Overview

<strong>'Bound and Determined' by Sierra Cartwright</strong>

The Quinn men have been kidnapping O’Malley women for eight hundred years, and when Sinead O’Malley finds herself upside down over her mortal enemy’s shoulder, his strong hand on her rear, she fights her response as hard as she fights him.

The damn men of the Quinn clan have been kidnapping the women of her family for nearly a millennium.

When Sinead O’Malley finds...

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To Submit and Obey

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Overview

<strong>'Bound and Determined' by Sierra Cartwright</strong>

The Quinn men have been kidnapping O’Malley women for eight hundred years, and when Sinead O’Malley finds herself upside down over her mortal enemy’s shoulder, his strong hand on her rear, she fights her response as hard as she fights him.

The damn men of the Quinn clan have been kidnapping the women of her family for nearly a millennium.

When Sinead O’Malley finds herself upside down over the shoulder of the tall, dark, and mortal enemy Jack Quinn, she’s determined to fight him every step of the way.

Enough is enough...

Jack is bound and determined to break the eight hundred year old curse, no matter what it takes, including tying her to his bed and demanding her total submission.

Reader Advisory: This story contains wickedly hot MM and MMF BDSM scenes in a MF relationship.

Publisher's Note: This book was previously released by another publisher. It has been substantially rewritten, revised and re-edited for release with Totally Bound Publishing.

<strong>'Highly Strung' by Justine Elyot</strong>

Book One in the Food of Love series.

If music be the food of love, no wonder orchestral life is so passionate.

The new violinist with the Westminster Symphony Orchestra knows she shouldn't have a crush on its glamorous leader, Milan Kaspar, but Lydia just can't help wanting a piece of the arrogant Czech virtuoso.

Capturing his attention by refusing to play along with his plans for the orchestra, she soon finds herself drawn into his bed – a bed he shares with lovers of both sexes.

But Lydia wants more than wild and inventive sex – she wants to get behind Milan's sophisticated veneer, to find the man inside the performer.

She seems doomed to failure, until a trip to his home country changes everything...

Reader Advisory: This book contains ménage relationships, bisexual characters and exhibitionism/voyeurism, plus some scenes of angst.

<strong>'Darkening' by Ashe Barker</strong>

Book One in the The Dark Side series.

Who knows where pain ends and pleasure begins?

The chance of a new life out in the wilds of the Yorkshire moors sounds too good to be true to shy musician Eva Byrne. Stifled and smothered within the cocoon of her brilliant academic career, Eva yearns for something different. Something real and exciting. Something she can feel.

Excitement. Passion. Pleasure. She finds that sexy, enigmatic Nathan Darke can provide all these and more when she moves into his home as violin tutor to his young daughter. But Eva’s sensual encounters with her demanding, domineering new employer quickly evoke her deepest fears, as he introduces her to the trauma of submission and marks her with his particularly dark brand of love.

But will Eva’s natural curiosity and thirst for new experiences be enough to withstand the sting of Nathan Darke’s exquisite touch? Will simple surrender be enough as he challenges her every inhibition, taking her on an erotic journey of self-discovery and liberation?

Reader Advisory: This book contains scenes of dominance and submission, including sex toys, pain play, anal play, nipple clamps, erotic waxing, paddling, restraints and caning. It also involves one scene where miscommunication leads to unintentional loss of consciousness. Best read in sequence as part of a serial story, and ends on a cliffhanger that some readers might find upsetting.

<strong>'That Filthy Book' by Natalie Dae &amp; Lily Harlem</strong>

Many years ago that filthy book imprinted itself in my erotic subconscious. Now it’s reared its head and is about to drag me along for the dirtiest ride of my life.

Out of sight, out of mind. Or so I thought, but it turns out an old, dog-eared book with contents so filthy and so depraved that I’d been forced to hide it after reading, has sank deeper into my erotic subconscious than I’d ever imagined. Luckily though, Jacob is up for exploring the new side of me that has risen to the surface after all these years.

In a whirlwind of wanton adventures that push us to the limits of our sexuality, we begin to re-discover what it once was that had us screaming with pleasure and how to accept that nothing will ever be the same again between us.

Reader Advisory: This book contains bondage, BDSM and an element of dubious consent within a consensually acted out rape scenario.

<strong>'Tasting Pleasure' by Marie Haynes</strong>

Book One in the Pleasure series.

