by Fawkes, Sara
outside of the oven.
“Pick a color.” Samantha looked at him, still twirling the pipe. Her eyes were bright, that snapping
apple green, and in that moment it was the only color Elijah could see.
“Green.” He watched as Samantha pulled a dish full of what looked like dark sand from a metal
shelf.
“What’s that?” He watched, fascinated, as Samantha rolled the glass in the powder.
“This is colored glass, ground down as fine as salt.” Her biceps flexed with the effort of keeping
her movements even as she moved to another, smaller furnace and opened the door.
“This is called the glory hole. It’s a smaller furnace used to reheat. This will fuse the green into
the colorless glass.” Samantha removed the blowpipe from the glory hole, and Elijah was surprised at
the jolt of delight he felt when he saw that the gather of glass was now a deep green.
Except . . .
“Can we make it lighter?” He was intent now, engrossed in the project. Samantha pressed her lips
together as she looked at him.
“Micromanage much?” Her voice was tart. He grinned at her, pleased to see she couldn’t quite
control the quirk of her own lips.
Leaning closer so that his lips brushed against the lobe of her ear, he whispered, his voice husky,
“You don’t know the half of it.”
She didn’t jerk away, didn’t try to deny the heat that sparked between them as their eyes met and
held.
She kept her eyes on his face as she moved to a table, still turning the rod.
“The glass is the consistency of honey now.” Her own voice had thickened with arousal, and Elijah
inhaled deeply. A fine sheen of sweat covered her skin and made it glow as she finally looked away
from him to her work, holding something that looked like a ladle against the glass.
“This helps me shape it before I start the glassblowing.” Her eyes flicked from the glass to him,
just briefly. “That’s when you’ll get your paler green.”
“How?” Elijah watched intently.
Samantha rolled her eyes, then put the ladle aside. Seating herself on a low stool, still rolling the
glass back and forth on the narrow table, she ran her tongue over her lips.
“Breath is the magic of glass art.” Her eyes darkened, a small smile curving her lips, which sent a
surge of need straight to Elijah’s groin.
Magic indeed. As she placed her lips around the edge of the metal blowpipe and exhaled, her focus
entirely on the glass, Elijah would have absolutely believed she was a witch if someone had accused
her.
He couldn’t look away.
She blew delicately into the pipe, turning it evenly all the while. The glob of glass expanded like a
balloon, thinning and stretching and, as she had said, becoming a paler shade of green.
“There.” Her voice was satisfied and slightly breathless as she removed her mouth from the pipe
and stood, her tall, slender frame in motion the whole time. She picked up a flat paddle and held it to
the bottom of the blown glass, flattening it. Then she picked up a thick stack of what looked like soggy
newspaper and shaped the object some more, steam and smoke issuing from the paper as it rubbed
against the hot glass.
She scored the green glass where it met the blowpipe, then picked up a nozzle and flicked a switch.
“This is compressed air, to cool it.”
Once she’d cooled it, she hurriedly carried the blowpipe to the first furnace.
“Now I put a bit of hot glass on the bottom of the piece.” Removing the project from the furnace,
she picked up a long metal rod and attached it to the piece with the hot glass. “This is a pontil. It’s
essentially a maneuvering rod.”
Elijah found that he didn’t want to say a word even though he had a million questions . . . He
didn’t want to disturb the rhythm of Samantha’s work. She was clearly aware of him, spoke to him,
but her attention was fully on her work.
It was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.
He watched as she dipped a stick into a bucket of water, shaking it until a fat droplet landed on the
glass.
Samantha then broke the glass off the blowpipe, picking up another pontil and moving back to the
first furnace. She used yet more hot glass to plug the hole that had resulted from breaking the glass off
of the blowpipe.
Her breath was now coming faster, her breasts pushing against the thin fabric of her tank top. The
sight, combined with her unholy beauty as she worked in front of the glowing furnace, had Elijah
shifting uncomfortably, willing his cock to behave, lest he scare her off.
“Almost done.” The tension in the air eased just the faintest amount as she used a small machine
to polish the edge of what Elijah could now see was a simple, elegant vase. She aimed the nozzle with
the compressed air at it again.
“There.” Satisfaction rang true in her voice as she picked up the piece between stacks of damp
newspaper and held it up for him to see. “That last blast of air was to equalize the temperature
throughout the piece. Now it goes into this electric kiln. It will cool slowly for twelve hours, so that
the glass doesn’t crack.” As she opened the kiln, Elijah, unable to stay away from her any longer,
moved to stand just behind her.
She placed the vase on a shelf in the kiln, amid a forest of glass palm trees.
