Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 336(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 336(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
The trappings of dynamics and power play don’t diminish the very real struggles, heartaches, hopes and dreams, losses and gains, of people who seek to love and be loved.
“You know, you’re right,” I say to him. “It is a constant battle.”
My gaze wanders to his strong, large hands, calloused from work and roughened with labor, the hands that hold me now. I remember those hands on my body, and my pulse races. The sounds of pleasure and pain around us fades until there’s only me. Him. Us.
“Did you write today?” he asks.
The question surprises me, and I don’t respond right away. I blink. “Oh. Well, yes,” I say. “But only a little. I wrote on my lunch break.”
“And you normally write at night?”
I nod.
“Because that’s when your muse is all happy?”
I grin. “Yeah.” It’s cute hearing him talk about my muse.
“So how ‘bout this,” he says in a low, deep drawl, like he’s mulling this over. “You bring your computer here. You meet me at the club. I give you something to write about, and when the night’s over, you can set up in the private room and tap away at that keyboard.”
He wants me to bring my work here?
One boyfriend laughed and told me there was no reason for me to put so much effort into something that wasn’t “literary,” and that it was important to not let “hobbies take over your life.”
Yeah, I dumped his ass.
Another hated the idea of being in any of my books, but the joke was on him. He sucked in bed and didn’t have a dominant bone in his body, so he made it into my books alright, but only as the loser ex-boyfriend.
“You’d do that for me?” I ask. I want to hug him and kiss him and change the name of the hero in my current book to his. Until Marla, no one ever took my writing seriously.
“Of course,” he says, nodding his head. “Honestly, babe, scening with you is hardly a hardship.”
“Glad you’ll take one for the team.”
He gives me a playful smack on the ass and pulls me close to his chest for a brief kiss to the forehead before he frees me.
“Up you go,” he says, sliding my legs off him onto the floor. “I want you all to myself, babygirl. I don’t want to share. I’m afraid if another dom here touches you, I’d have to break his fingers.”
“I see.”
“So if you’re with me, you’re with me. You obey my instructions and do what you’re told. There is no ‘on and off’ with me at the club. We can come here to play or to meet friends, but I want all of your submission. And I promise that I’ll cherish that. You won’t regret it.”
I write about women who are strong and curious about the lifestyle, and some who crave this lifestyle because submission is so intrinsically woven into who they are, their very identity involves choosing submission. I know and have known for years—since my Noah—that I’m the one who craves all of it. I’m not satisfied with play, and I don’t need to battle for power or control. I crave the constant protection, attention, and focus of the man who loves me and literally no man I’ve ever met has fed that need in me.
I’ve been starving for true dominance. I tasted it once and he ruined me on men forever.
“Yes, sir,” I tell him, earnest and eager. “Let’s try it. Right now?”
He sobers, his voice dropping to deep and stern. “Yes. Right now. Because it’s time I punish you for wearing that outfit.”
Every threat of punishment makes me tingle, part fear, part arousal, and I don’t understand it, but I don’t really need to. I don’t respond, because my mouth is dry, and I don’t know what to say. While I walk beside him, tucked so close to him we’re practically attached at the hip, I notice how others part, giving him a wide berth, watching him with a measure of respect and deference. My heart swells. That’s my man they admire and respect.
“Master Axle,” some greet as we walk. He nods and greets them but gives no one his undivided attention. No one but me. He whispers in my ear and points a few things out, weaves his fingers through mine and holds me close. We walk together like he’s leading me in a dance and I’m taking his lead, easily falling into step. We head out of the dungeon and down the hall toward his room.
I’m not sure what I need or where he’s leading me, but I know I’m going to follow.
“Did you eat dinner?” he asks.
“Yup.”
“Good girl. You tired?”
“Not yet, sir.” I pause and stifle a yawn. Adrenaline’s fueling me now, but I don’t want to lie to him. “Well, maybe a little, yeah.”