On the Razor's Edge of Paradise

by Carolyn Faulkner

  ON THE RAZOR’S EDGE OF PARADISE

  CAROLYN FAULKNER

  BLUSHING BOOKS

  ©2017 by Blushing Books® and Carolyn Faulkner

  All rights reserved.

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  Carolyn Faulkner

  On the Razor’s Edge of Paradise

  EBook ISBN: 978-1-61258-378-5

  Cover Art by ABCD Graphics & Design

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.

  CONTENTS

  What’s Inside

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  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Carolyn Faulkner

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  WHAT’S INSIDE

  I felt truly treasured, in a way I hadn't before.

  My dress was peeled—slowly—off me so that he could appreciate the loss of it and the revelation of what was beneath. He took my hand to help me out of it, leaving me standing there in just the pretty sherbet colored bra I'd chosen deliberately, because I wasn't exactly sure how this date was going to turn out, as well as the matching lace panties.

  "Remind me to buy you some sexy garters and stockings. I have a feeling I'm going to be at you all the time—you are one gorgeous woman," he sighed raggedly, and I could feel his gaze on me as thoroughly if it was a third hand.

  Compliments always made me uncomfortable, so I automatically tried to turn away from him, receiving a crisp swat to my bum for having done so that made me yelp unbecomingly. He grasped my chin firmly, saying as he looked directly into my eyes, "That's the second time I've complimented you, and the second time you've shied away from it. I can see that one of the first things I'm going to have to teach you is how to take a compliment graciously, young lady, or your bottom is going to burn even more constantly than I have a hunch it's already going to."

  So, I hastily said, "Thank you, Dan," in a much cheekier fashion than someone who was anticipating a spanking should have.

  And he didn't let loose of my chin. "Try it again, missy, without the sarcasm." Gone was the jovial fellow with the ready smile, although I could still see him there, buried deep in those black eyes of his. In his place was what I had obviously intuited had been there all along—a no-nonsense Dom.

  I shivered once at his tone, then repeated, "Thank you, Dan," in a much more believable manner—and I meant it.

  "You're welcome, baby."

  I was down to my bra and panties by now and feeling quite exposed and defenseless, especially without the added four inches of my pumps. He wasn't overwhelmingly larger than I was, but he was certainly much taller, and he was still in most of a gorgeous suit—including his tie, which looked a little out of place.

  And I'd had more than enough demonstrations of his strength, which outstripped mine by miles.

  Dan walked around me once, then looped his arms around me from behind, pulling me back against him as he nibbled on my shoulder. "Parts of me wish that your first disciplinary session with me was more of a planned event—you deserve more ritual than you're going to get this time. But other parts of me are very happy." He rubbed his hard on blatantly against my lower back. "Happy not to have to wait any longer to make you my own in several different ways."

  As I practically hyperventilated at his words, he undid my bra and came around front to hook a finger between my breasts and relieve me of it while staring directly into my eyes. Then he ran his hands down my sides, deliberately catching my panties and pulling them down to my ankles, where he paused a moment, and I could see him thinking before he held my hand to help me step out of them.

  Wonderful manners, even in the bedroom. I felt as if I had struck gold with him.

  But not so much when, seconds later, I ended up over his lap.

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  CHAPTER 1

  "A nd now, thanks to you, my breath would knock a buzzard off a shit wagon," I was saying to my best friend, looking behind me at her rather than the direction in which I was barreling forward.

  And, of course, I ended up walking into the very person I'd spent the evening desperately trying to avoid.

  He was tall, so much so that it was hard to avoid commenting on it, which I refused to do because I'd heard—not that I was paying attention, mind you—almost everyone who spoke to him tonight mention it. He must've been damned sick of hearing about something he couldn't control in any way, short of digging a six-inch trench ahead of him as he went through life. It wasn't as if he was NBA tall, either. He was probably six-three or four. Tall, yes, but not gigantic.

  And although he was hardly the brick shithouse build I usually went for, he was damned solid enough to stop me in my tracks and then send me reeling backwards.

  Of course, the bastard was athletic enough—unlike me—to reach out and catch hold of my forearm in a vice like grip before I topped backwards onto my friend, starting what would certainly have been a very ungainly, undignified human domino effect.

