestly hadn’t meant it to sound suggestive, but it came out that way.
“I imagine.” Drake came closer and suddenly the room seemed very warm. Or maybe that was just her panties. “What can I do for you?” The words could just refer to all the million things involved with getting settled in a new place, and on one level, probably did.
But Drake felt that tension too. She could hear it in his voice, see it in the way he carried himself. He was studying her like she was prey, or maybe an opponent in some kind of contest, trying to figure out his next move. Funny thing was, he probably thought he was being subtle, but he was obviously trying to decide whether he should jump in where they’d left off or pretend it had never happened and start their acquaintance fresh.
Still, he wasn’t as awkward as a lot of guys might be.
He wasn’t slobbering like a puppy who thought she had a treat in her pocket, but wasn’t ignoring her either. More like he was waiting for a clear signal.
What the hell. She decided to give him one, an opening he could take in several ways. Otherwise, she’d never get anything done, and that would be bad, right?
She’d never been the type to wait demurely for a guy to make up his mind. That was like waiting for everything to fall into place so you could quit your horrible nine-to-five job and commit to art—a great way to be old and gray and still waiting. You had to make things fall into place, whether you were talking about work or relationships. Create opportunities. The worst that would happen in either case was you’d fall on your face. And then you got up, brushed yourself off and tried something different.
She stood up from the floor, where she’d been sorting through a box. “How about welcoming me to the house properly,” she said, her voice slipping to a sultry whisper almost despite herself, and held out her hand.
Drake took her hand, shook it in a friendly but businesslike way. “Glad to have you here.” God, his hands were big.
He stepped closer, not letting go of her hand, close enough she could feel the heat of his body. A shudder ran through her, made up of equal parts desire and confusion. She felt paralyzed. Jen’s normal impulse would be to kiss this man, who seemed like he wanted desperately to kiss her but was holding back. At least pull him into a hug, make it clear she was interested. Yet she couldn’t move, trapped by his serious gray eyes, the heat of his touch, the set of his mouth under that tidy beard.
“You confound me,” he said, his voice harsh, dark. “Jen, Jen, Jen, what am I going to do with you?”
“I have a few ideas.”
“So do I. Problem is, while we’d both enjoy these ideas, I’m not sure they’re smart.” Jen froze, unable even to breathe. At least they were on the same page about wanting each other. She wanted to ask him if he truly cared if it was a bad idea, to make it clear she was all about the good-bad ideas, say she even had a clue what those ideas might entail, but she couldn’t speak.
“The hell with it. Smart is overrated.” Drake’s voice came out as a growl, nothing Jen could imagine in a civilized Cornell classroom but could definitely imagine in a bedroom. He reeled her in, pulled her against his hard body.
She felt small and soft. Normally that would make her want to demonstrate her strength—which, thanks to her active life, was surprising for someone who looked more like the petite-flower type. But she liked feeling small and soft in Drake’s arms, with Drake’s mouth crashing down onto hers.
He lifted her up effortlessly, not breaking the kiss, and carried her toward the unmade bed. My God, what did this man do for a workout? This mathematician had muscles like a cowboy. Holding her with one arm, he swept piles and bags of clothes off the bed onto the floor. She saw a wince cross his face as he did it, as if it offended the sense of order she’d seen reflected in his side of the house. “Don’t worry,” she joked, “my clothes are used to spending time on the floor.”
“Not for much longer,” she thought he said. She would have puzzled at the words, except Drake distracted her by pulling her T-shirt off with one decisive motion. She had accidentally packed all her bras last night. At the moment, this seemed like the best accident ever. Drake studied her bared curves, running his big hands along her sides. She purred and arched up. His hands moved to her nipples, began caressing in a gentle, exploratory way, not what she would have expected from his earlier fierceness. Lovely but too light for her taste, it teased and tickled as much as it aroused. She squealed and tried to squirm away at the same time she arched her hips up to meet his, turned on and tormented at same time. The pleasure was almost painful, in the same paradoxical way pain, in the right circumstances and with the right person, could be pleasurable.
“Too much?”