“These are quite different from your sculpture at the show.” He reached out a hand to run a finger
over the glossy trunk of one tree, and Samantha smacked his hand away. The movement caused her
scent to waft toward his nose, and he inhaled the smell of wild flowers and smoke.
“Tourist tchotchkes are easy cash.” Samantha closed the door to the kiln, then turned. She started
when she looked up and found him right behind her.
Yet she didn’t move away. Heat began a low burn in Elijah’s belly, searing the thin ribbon of space
between them. “How did you get started with glass art?” He didn’t mind making small talk, if it meant
he got to stand close and bask in her heat.
She eyed him warily, and he could see her pulse, a rapid beat under the line of her jaw.
“When I was eighteen I had a crush on someone who was a glass artist. I asked for private
lessons.” Her voice was breathy, and Elijah watched her lips part slightly beneath his stare. “Soon I
was more interested in the glass than in him. It was . . . I found something that I’d always been
looking for, even though I didn’t know it—” She hesitated, clearly swallowing back the rest of her
words.
He thought he knew what she was thinking but couldn’t say: that now there was something else she
was looking for. A desire she wanted to fulfill.
He waited for her to continue.
“You’re involved in . . . you’re a . . .” She worried her lower lip with her teeth, and Elijah had to
clench his hands into fists to refrain from leaning forward and running his tongue over the place her
teeth worked.
“Are you a . . . a Dom?”
Elijah cocked his head, studying her intently. She looked so nervous he wanted to laugh and tell
her that no one was going to tie her up and spank her for asking the question. But to laugh would be to
diminish her question, so he swallowed the chuckle and instead nodded solemnly.
The image of her bound, quivering with need, was something he longed to
see.
“Yes. I am.” His voice was even. Her eyes widened a fraction, but she kept her composure. Afraid
to discourage her curiosity, Elijah didn’t voice the second half of his answer: that he wasn’t at all sure
Samantha was a submissive.
She ran her tongue over those lips again, and again he felt his cock begin to swell.
“Is BDSM something you’re interested in?” Since she had paused, her next questions seemingly
stuck in her throat, he tried to nudge her with his words.
Her face reddened, a delicious shade of pink, and he reached out to graze his knuckles over the
curve of her cheekbone.
“I don’t know.” The way she ducked her head as she spoke told him that she was evading. The
little kitten was intrigued by the notion—that much was plain—but how far would she go?
“What I’m feeling right now . . . for you . . . Is it just because you’re a Dom?” Samantha’s eyes
were huge as she stared up at him. Elijah suppressed a moan.
What was this intriguing artist looking for? What would he find if he pushed her?
“No,” he said finally, bending his head a bit lower. “No, it isn’t because I’m a Dom—or at least,
not entirely. This . . . it doesn’t happen between everyone, just like you don’t feel a connection with
every person that you date.”
He waited, trying to appear patient, as she mulled that over.
Elijah wasn’t often shocked, but when Samantha rose to her toes, clasped his upper arms, and
pressed her lips to his, he found himself unable to do anything but react forcefully. He hadn’t been
expecting it—and, indeed, he didn’t care for it when a woman took control.
But he couldn’t deny the fever that surged through his entire body as she tentatively explored his
lips with her own. Her nipples grazed his chest as she moaned softly and leaned in closer, and the
slight touch made his cock harden to the point of pain.
Without thinking, he threaded one hand through the length of her ponytail and pressed the other
between her shoulder blades, pulling her flush against his body. He rocked his hips forward, pressing
his erection into the softness of her belly, asking her without words if this was what she really wanted.
“Elijah . . .”
He’d let her draw back enough to speak his name, and rather than hesitation or the innocent nerves
that he’d expected to see on her face, he found determination.
Determination mixed with need—need as hot as the air that was scorching his lungs in the small,
enclosed studio.
“Be sure, Samantha.” His voice sounded rough, like shards of broken glass, even to his own ears.
Deliberately he added a hint of meanness, and though she never would have believed it, it was because
he was experiencing a twinge of guilt.
He wanted her, and if she continued using that wicked mouth on him, he’d have her. But if he
could scare her off, it would be better for them both.
Tightening his fingers in her hair, he pulled roughly until her head tipped back and she was forced
to look up into her eyes.
“Fuck,” she whispered. Rather than nerves or indecision over his roughness, Elijah found that
Samantha’s lips had parted and that her skin was flushed with arousal.
She liked it.
It was his undoing.
“Come here.” His voice stayed rough, just a bit mean as he pulled her flush against his body. This
time when their lips touched, he took control of the kiss, parting her swollen lips with his tongue,
tasting her sweetness, stroking in her mouth the way he was dying to do inside her pussy.