Finding herself divorced, without a job and in a foreign country, Alicia decides to open her own business as a personal chef specialising in American-style food. Little does she know that her first important client, famed photographer Maverick Devonshire, will become far more than just her employer.

Unable to resist his commanding manner, she follows him into his Play Room. Once there, she discovers true empowerment and gains the confidence to become not only a successful businesswoman but also a true submissive. Learning quickly from the consequences administered by Mr. Devonshire and his associates, Alicia finds out that her clients are not the only ones who are Tasting Pleasure.

Reader Advisory: This book contains scenes of F/F intimacy, and menage or more sex.



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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781781848586
  • Publisher: Totally Bound Publishing
  • Publication date: 10/8/2013
  • Sold by: Barnes & Noble
  • Format: eBook
  • Edition number: 1
  • Pages: 478
  • Sales rank: 132,904
  • File size: 980 KB

Meet the Author

Sierra Cartwright was born in Manchester, England and raised in Colorado. Moving to the United States was nothing like her young imagination had concocted. She expected to see cowboys everywhere, and a covered wagon or two would have been really nice!

Now she writes novels as untamed as the Rockies, while spending a fair amount of time in Texas…where, it turns out, the Texas Rangers law officers don't ride horses to roundup the bad guys, or have six-shooters strapped to their sexy thighs as she expected. And she's yet to see a poster that says Wanted: Dead or Alive. (Can you tell she has a vivid imagination?)

Sierra wrote her first book at age nine, a fanfic episode of Star Trek when she was fifteen, and she completed her first romance novel at nineteen. She actually kissed William Shatner (Captain Kirk) on the cheek once, and she says that's her biggest claim to fame. Her adventure through the turmoil of trust has taught her that love is the greatest gift. Like her image of the Old West, her writing is untamed, and nothing is off-limits.

She invites you to take a walk on the wild side…but only if you dare.

Natalie Dae writes mainly BDSM erotica. She loves a Dom/sub relationship and is fascinated by how it all works. The trust issue is the best thing about it for her, so creating characters who have to adopt trust is one of her priorities. “Watching my characters bloom under tuition is such a treat,” she says. “I find it such a privilege to be able to write about something that makes me learn something new with every book.”

She lives with her husband and children in an English village and spends her spare time reading—always reading!—and her phone, complete with Kindle app, is never far away. “I can't imagine not reading or writing,” she says. “It's a part of who I am. Without it I'd be more than a bit lost.”

Natalie has many more BDSM tales swimming around in her head, so her workload for the future is very full. “What better way to spend a weekend than writing?” she says. “Saturdays are my main writing days, so I get up, open up a work in progress and rarely leave the desk. Unless I really have to!”

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Read an Excerpt

<strong>Excerpt From: Bound and Determined</strong>

Bollocks.

Jack Quinn propped his elbow on the polished wood bar of the lower downtown pub and drank deeply from the pint of stout as he watched the petite and smoking hot Sinead O’Malley move into action for a solo.

He’d seen pictures of her—his sworn enemy—online. His luggage contained a folder full of information about her.

He’d chased her across two continents and through half a dozen cities in the United States. He thought he knew everything about her, and still, nothing had prepared him for the first in-person sight of her.

He’d known she was an Irish step dancer, but the dossier provided by his grandmother’s people hadn’t mentioned that the talented Ms O’Malley also played three different types of drums as well as the bagpipes.

Seeing a good-looking woman, enemy or not, in snapshots was one thing, but he’d had no idea he’d have such an immediate, raw, unwanted masculine reaction to seeing her athletic body.

Her cutoff white T-shirt was too tight across the swell of her breasts and left part of her toned midriff bare. If she was wearing a bra, it wasn’t very serviceable. He imagined he could see her nipples all the way from here.

Her kilt was way too fecking short. It barely covered her well-shaped arse. And when she danced he saw a pair of sexy black knickers. At least she wasn’t commando beneath the skirt.

Her muscular legs were bare, and her socks had pooled around her ankles.

Even though he watched her squeeze the pipes from halfway across the pub, his cock hardened.

Noise in the room diminished as gazes turned towards the stage. Every man in the place was likely sporting an erection. Lust was palpable. If she were his woman, he wouldn’t stand for her being dressed that way in public and he’d want her wearing a whole lot less in private.