  "Thank you," I murmured under my breath, deliberately not looking up at him, subtly trying to reclaim my arm, although he appeared to be in no hurry to relinquish it as people poured out of the kitchen from behind me, forcing me back up against him. Not t
hat he seemed to mind or even take a step back—which would have been the polite thing to do. Instead, he just stood there, gazing down at me with that angelic look he apparently bestowed on everyone and, at the same time, not looking in the least flustered, while I was coming apart at the seams.

  Too much tequila. It was definitely too much tequila—even though I'd actually consumed very little—and not his nearness that was getting under my skin.

  Wasn't it?

  Instead, his big hand traveled down to my own, and instead of shaking it, as I would have expected, he clasped my fingers and brought the back of my hand to his lips in a very soft, tender kiss that my body somehow interpreted as something much more intimate.

  "I think you're the only person I haven't met here this evening, although you're the one I'm most interested in meeting, Ms. Sterling. I've heard so many wonderful things about you. I'm Dan Hayden. It's truly a pleasure to finally meet you."

  I frowned. Son of a bitch, who had been talking to him about me? I would wring their necks, whoever they were! I was not on the market and that was it, but none of my friends agreed with my decision. They tended to like to try to set me up with men they thought I might be interested in. This was far from the first time I'd heard of them doing this—but this was the first time that I agreed with their assessment of the man they'd chosen for me.

  This man was sex on a stick. Sex on two very long, slim, yet definitively muscled legs. He wasn't classically handsome, but he didn't need to be, either, with a voice that just slightly hinted at English—or was that Irish—accent and those impeccable manners, not to mention the artfully messy mop top of black curls. And it wasn't as if he wasn't nice looking. He had all the right features—full lips, strong jaw line, aquiline nose—but somehow, they didn't quite fit together. The mismatch only managed to make him seem just that much more attractive—more approachable to everyone but me—than someone who was drop dead gorgeous.

  And worse than all of that, as far as I was concerned, he seemed to be a genuinely nice person. I'd watched him—covertly—making his rounds of the party that was being thrown in his honor. He'd greeted everyone effusively, hugging most of them, even if he'd just met them, generously distributing earnest compliments that had me cringing in second-hand embarrassment and—unlike most men in my unfortunate experience—in particular the one I'd just broken up with after a very long time—actually listening to them as they spoke to him. Even the midst of the inanities of their small talk, his posture and open, inviting expression left them with no doubt that he was interested in what they had to say.

  Yet, there was that something in him, that spark I had immediately recognized as a kindred spirit.

  He was a Dom. I'd be willing to bet my life on it. His amiable personality did nothing to hide it, if that was what you were attuned to, and I, unfortunately, had been all my life. There was a steeliness to him—a backbone—that all good Doms had. He would know—innately—how to make his sub feel safe—and yet, somehow, uneasily, acutely aware of him at the same time—while in his presence.

  It was a very potent combination.

  Yes, he was downright dangerous, this one—I could feel it in my bones the moment I saw him. I had very carefully circulated around the party a few steps ahead of him, ducking out when he'd gotten a bit too close for my comfort and into the kitchen, where I knew my friend—the hostess of said party—would be.

  She was the reason why I was making the comment about my breath that I'd been saying as I'd so rudely run into him. She'd let me sample a roasted garlic, parmesan and caramelized onion dip she was making, which was proving to be a bad idea. A very bad idea.

  So now, I had to cover my mouth and do my best not to breathe noxious fumes on the most attractive man in the room, while also trying not to look at him but not seeming impolite while doing so. He was just too potent for the likes of me, and despite his friendly persona, and those continental manners, all I wanted to do was to get away from him as quickly as was humanly possible.

  What does a woman do when a man has just kissed her hand? Does she turn it in his and force him to shake it instead? I had absolutely no idea, so I simply let my hand hang loosely in his, expecting that any moment he was going to let me go.

  "It's very nice to meet you, too, Mr. Hayden," I lied, still not looking at him, still counting the seconds until I could have my hand back.

  "Dan, please," he offered.

