Master Class

Master Class

by Rachel Haimowitz


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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781937551018
Publisher: Riptide Publishing, LLC
Publication date: 03/15/2012
Series: Master Class , #3
Pages: 120
Product dimensions: 5.25(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.28(d)

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Master Class

By Rachel Haimowitz, Aleksandr Voinov

Riptide Publishing

Copyright © 2011 Rachel Haimowitz
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-937551-00-1


Even stars got star-struck, right? It was perfectly normal. Not embarrassing at all.

At least, that's what Nicky kept telling himself as he stared across the table at Devon fucking Turner, A-lister extraordinaire and, let's face it, hunk to beat all hunks.

And Dom to beat all subs, too. Nicky was certain of it. The way Devon met his eyes with such force across the candle-lit table that Nicky had to avert his gaze. The way he made Nicky feel like the only man in the room, naked at Devon's mercy despite the armor of his three-piece suit and the other six guests at the table, only two of whom he knew but all of whom, he was certain, could see right through his flustered, lust-sick stare.

Shit, he had to get out of here, get some air. Get his head back on his shoulders before it ended up, uninvited, in Devon's lap.

"Excuse me," he blurted, standing up from the table hard enough to skid his chair. He'd forgotten about the napkin in his lap; it swooshed to the floor as all eyes landed on him. Why had he tied his tie so tight? "I uh ..." He pointed vaguely toward the area where he thought the restrooms were. "Excuse me."

He ran off before he could take stock of all the curious looks. Or, God help him, the knowing one—the absolute, bone-deep surety—of Devon Turner's.

He found the men's room without fuss and pushed through the door, just leaning for a moment on the other side remembering how to breathe. For Christ's sake, this was ridiculous. He performed in front of thousands eight times a week without the slightest trouble. What was his problem now?

He cast a glance at the empty urinals and realized he did kind of have to piss. Took care of it with trembling fingers and a visualization exercise or three to keep his Devon-induced erection at bay. Went to the sink to wash his hands and nearly jumped right out of his shoes when the bathroom door opened, and in strode the object of his fantasies.

This time, when Devon's eyes zeroed in on Nicky's, Nicky couldn't look away. Wanted to, didn't want to ... didn't matter. Somehow, he couldn't move.

Devon stepped forward. Glided, more like—all grace and easy confidence—snatched up one of Nicky's wrists in a powerful hand and pulled him close. No words, which was probably for the best; Nicky doubted he'd have heard them anyway over his heart thudding in his ears or the Vader-esque rasping of his breath. Just a single silent look from Devon, long and piercing, more a statement than a question: Pay up, that look said. Make good on every single thing you haven't been saying for the last hour. I know you. I see you. You see me too.

Yes. God yes.

Nicky didn't struggle when Devon forced his still-dripping hand against his crotch, made him use his pants like a towel—an expensive, pinstriped, tenting towel. Thank God the restaurant was dimly lit; otherwise his erection would show across the room. So would the giant wet spot.

But that was all the thought he gave it as Devon twisted his wrist, forcing Nicky's fingers against his own straining cock. Still Devon watched him carefully, so, so carefully, looking for the argument, the repulsion, the horror. Not expecting to find it, but looking nonetheless. Being responsible.

Nicky ducked his head and thrust his hips forward. I want what you've got.

But Devon just yanked Nicky's wrist out to the side and shoved him so hard into the sink that he only stayed (mostly) quiet because Devon slapped one giant paw over his mouth.

He was still breathing through the pain in his back when Devon pulled his hand away and mashed his lips to Nicky's, biting until Nicky opened his mouth in another breathless yell—half surprise, half pain, half Oh my God I'm being kissed by Devon fucking Turner, and yes, he was perfectly aware that made three halves, thank you very much. Who could care about things like that anyway when Devon's tongue was parting his lips, when their crotches were grinding together so sweetly that it took only moments before Nicky thought—with what little thought remained—that a water-wet crotch would soon be the least of his problems.

Until Devon stopped, ripping away and shoving Nicky twohanded to the floor.

But that was okay. Heck, more than okay. Nicky could play this game. He could play it very, very well.