He took another long drink from the glass. He’d be needing another pint in only minutes. A man needed fortification to manage the likes of Sinead O’Malley and manage her he would.

He wouldn’t be leaving Denver without her in tow. He intended to possess her. Ride her. Claim her. Dominate her. Make her his submissive. Claim her as his.

The eight hundred year feud between their clans ended now even if he had to tie her to his bed and spank the sass out of her.

Since it wouldn’t be seemly to drag her off the stage, bend her over, yank down her knickers, make her call him Sir as he fucked her ragged on top of a table, he bided his time.

She’d started dancing with the group a few years ago as a way to pick up a little extra cash. The file revealed at least that much. He hadn’t taken the time to listen to the CD provided of her music and he was surprised by how much he enjoyed the sound of the Celtic-infused rock band that pulled from all nations. Or maybe he was just intrigued by the lass and wasn’t really hearing the music.

All the other band members fell silent as she worked the pipes.

A spotlight hit her. He recognised the Kelly tartan…from her mother’s side of the family. The Kellys’ were one of the few Irish clans entitled to wear a tartan—the same as the royal house of Stewart.

Because of the distance and the way she held the bagpipes, he couldn’t quite read the writing on her white T-shirt. The distance and dim lighting made it impossible to see her eyes, even though the information he had on her said they were green.

Then again, the file said she had blonde hair. It hadn’t mentioned the fiery highlights that seemed to ignite in the overhead lighting. It hadn’t mentioned that the lengths fell in bedroom-like disarray across her forehead and around her face and shoulders.

It looked the way it might after a good, long, hard screw.

“Got your eye on that one, have you, mate?” the barkeep asked, pocketing the tip Jack had left on the bar. “She’s been in here half a dozen times in the past year. A right handful, she is. Won’t be having none of the likes of you.” He glanced at her then back at Jack. “She won’t be having any of us for that matter.”

“We’ll be seeing about that.”

“Good luck,” the man said. “She always vanishes after the show. She doesn’t stay at the same place the rest of the band does. She’s talented all right. But she ain’t interested in any socialising. She’ll cut any man to the quick.”

Jack nodded, considering himself warned. “Fetch me another pint, mate.”

The bartender nodded and moved off.

<strong>Excerpt From: Highly Strung</strong>

Of all the days for a bomb scare on the Victoria Line, they had to choose this one.

Lydia Foster hugged her new violin case, stripped now of all the shiny stickers and stars of her battered but beloved student number, as the strip lights flickered on and off. Despite the ominous situation, most of the occupants continued reading their newspapers and listening to their iPods, well used to sudden and inexplicable standstills in dark tunnels. But Lydia could not be so sanguine. She checked her watch, agitated, and puffed out her cheeks when the long and short hands gave her news she didn’t want.

"Are you late for a concert?"

She almost jumped out of her seat. People just didn’t talk to you on Tube trains, but the white-haired gentleman to her left didn’t seem to know this rule.

"Um, no. A rehearsal, actually," she said, when she’d made all the usual lightspeed calculations—Is he a maniac? Will he ask me weird, pervy questions? Would it be very rude of me to ignore him?

"I always wanted to play the violin," the man confided. "Are you in a string quartet?"

"No, an orchestra. It’s my first day. First rehearsal. So I really don’t want to be late." She sighed, looking up and down the carriage as if this might set the train back in motion.

"An orchestra! Professional?"

"Yes. The Westminster Symphony."

The man took a breath and nodded, gratifyingly awed. Lydia loved the reception she got when she told people she was with the WSO. I have arrived.

"You’ll be working with that Milan fellow." The gentleman chuckled. "Quite a character. Did you watch The Next Big String?"

Lydia blushed. Of course she had. Her massive crush on first violinist Milan Kaspar had been a large part of her reason for auditioning for the orchestra in the first place.

"Of course, they always have to have the Big Bad Judge on those talent contests," mused Lydia’s companion. "I’m sure he’s nothing like that in real life. Rather difficult to work with otherwise, I should imagine. Oh, but I shouldn’t be saying this to you on your first day. I’m sure your nerves are bad enough as it is."

Lydia coughed out a half-laugh. "Uh huh," she managed to say. Her face felt as if it were on fire. All she could think about was the crafty morning orgasm she had teased out of her tense body, thinking about Milan Kaspar judging her playing, finding it wanting and giving her a little private lesson of his own. But why would he be interested in her, when rumour had it he had been seeing Tilda Fox-Boyce, the patrician and perfectly-coiffed presenter of the television programme? Of course he wouldn’t.