With a needy sigh of pure pleasure, Samantha melted against him, letting him take control of the
kiss.
Sliding his hands down to cup her ass, he pressed upward until she wrapped her legs around his
waist. As he carried her across the torrid glass studio, he contemplated setting up a small scene, an
introduction to submission, to see how she reacted before either of them took this any further.
But when she eagerly began to press kisses into his neck and along the line of his jaw, each
resonating in a throb between his legs, Elijah found that, for once, he didn’t want the ritual or rules of
a BDSM scene.
He wanted this woman, just like this.
He was going to have her.
Breathe- available now!
Taken by Storm by Opal Carew
Copyright © 2013 by Opal Carew
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal
Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of
this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express
written permission from the author / publisher.
“Oh, no, no. NO. Don’t do this to me!” Jessica groaned, stomping on the gas pedal in
vain.
But heedless of her words, as she reached the bottom of the hill, the car simply coasted, losing
speed rapidly. She steered to the shoulder of the dark, country road and stopped the car. She turned
off the ignition, then tried to start the car again, but nothing happened. She pulled the hood release
and got out of the vehicle, then lifted the hood and stared at the engine. There were no streetlights this
far out of town, and she could barely make out the engine in the light of the half moon.
She grabbed a flashlight from the glove compartment and shone it under the hood.
Not that she knew what to look for. She bit her lip. There was nothing smoking and no obvious
broken things. And even if there had been, she wouldn’t have known what to do about it. She got
back in the car and grabbed her cell phone from her purse.
Damn, no service. Most places in and around her small hometown of Bakersfield had excellent
cell reception, but there were still pockets where the signal was just too weak.
And I’m lucky enough to break down in one of them!
Now what would she do? She glanced around at the isolated road lined with bushy trees, the sound
of the crickets almost deafening. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself, not entirely
because of the coolness of the summer night and the fact she was wearing a halter dress.
She reached into the back of the car and grabbed her shawl, then wrapped it around herself.
It was at least a five mile hike back to town. She could manage the walk if she had to, but in high
heels walking along a sandy shoulder it would be dicey, and walking on the paved road would be
downright dangerous, especially at night.
Alternately, she could sit here in the car and hope someone would drive by and help her. But what
if no one came? Or worse, what if someone scary passed by and saw her in this vulnerable position?
At least if she was walking, she could dodge into the bushes if she heard a vehicle approaching.
Maybe she was being overly cautious. Accepting a ride from a stranger didn't have to end in
tragedy, but why take the chance? A long walk never hurt anyone.
Except for her feet, which would certainly wind up covered in blisters. She should have listened to
Mom’s sage advice to never drive in high heels.
She sighed. She didn’t want to wait around here. Better to take her fate into her own hands.
She pushed herself from the car, grabbed her purse and s
tarted to walk. She stepped off the
pavement onto the sandy roadside. It was difficult walking on the uneven surface, especially since
she’d chosen to wear her really high, spike heels to Sally’s engagement party.
Sally was her cousin, and her boss. She owned her own website development business and
employed Jessica as office manager, and several technical people to do the actual development. Sally
handled the artistic side of things.
The eerie sound of scuttling in the bushes sent shivers down her spine. She walked a little faster.
She thought she heard an engine in the distance, and glanced back, but couldn’t see any lights. Of
course, the slope of the hill and the trees would block her view of any vehicle until it was fairly close.
The sound seemed to be getting louder, though.
She was wearing a white dress, making her fairly visible, which was great for not getting hit, but
not so good for trying to stay out of sight. She walked to the far side of the shoulder, looking for a
place where the ditch wasn’t too deep so she could scurry in behind the brush. She glanced back and
saw the glow of headlights from the other side of the hill. The approaching vehicle seemed to be
moving pretty fast. She stepped carefully down the slight incline of the ditch, watching her footing on
the grassy surface.
A crackle caught her off guard, then the bushes rustled. A sharp screech escaped her throat as
something leaped toward her. She jumped back, then twisted around and lurched toward the road, her
heart thundering in her chest. A light flashed in her eyes—a single headlight—as her heel caught on
the pavement and she tumbled forward. The animal bound across the road and tires screeched, then
the approaching motorcycle swerved and spun around, barely missing her as her hands hit the ground.
The driver gained control of his bike, then leaped off it.
“Shit! What the fuck, lady? Are you fucking insane?”
She shivered as she stared up at the tall, muscular man in jeans and a black leather jacket,
silhouetted by the light of the single headlight behind him.
He offered his hand and she reached for it, then he lifted her to her feet, none too gently.
“I could have been killed. You could have been killed. What the fuck are you doing walking