He swallowed a moan and crawled toward Devon's feet, head down, ass up, inviting—Take what you want, his body said. Beat me, fuck me; preferably both at once.

"When I'm good and ready, whore." Devon stepped on Nicky's outstretched hand and sneered down at him with positively withering contempt. Nicky's cheeks burned as hot as the tender flesh beneath Devon's heel, but he made no attempt to pull his hand back, to stand up, to take back the offer he'd made. He rather liked it down here, after all. Always had.

But Devon just ran a hand through his hair, straightened his tie, lifted his foot from Nicky's hand, and left the bathroom without another word.

Nicky waited until the door had closed behind Devon before rising to his feet. What the fuck had just happened? If not for the pain in his back and hand, the wetness at his crotch, and the tingle at his lips, he might have doubted it had happened at all. Too good to be true.

Too odd to be true.

Except for the part where it was.

Bracing his hands against the sink, he blinked into the mirror and tried to compose his face into some semblance of normalcy. He did that for a living, for fuck's sake; why was it so hard now? Faucet. Cold water splashed on hot cheeks with shaking fingers. Towel dry.

His erection was slowly fading. God only knew how long he'd been staring through the mirror, what his friends must be thinking about his absence. He pulled away and forced his feet to carry him back into the dining room—back to his table, to Devon—trying to pretend he wasn't spending every conscious second wondering how Devon's cock would taste shoved down his throat.



From the front row of the empty theater, Nicky's director sighed loudly enough to carry past the mezzanine.

The stage manager, clearly bored with feeding Nicky lines, read in a monotone from the script in his lap. "And then he will say to them: Anything you did for one of your brothers here, however humble, you did for me."

Nicky whispered it once to cement it in his brain, then repeated it aloud, eyes roving about his castmates pretending to be sheep on their hands and knees.

He'd not seen too many sheep floating around Manhattan, but he was pretty certain they didn't usually look so pissy.

Of course, he was pretending to be Jesus, and he was pretty certain the son of God didn't grind near-strangers in a men's room and then spend the next day forgetting his lines.

His castmates baaah'd in unison. One dead beat followed. Then another. He was really starting to hate this scene.

Robin elbowed him in the shin. Shit, his line again? He pointed—stage right? No, stage left. "For when I was hungry—"

"God, no!"

A-ha-ha, yeah, because that joke never gets old.

Nicky threw his director a sheepish (a-ha-ha) look and waited for the man to correct him.

"It's 'to the eternal fire, that has been ready for you with the devil and all his angels.' Then 'For when I was hungry, blah blah blah. Jesus, Nicky"—and clearly, no joke intended this time—"what's gotten into you today?"

Nicky shrugged. "Sorry, boss. Not feeling very well."

What a lying liar he was. And an idiot, too; here he was in the starring role of fucking Godspell, the fucking Broadway revival no less, and he couldn't get his head out of his ass. Couldn't stop thinking about dinner last night with his actor buddies and their actor buddies, about what it had been like to sit next to Mr.

Devon Turner for an hour and a half.

About what had happened afterward.

"All right, you know what? Go home. Get some rest. Adam, get in there for him."

His understudy peeled out of the house and up onto the stage in two seconds flat, and Nicky, relieved and not nearly as guilty as he knew he should be, offered apologies and a "See you tomorrow" to his castmates. A quick trip to his dressing room to change his clothes and wash the face paint off his right cheek, and then he'd be out of here. The faster he got home, the faster he could jerk off. Or not jerk off; he wondered how long he could deny himself tonight before going crazy, if he could manage to sleep without touching himself.

Without thinking of Devon.

He closed and locked his dressing room door, stripped off his Superman t-shirt, and stood in front of the mirror, twisting around with a hiss to examine the soreness at the small of his back. Shame there was no bruise. He pressed two fingers to the tender flesh and hissed again, smiling.

When I'm good and ready, whore, Devon had said. Threatened. Promised.

Hopefully he'd be ready soon. Still thinking of dinner (and dessert, definitely dessert), Nicky pulled on a t-shirt and a gray hoodie, jeans and sneakers, hung up his Superman tee, and left the dressing room, the strap of his courier bag slung right across the soreness Devon had caused.