"Good-looking chap, though. I’m sure he has his pick of the ladies."

Before Lydia could reply to this inflammatory remark, the train juddered into life.

"Due to a bomb scare at Victoria, all passengers are advised to alight at Pimlico. I repeat…" The intercom droned on.

"Fuck," Lydia swore under her breath. She would have to walk the last part of the journey, since Pimlico Station didn’t link up to any other Tube line.

"Good luck."

"Thanks. I’ll need it."

As the curving, white-tiled station wall slid past the windows, she readied her violin case, preparing for a shuffle, then a sprint.

Out in the sludgy, grey cold of a January afternoon in London, Lydia raced up Vauxhall Bridge Road. Her heart pounded and her legs turned to mush, but she didn’t stop until she arrived at the building, just off the end of the road, which acted as the orchestra’s rehearsal space.

Reaching the door, she gasped for breath, doubling over her violin case. She was half an hour late.

"Fucksticks," she panted, entering the empty lobby and following the muffled musical sounds coming from a set of doors halfway down a staircase.

Nobody noticed her when she pushed one door open and sidled in as unobtrusively as she could, hiding in an obscure corner until an obvious moment to introduce herself arrived.

She took the opportunity to watch the orchestra, her eyes settling quickly and naturally on the person she most wanted to check out—Milan Kaspar.

Oh, my God—there he was, in the flesh. She could only see his back and part of the side of his head, his violin wedged between firm chin and broad shoulder, his caramel-coloured hair flying as he bowed. He always gave the music his all, thought Lydia, starry-eyed, her pulse jumping high. It was as if he and his instrument were one. What were they playing? Something Viennese and waltzy, by the sounds of it. Oh, yes—Weber’s Invitation to the Dance.

The music made Lydia feel joyous and light-spirited. Despite the long run up Vauxhall Bridge Road, she felt an urge to twirl around and dance. If only she were wearing a flouncy taffeta skirt instead of jeans and Converse trainers. She bounced discreetly on the soles of her feet, swaying to the infectious beat, moving forward into the room until the woman at the back on percussion caught sight of her, turned and smiled a welcome.

The music stopped abruptly and Josh Clayton shook his head and folded his arms. Lydia recognised him as the conductor who had auditioned her, along with two of the trustees and a random violinist—Milan had been away filming.

"No, no, no, this is dragging. Some of you aren’t following my beat."

"Some of us aren’t seeing your beat."

<strong>Excerpt From: Darkening</strong>

"Red. Red. Enough. Stop now, please!"

Shit! Not again…

Nathan doesn’t voice his frustration out loud—with some considerable effort—but he knows the rules and honours the safe word immediately. Taking a deep breath, and with a last rueful glance at the naked, quivering and only very slightly pink buttocks of his latest she-said-she-was-oh-so-willing partner, he places the barely used spanking paddle on a side table behind him. Reaching around with his left hand, he loosens the straps restraining the cringing blonde, who has now started to sob prettily. Using his right arm, he supports her around the waist to stop her imminent descent to the floor as he frees first her wrists, then her ankles.

Taking her weight, Nathan lifts the girl from the dark brown leather sofa, across the back of which he’d strapped her so carefully only minutes earlier. He carries her across the room to deposit her face down on his large bed, remarkably gently given his darkening mood. He dumps a box of tissues beside her.

"Dry your eyes, Susanna. We’re finished." Sniff, sniff, whimper, whimper. Christ!

He has deliberately softened his voice. No point taking his frustration out on Susanna. She’s tried her best—probably. Possibly.

"You can get dressed. Unless you want to take a shower first. Then I’ll phone you a taxi."

He congratulates himself on managing to keep a lid on his mounting frustration, inwardly cringing at the tears and sniffling. He’s not entirely convinced by the display of grief and shock—the lovely Susanna is not above a spot of scheming and manipulation to get her own way, he’s sure of that—but still, he isn’t in the business of making women cry. Not really. Cry out… Now, that’s different.

He might be a dab hand with a cane, he definitely likes to hear them scream, but all this sobbing? No. He wants his subs to look back rather more fondly on his attentions than he suspects Susanna will. He prefers them to be more appreciative of the pain he can inflict, and the pleasure, and to leave his apartment humming.