  His fingers finally relaxed their hold and I fairly snatched my hand away from him, certain that Miss Manners herself would have endorsed that smooth move.

  Before I had a chance to do the awkward thing and tell him that he should call me Isa, a gorgeous, statuesque woman who looked as if she could—and would—devour him for breakfast descended on us—completely ignoring little ole insignificant, perfectly happy to be invisible to her type me, and I was—thank the Gods—finally able to shirk and shrink my way back into the crowd.

  To become anonymous once again. Well, as anonymous as one could get in a crowd of people, the majority of which knew you all too well.

  But even they—most of who professed to love me, in their own ways—were too much for me. I wasn't a crowd or, for that matter, even a party person at all. More than three or four people grouped together was already skirting the edges of too many bodies for me, and Sharon's place was packed.

  I hazarded a furtive glance at my watch—yes, I still wear one—with a face and everything, rather than digital. My parents had given it to me when I graduated from grammar school, and I'd worn it ever since. They weren't around now, but the watch served as a reminder of them and their love every time I looked at it.

  Except now, when it lightened my heart, not because of my memories of them, but because I had been here for well over the time I had decided to require myself to stay before I'd even gotten here—hell, before I'd even accepted the invite. At normal parties—ones not thrown by people I knew well or—God forbid—business functions at which I was even more withdrawn—I forced myself to have at least one drink, and to stay for at least half an hour.

  But this party was different from that kind of awkward affair. It was worse. Much, much worse. Familiarity was not necessarily advantage to someone who was as socially awkward—in crowds of people and out—as I am. I was perfectly fine in a small group—girls' nights, sleepovers when I was younger—passed out drunk on the hostess's guest bed being the adult equivalent—that kind of thing was fine. I was even somewhat outgoing in that setting, my friends would tell you.

  But not in a situation like this, which made me anxious, make me feel like I wanted to crawl out of my skin, to do nearly anything to get away from all of these damned people.

  "I saw that."

  I heard the accusing refrain from behind me and knew who it was without turning around.

  "You're leaving." She came around to stand in front of me, a shot glass in either hand, one of which she gave to me—then retracted. "How much have you already had?"

  "Very little, actually," I replied, always scrupulously honest about something like that, since I intended to be driving home in a matter of minutes. I put my hand out, and she gave me the shot glass, which I then emptied and handed back to her.

  "You look like you would prefer to be facing a firing squad than to be here." She wasn't whining, there was no rancor in her tone. Sharon understood my peculiarities and, even in the midst of what was sure to be another epic party in which I would not be partaking any further, she supported me.

  That was what best friends did.

  Lord knows, I'd held her hand through enough atrocious relationships and the inevitable, subsequent breakups, which often went hand in hand with bad career choices and fights with other friends—she could damned well accommodate my, well, more than occasional social phobias.

  "Pretty much," I agreed, more blithely than I was feeling.

  Sharon sighed. "Did you at least get to meet Dan?"

  "I did."

  "What'd you think? Gorgeous,
isn't he?"

  Sharon wanted him. Probably every other woman—and a generous handful of the men—in the room wanted him.

  I was used to being the odd man out, although I knew there was something to him, something I could grow to…more than like, if I allowed it. My wet panties voted with the majority, but luckily, it had been a long time since I let their opinion rule.

  I wasn't about to give in to their cave woman lack of sensibility. Dan was the type of man to whom women were drawn without him having to do much to make it happen.

  I was taking the high road, doing myself the favor of avoiding all of what would most probably become an agonizing heartache in not allowing myself to get sucked into his already estrogen filled orbit, to become just another hanger on in a crowd of hangers-on who were probably much nicer and were almost definitely prettier than I am.

  "He's all right," I answered noncommittally.

  Another, more exasperated sigh. "I give up. You're incorrigible. Okay, you want to be alone. I'll stop trying to match make."

  I raised an eyebrow. "I'll believe it when I don't see it. When I'm not invited to it. When I don't have it arranged for me—"

  "All right, all right. I've been trying too hard, I know." She shifted the empty shot glasses into one hand and used the other to cup my cheek as she pouted those glossy red lips at me. "It's been too long, Isa. I just want you to get back on the horse or at least the stud, anyway. I want you to be happy again."