His mind was turned so intently toward yesterday's dinner, toward that moment of instant recognition—his "Domdar" pinging, Devon's "subdar" clearly pinging just as loud—toward Devon's laissez faire enjoyment of his food and his drink and all his company but Nicky, whom he'd ignored with such finesse after their encounter in the bathroom that Nicky wouldn't even have noticed being ignored if he himself hadn't been staring, fixated, at Devon's hands, Devon's mouth, the casual cruelty just beneath the surface of Devon's boisterous, Ken-doll-handsome face ...

So inward were his thoughts that when he walked past the last row of seats in the theater, he didn't notice Devon.

A hand caught his wrist, squeezing hard, and his first thought was "Oh fuck, crazy fan." Before he could wonder how said fan had gotten into the closed rehearsal, before he could even try to yank his arm away, a big body to match the big hand was pressing into his, lips touching his ear, warm breath whispering, "Not a sound, boy. Not one." A thumb found its way into a pressure point on Nicky's trapped wrist, just daring him to defy the order, but Nicky bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut, held his breath and nodded.

"Macbeth ruins everything," the whisper continued.

No shit. It was ridiculous to be so superstitious, but at the mention of that cursed play, he couldn't help but cast a glance over his shoulder to make sure there wasn't an electrical fire smoldering in the catwalk or an uncovered trap door on the stage.

"Say it, and it ends the night. 'Macbeth.' Understand?" The thumb dug deeper and Nicky choked off a grunt, nodded again, short and fast. "Say it now. Once. Practice."

"Macbeth," he whispered back, afraid if he spoke any louder, he'd shout, and the whole cast and crew would hear him. They already had enough reasons to be pissed at him.

"Good boy."

Devon yanked Nicky out the auditorium, through the lobby, into the street. Hailing a cab in the Theater District was an art form, but people stopped for Devon Turner. Heck, some people even stopped for Nicky.

A car pulled over in seconds and Devon opened the door, dragged Nicky inside after him. "Manhattan Plaza, please," Devon said to the driver as he fastened his seatbelt, never releasing his punishing hold on Nicky's wrist.

Nicky didn't bother wondering how Devon knew where he lived.

As the taxi merged into traffic, Devon leaned close and brushed his lips against Nicky's ear. "I'm going to fuck you so raw your eyes will water every time you sit." The words were harsh but the tone was a purr, a promise so hot Nicky's breath caught. "Would you like that?"

No breath, no words. Nicky nodded instead.

"I'm going to make you scream. Not my name—just scream. Would you like that, too?"

Another breathless nod. He felt Devon's lips curl into a smile against his earlobe, teeth latching on as Devon's thumb, in perfect mirror, bit deep into Nicky's wrist.

By the time they reached his apartment, Nicky was sweating and a little nauseous. The cab ride had been like every Manhattan cab ride, all sudden starts and stops and swerves and the vague stench of the thousands of asses that had warmed the backseat before him.

Devon's grip hadn't let up for a second, and the pain of that pressing thumb was deep, unrelenting, expanding with every passing moment until Nicky could think of nothing else—nothing but Devon, the power of the man, the power Nicky had granted him and just how, exactly, he planned to use it.

Devon didn't let go when they got out of the cab, instead unfastening Nicky's seatbelt for him and dragging him out Devon's door; Nicky had to crawl one-handed across the seat to keep up.

Devon put on a friendly smile for the passersby, the gawkers snapping his photo, the children on the playground between the two towers, the couple in the lobby. He eased up pressure on Nicky's wrist just enough for Nicky to put on a smile of his own.

They made it safely into the elevator without attracting any second glances—at least none of the dubious variety—and when the door closed, Devon shoved him up against the wall hard enough to knock the air from his lungs, pressed tight against him and ground his knee into Nicky's crotch. Nicky's legs unhinged and his cry was swallowed by Devon's mouth ravaging his own, all tongue and teeth and hunger. Still Devon's thumb dug into Nicky's wrist, which had gone so far past painful it was rounding now on numb interspersed with occasional bursts of eye-watering agony.