But hey, what do you know? The lovely Susanna is already beginning to rally. In fact her sudden, rapid and pretty much total recovery before his very eyes seems little short of miraculous, given the quivering mess that was draped across his sofa just moments ago. She is starting to sniff daintily and is now obligingly rolling over onto her back, her arms flung up onto the pillow to show off her curvy little pink-tipped breasts to best advantage.

Sitting alongside her on the edge of the bed, and still fully dressed apart from his black, soft leather jacket and navy tie, Nathan signals with a flick of his finger that she should stay face down. The view is definitely not without its attractions, but, in truth, his interest in her breasts—or indeed any other part of her anatomy—is at an irrevocable end.

He reaches into a drawer beside the bed for the large tub of Savlon he keeps there. Unscrewing the lid, he takes a generous scoop of the soothing cream onto his fingers and starts to spread it across her backside. As gently as he is able in his current frustrated state, he works the cream into her buttocks. They were just beginning to glow nicely, in his view, and could use a couple of dozen more strokes to bring her sweet little arse to full tenderness, ready for a good, hard, satisfying fuck.

Time to call a halt, he acknowledges ruefully. Susanna just isn’t going to cut it as a submissive. Pity, but there you are…

Snatching a couple of tissues from the box on the bed, he wipes his hands. He stands, gazing down from his height of six-two at the undoubtedly lovely blonde stretched out on his bed…and realises he just wants her out of here. Now.

Tunnelling his fingers through his over-long dark hair—he usually pulls it back into a sleek ponytail, but he prefers to let it hang loose to his shoulders when he’s in Dom mode—he ponders the mysteries of women. And, in particular, what brought Susanna, decked out in a very fetching black and red leather corset and thong, along to The Manor House, that exclusive club in leafy, suburban north Leeds. There, she paraded around in front of him until he eventually beckoned her over and treated her to the spanking she was obviously looking for.

That went well enough—she seemed to appreciate his efforts and he certainly saw promise there. She obligingly agreed to meet him the following week. They had coffee together at Starbucks in City Square, discussed his requirements—his exact requirements—and she agreed to join in his ‘games’.

He’s always very explicit regarding what he has in mind. Over the years he has found it best to avoid any misunderstanding up front. Susanna is no exception. His submissives need to agree, willingly, to do what he asks. Indeed, it’s always something of a surprise to him that some even offer more. Again, Susanna is a case in point, having suggested that a nice bit of age regression could offer an interesting twist to their bondage and discipline play.

Not to Nathan, it wouldn’t—not his idea of fun at all. He turned her down politely but very firmly. But if she’s so keen on gymslips and canes, why has she wimped out at the first sight—well, seventh stroke, actually, in this evening’s case—of a very unassuming spanking paddle?

He had a lot more than that planned for her over the coming few weeks. She is absolutely gorgeous, just his favourite type of submissive. Not that he has a particular physical preference. He doesn’t care whether they are blonde, brunette, with blue eyes, green or brown, tall or petite, slender or curvy. Well, if he’s honest he does have a fondness for willowy redheads, probably because they tend to be fair-skinned so their buttocks go a beautiful, delicate shade of pink without too much effort on his part. Although he’s flexible regarding physical appearance, Nathan does go for a particular demeanour. Privately, he calls it his 'librarian look'. He likes submissives who present themselves as meek and modest, unassuming, studious, quiet, shy. They can be plain—but preferably not too plain—dress as if they are going to a funeral, wear bottle-bottom glasses—you can always remove glasses, he’s found, if they get in the way of a blindfold—and not say boo to a goose. The fun comes from peeling back those layers to reveal the sexy, demanding, responsive little temptress underneath, the slut under the prim and proper outer shell. He loves to transform his subs from demure Sunday School teachers to panting sex goddesses in a matter of minutes. Female orgasms are absolutely the biggest turn-on Nathan Darke can ever imagine—he loves it when they come.

He particularly loves how women sound when caught up in ecstasy—their soft, breathy moans, groans, panting. And screaming. He particularly likes to hear a woman scream, so he doesn’t use gags that often. And he loves the writhing and stretching as a woman spreads herself out under him or in front of him, even when she’s bound and blindfolded, completely open to his touch and revelling in all he offers. And that sublime moment when they reach the point where they’re begging him to fuck them—hard and fast and often. He aims to please, and as far as he’s aware no woman has ever left his bed disappointed.