“Too little. I like it rougher.” Not something she’d admit to most guys this soon, for fear they’d take it too far, but Avi’s words inspired confidence. The woman wrote about safe BDSM practices for a living, after all, and she’d said Drake was all right.
Drake chuckled. “Good.” Her brain was whirling like cotton candy in one of those machines at the county fair and felt just about as pink and fluffy, but his tone registered. Evil glee, definitely. She was in trouble, but it was the kind of trouble she loved. With one hand, he began pinching first one nipple, then the other, tugging and kneading. Delicious pleasure and equally delicious pain seared through her. “Good girl. Put your arms over your head.”
She obeyed. She couldn’t help herself. She didn’t want to help herself. Why wouldn’t she play along? This was the best thing that had happened to her in a long, long, long time that didn’t involve making art.
He grabbed her wrists with his other hand, his grip viselike, unbreakable. Heat pooled in her belly, and she couldn’t help whimpering.
“Do you enjoy restraint, Jen?”
She nodded. “Oh yeah.” She felt like she should say something more, something about their mutual friend, even, but the time for intelligent dialogue was either past or yet to come, at least on her end. Drake was talking just fine, but maybe it took longer for hormones to shut down his extra-smart brain.
“Would you enjoy a lot of restraint? Rope bondage, maybe?”
She nodded again, unable to speak. Her eyes felt like they were as wide as a cartoon character’s, taking up her whole face. Avi had experimented on her with rope back in college—just practicing a few ties on her, nothing more—and she’d gotten a kick out of it. With Drake in charge, and actual sex involved, it would be heaven.
“Excellent.” Drake chuckled, and it was the kind of chuckle you’d expect from a supervillain whose evil plan was coming together.
Maybe she was in a bit over her head.
Hurray! Over your head was fun.
And she had it on good authority that he was an ethical perv, not an ax murderer.
“Right now,” he said, “I think we’re both feeling too impatient for rope. Which means we should do it anyway, once we’ve gotten a few things out of our system. You need to learn patience and order. Luckily, I’m here to help you.”
Jen’s head spun. She knew how to sprinkle kink into sex, like a touch of brilliant color to set off clear glass. Still, beyond playful spanking and casual bandana-and-stocking bondage, beyond flipping a coin to see who’d take tongue-in-cheek charge in bed on a particular night, she hadn’t explored very far since rooming with Avi in college. She’d looked at Web sites, especially ones Avi had recommended on her own site, and she’d listened to a few erotica audiobooks, but she was definitely a beginner.
Drake wasn’t. Even if she wasn’t already clued in, she could guess. It was in the way he’d been touching her ever since she’d told him she liked a firmer touch, but more than that, it was in his voice. In his eyes.
She strove for words, tried to say the words that hovered on her lips: You’re a dom. Not just a guy who liked to dabble in kink once in a while, but a serious dom. But she couldn’t make the words come out.
She’s All That
Cathryn Cade
To see clearly, sometimes you have to put on a blindfold.
Club 3, Book 3
Determined to overcome the lingering self doubts her cheating ex left behind, Sara James scrapes up the courage to join Club 3—where her instant, powerful attraction to Trace Bowen, the head Dom, sends her running in the wrong direction.
From the moment he rescues Sara from the clutches of a coked-up Dom, Trace is enthralled. She’s beautiful, brave, and poised on the edge of blossoming into the sub of his dreams. In the initial rush of enchantment, though, he omits a minor detail that causes a major problem.
Back in college, Trace was Kai Kalo-Haimani’s first love—until Kai’s straight-laced family demanded he walk the line. Now Kai is back, heart in his hands, to ask for another chance. Even if it means accepting Sara as part of the package.
Despite her attract
ion to both men, Sara’s old demons come roaring back, threatening to push her back inside her shell of insecurity. Unless Trace and Kai can convince her that not only is she enough for one man, she’s more than enough for two.
Warning: A submissive, a Dom, and a switch looking for love in as many positions as they can dream up, and a club full of kinky friends cheering them on.
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B
Cincinnati OH 45249
She’s All That
Copyright © 2014 by Cathryn Cade
ISBN: 978-1-61922-016-4
Edited by Linda Ingmanson
Cover by Angela Waters
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: April 2014
www.samhainpublishing.com