It was the longest twenty-nine floors of Nicky's life.

He only knew they'd reached his floor because Devon pulled away and dragged him off the elevator. He had no recollection of unlocking his door. Maybe Devon had done it for him. Somehow, they made it to the bedroom, and Devon was tearing Nicky's clothes from him one-handed, yanking and slapping and scratching as he went, letting go of Nicky's wrist only long enough to pull his hoodie and t-shirt over his head.

When Nicky was completely naked and the pincer grip returned to that freshly reperfused pressure point, he cried out and tried to pull away, which made it even worse—so bad, in fact, that for a moment his vision went pure white, and when the room came back he found himself being marched toward the bed, arm wrenched up behind him, cock pointing straight ahead.

"That's right," Devon growled, jerking up on Nicky's wrist, setting off fresh fireworks from his fingertips to his neck. "Scream for me, whore. Scream." Another jerk, and Nicky had no choice but to obey.

That strange whiteout again, and this time he came to pressed facedown to his bed, a heavy weight settled across his thighs, another one wedged atop his spine between his shoulder blades, where his wrist was still trapped. He pressed his face into the quilt and bit down hard, roaring into the bedding.

A belt being unbuckled, pants unzipping, the rough scrape of Devon's jeans across his legs. All barely noticed beneath the pain and his own buzzing arousal, the ache of his erection trapped between the mattress and the weight atop him.

A hand drove into the back of his head, slapping hard, then raked down his back. Nicky gasped and arched, gasped again as the movement wrenched his shoulder. Then there were fingers in his open mouth, two, three, a whole hand's worth, scraping against his tongue and his teeth and the back of his throat until he gagged, whimpered, tried to pull away but couldn't move, couldn't buck the weight straddling him or even begin to free his arm, and the first hint of panic set in as Devon laid flat atop him and denied him even the capacity to struggle.


Excerpted from Master Class by Rachel Haimowitz, Aleksandr Voinov. Copyright © 2011 Rachel Haimowitz. Excerpted by permission of Riptide Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Master Class 3.7 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 9 reviews.
Arella3173 More than 1 year ago
**This story is the Prequel to her small anthology called "SUBlime: Collected Shorts" First, This story is certainly NOT for the faint of heart. Now, To be honest, I haven't read that many BDSM books. It's not my favorite kink/genre but I don't necessarily turn away from it. If it sounds good in the blurb, I get it. And this is that one title that I am SO glad I got and has made me a bigger fan of BDSM. Nicky comes off as a bored spoiled Actor that has had everything he ever wanted and now just wants/needs someone to finally hold him down. Then, he encounters Devon. A Dom unlike one Nicky has ever had, because unlike his other Doms that let him play his little games, Devon, doesn't turn a blind eye to Nicky's games. He's Firm and strict almost cruel when He's in his 'Sir/Master' role giving Nicky nothing he wants yet everything Nicky has craved for at the same time. A True Dom. The beginning is a little shocking (To me, anyways). It was rather harsh but don't stop reading! It gets SO much better and you quickly come to understand Devon and Nicky and their relationship. The thing I loved most about this book is that it changed perspectives and gave you both characters' thoughts on what was happening and how they were feeling with the other's actions. It really made you get engrossed into the story and it gave you wonderful insight and a deep, complete understanding on the exact dynamics of their relationship. All in all this story was a HOT, captivating, deliciously intense and descriptive tale! If you are a fan of BDSM, this is definitively one you don't want to miss!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
What an entertaining story! Sexy characters right out the gate!! There is a 2nd book of short stories "Sublime: Collected Shorts" that are all about these 2 - very fun and sexy!!
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Aija More than 1 year ago
I read this story in one take and didn't even notice how the time flew by! The writing was extremely good and I thoroughly enjoyed it. The change of POV in the middle of the story only helped to see things more fully and I'm grateful the author chose to do it this way. This was a short story, but I felt like I got to really know the characters and I couldn't help but fall for them (I must admit, the story left me with a warm, fuzzy feeling and a strong desire to read more about them! And I want Devon of my own. :D). So, if you like stories filled with passion and frustration, BDSM with testing ones physical and mental boundaries, you must read this!
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