<strong>Excerpt From: That Filthy Book</strong>

It seemed Lady Luck had joined us for our journey, giving the green light for all our needs to be met only three days after my confession of what I really wanted him to do with that branch.

Jacob’s parents had asked if they could take the girls to a circus on Saturday night. It started at eight, didn’t finish until ten, so they’d suggested it was more sensible that they keep them until Sunday morning, possibly Sunday afternoon if the children fancied having a roast dinner with them at the local pub.

I was not about to turn that opportunity down, especially when Jacob had been hot for the idea of outside sex. In fact, he’d been more than up for it, and the excited glint in his eye when I’d held up the carefully stripped bark had sent a tremble to my very core. Something told me I’d hit another very dark and very sinful nerve of his.

But always one to think of others, Jacob had already promised to help a work colleague move house on the Saturday. I didn’t mind too much because it left me with an empty afternoon to prepare for our evening of fun. I started with a pamper accompanied by a glass of wine, treating myself to a cucumber face mask, sugar body scrub, shave—including my pussy—manicure and pedicure and finally a generous slathering of body butter.

It left me feeling tingly and smooth, as if my body was honed and prepared. The thought of my silky, clean skin and perfectly neat red nails out in the open, amongst dirt and leaves, with the sootiness of bark mould smudged randomly over my body had me panting with excitement. I could just imagine mud squelching around my toes and the creamy skin of my wrists worn red by ropes. And the image of my arse marked raw by the branch, well, that had me feeling like a sacrificial offering.

For I knew that this evening I would be handing myself over to nature, to Jacob, and to my own darkest desires. The bare bones of my soul were about to be revealed. No holds barred, no chance to hide. They were the very skeleton of me that only Jacob would ever set eyes on.

When the dipping sun sent lilac and crimson fingers darting over the horizon I was ready—more than ready. I’d had a light tea and another glass of wine, resisted the temptation to masturbate—just—and saved myself for my husband.

The front door opened with a whoosh, then shut with a resounding slam. I spun from the kitchen window where I’d been staring at the darkening copse.

The copse that was ready and waiting.

Heavy footsteps banged down the hall. Loud and resolute, the sound reverberated around my head.

This was it. There was no turning back.

I didn’t want to. Not for anything.

The door swung open, and there he stood, with his broad shoulders filling the frame and his head bowed slightly. He pulled his brows low and set his jaw. A small muscle flexed and unflexed in his cheek.

"Get down on your knees, bitch."

I gasped at the completely thrilling sound of his bad man’s voice and folded my legs until my knees landed on the freshly swept lino. He was so feral, so dominant, not Jacob the protector, the carer. No, tonight I had Jacob the master, the taker, the giver of sinful pleasure.

Between one breath and the next he was in front of me, his groin level with my face and his hands on his hips. The scent of man and hard physical work washed over me, as well as perhaps a hint of a greasy spoon cafe where he’d no doubt been treated to pie and chips for the efforts of his day.

"Take out my cock."

I reached for the buttons on his jeans, surprised to see that my hands trembled. Excitement? Trepidation?

This had not been part of any plan, but I wasn’t complaining. In fact, there wasn’t a plan. All Jacob had asked was that I trust him. He said that he understood what I wanted and would make it all happen for me. Of course, we had a safe word, but I couldn’t imagine I would need it. I trusted Jacob with my life and my pleasure. I always would.

"Hurry up," he said, tangling his fingers in my neatly brushed, softly conditioned hair. "Take it out and suck it."

After I freed his cock, his length sprang into my palm, hot and thick, and the purple veins winding up the shaft bulged with his keen arousal.

In a sharp movement, he jerked forward and the tip slid into my salivating mouth. "Wider, whore," he snarled. "Take me, all of me."

I stretched my jaw and he sank deep, sliding to the back of my throat in one urgent movement. I gagged but he ignored it; pulled back then rode in again, all the time holding my head in a tight, vice-like grip so I had no choice but to take him, tip to base.

I’d sucked on Jacob’s cock a million times, but never had he taken control like this. He was always respectful and deathly still, allowing me to determine depth and pace. But this was different—this was sinful, depraved Jacob fucking my mouth without a thought for my well-being.

I adored it.

Needing support as my body was jostled by his thrusting hips, I gripped his thighs. Saliva ran down my face and neck onto my red blouse, my nose repeatedly buried in his wiry pubic hair. H

e steamed on and on, hissing and cursing above me. Breathing was difficult, my mouth was so chock-full of hard, demanding cock. When I did catch a breath the air was heated and smelt of him, musky and raw.

"Get fucking ready for it," he snarled, thrusting to such a depth his balls slapped against my chin. "I’m going to come down your throat. I’m going to fill you up, now...argh...fuck...now."

He let out a garrotted cry as his cock swelled further, then, in several sweet pulses, copious amounts of fluid gushed over my tongue. I swallowed rapidly, the action tugging the crown of his cock further down my throat.

"Ah, sweet...fucking...Jesus," he hissed, gripping my hair. "That’s it, keep sucking, swallow me."

I did as he asked. My body quivered, and I could almost come myself just from the feel and taste of him climaxing so hard and forcefully. Had he lain there all those millions of times I’d sucked him off, restraining himself? Had he wanted to throw me down and fuck my mouth in a hard, abandoned way, but resisted?

I didn’t have time to dwell on this because Jacob pulled out, gripped my upper arms and dragged me into a standing position. Gasping, I stared into his flushed face. His mouth was parted as he drew in big lungfuls of air. His eyes sparkled, the pupils wide and dilated, showing me the dark depths of his most basic needs.

"That’s just the beginning," he said in a rasping, breathy voice. "To take the edge off what you’ve had me thinking of for three days." He slanted his mouth down hard over mine, taking possession of my lips and tongue in a furious, ravenous kiss. He pulled away abruptly. "You’re such a tease," he muttered, "tempting me, turning me on. Well, now you’re going to get it. You’re going to get punished for making a man want you so bad it hurts his soul."

<strong>Excerpt from: Tasting Pleasure</strong>

I can do this, Alicia thought as she suppressed the urge to lift her head and glance at the door. She knelt on the floor, her knees resting upon a large pillow, leaning forwards with her forehead resting on her crossed hands and her long hair draping the entire length of her back. Her arse, with the word ’toy‘ still readable on both cheeks, was slightly raised over her ankles. She had assumed this position half an hour earlier.

Maverick had called forty-five minutes before, instructing her to prepare for him. She had not expected him to call. Usually after an encounter as intense as last night, he allowed for a day of recovery. Nonetheless, Alicia had immediately tied her hair up, taken a quick shower, given a small prayer of thanks that she did not have to shave, administered a cool enema, dried herself, applied an oil lightly scented with Patchouli and, after relieving her bowels, had assumed this position—all within fifteen minutes. She didn’t wait long before hearing Maverick open the door of the flat, which she had left unlocked in anticipation of his arrival. She had hoped he would come to the bedroom where she patiently knelt before the door, but today he was in no hurry for his greeting.

Alicia felt her back begin to cramp, but she refused to move in order to relieve her discomfort. If Maverick needed time to unwind, so be it. He had trained her well enough that she could endure a short wait. Besides, she estimated she had only been in this position for thirty minutes now. She had waited longer than this before. Damn! She could feel her heavy hair begin to slide down one side. Now her appearance would be uneven, and she knew how Maverick appreciated symmetry. Her hair was one of her greatest treasures but also one of her greatest trials! Why did it have to be so heavy? The length was difficult enough to deal with—the ends of her curls brushed against the small of her back—but the thickness added a weight which was difficult to control. Normally she would have braided it, but Maverick had expressly told her he wanted it unbound and flowing down her back.

Well, she thought, I did the best I could. She decided she would rather leave the hair unevenly draped than risk moving out of position.

A moment later she was glad of her decision as she heard Maverick’s footsteps. She quivered slightly as she felt him run a single finger along the curve of her buttocks. She raised her eyes enough to see his shoes—he was wearing his black work ones. That meant he had just come from a shoot. No wonder he hadn’t come to her immediately. He had probably sipped the whiskey she had left waiting for him and simply relaxed in the sitting room for a while. Maverick worked hard, and his models often needed coaxing into position.

“Greet me,” Maverick instructed.

Alicia smiled momentarily then raised herself into a kneeling position. She unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers. She gently lowered both them and his boxers to the ground and took him into her mouth, crad

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