Domestic discipline needed.
Elizabeth Clark deleted the e-mail without reading it. If she got another call from her publisher or agent for a domestic discipline or BDSM book, she was going to scream. Why was this genre suddenly the big new thing? First it was vampires, then werewolves, and now it was kink. She hadn’t jumped on the paranormal bandwagon when it had come rolling into town, and she wasn’t going to leap onto this one. Contemporary erotic romance--that was her genre. Her only genre. And she was going to keep it that way.
Liz closed her e-mail and rolled her head from side to side, trying to find her center. If her agent, Sophia, didn’t stop forwarding these calls from the publishers, Liz might lose it. She’d stopped reading them months ago. Thinking about dominance and bondage left a bad taste in her mouth. What kind of self-respecting woman would allow herself to be subjugated like that by a man?
She’d never understood doormat tendencies. She’d like to give those kinds of men a piece of her mind. How dare they? The idea of a man dictating to her made her want to punch something.
She took a deep breath, forcing the anger back down. It wasn’t her place to judge women who wanted that kind of lifestyle, or the men who controlled them. She had to stop letting things like this get her all worked up simply because she wanted to pick a fight.
She knew she needed get back to work on her latest manuscript, but she couldn’t make herself open the document. It was past midnight anyway. Maybe she should call it a night and go to sleep. She ran her fingers through her still-damp hair. Taking a break an hour ago to shower should’ve set her in the right mind-set to work on this godforsaken book. But she couldn’t lock it down. She shivered in the cool breeze coming in the window from behind her. Yes, the allure of curling up in her warm bed was far too good to ignore.
She closed her laptop and clicked off her wireless mouse. Standing, she caught a glimpse of the wild woman in the mirror. Hair tousled in damp tangles around her bare oval face, cascading down her back, tickling her tattoo. That was way more Elizabeth Leigh staring back at her than Liz Clark. Sometimes the line between her supersexy alter-ego pen name and herself got blurred, and she could see that happening tonight. Not bothering to turn on any lights, Liz padded out of her home office in her bunny slippers. She knew where every last thing was, including all the clutter strewn about.
As she walked, she let the night sounds envelope her. She loved living in her house of solitude. No pets, no roommates, no neighbors. Only the light breeze, the chirping crickets, and gentle quiet to keep her company. The solitude helped keep the chaos always clamoring in her head at bay. But tonight she was restless and unable to concentrate on her book. Which meant she needed a recharge.
Liz settled under the silky sheets and heavy comforter and closed her eyes. Focusing on slowing her breathing, she forced her mind into the quiet that preceded sleep. A moment later, her mind rewarded her by sinking into the black abyss.
He slipped the veil over her eyes, shrouding her in darkness, and she shivered. She could feel the heat of him behind her, pressing into her body. Warming her in a way nothing else could. She wanted to lift her fingers to feel the soft fabric but knew she couldn’t. Knew her hands were bound behind her in a deceptively delicate-feeling strip of silk. Her heart pounded. She didn’t want this,
couldn’t want this. Yet even as her mind protested, her breath caught, and desire flamed through her.
She couldn’t see, couldn’t hear anything over the drumming in her ears, but she could feel. The tight corset laced around her middle came up to the peaks of her breasts, chafing her nipples with every inhale and sending a delicious spiral of desire straight to her center.
He tugged at the restraints around her wrists, forcing her shoulders down and back and thrusting her nipples in one hard jolt against the edge of the corset. Oh, God! He pushed a leg between hers, keeping a firm grip on her restraints and inching her heeled feet apart even more. Her bottom half lay bare to his hungry gaze, save for the red stilettos he’d bought for her.
Spoiling her brought him pleasure, and who was she to deny him anything? She should. She knew she should, but she couldn’t resist him.
She clenched her thigh muscles to keep herself upright when she was already so full of need she wanted to beg. But it was too early in the night for that. If she started begging now, it would be hours before he granted her release. Hours of the most unbelievable pleasure she’d ever experienced, surely, but she didn’t want to wait that long.
He clipped the ribbon between her wrists to a solid object behind her. She couldn’t stop from pulling at them, wrenching her shoulders. The pain coursed through her like a jackknife, and she moaned. Why did she bother to resist? She knew in the end she would give in to him, but something within her refused to surrender her will to him completely until she was too lost to the erotic haze to care. She wasn’t quite there yet.
His footsteps echoed around her as he came around to face her. His hot gaze burned along her skin as it roamed over her body. He tugged her breasts free of the fabric and groaned in appreciation. An answering rush of wetness soaked her core.
Only he could do this to her--dress her up the way he wanted with such slow strokes that she burned for him even before the scene really started. He reached around her to cup both ass cheeks in his large hands, and she bit her bottom lip to keep from crying out at that simple touch.
“Good girl,” he said. The caress of his voice was like a thousand feathers trailing down her spine. He smacked her right butt cheek hard, and a small squeal escaped before she could stop it.
“Maybe not so good after all.”
She didn’t reply. Really, he wasn’t looking for a response. So she stood immobile and waited. He let go of her. Then a cold, hard object pressed against her slit. Her muscles shook, but she remained silent. He rubbed it up and down her entrance, pushing it once against her clit, shooting a zing of pleasure through her. Then he was slipping it into her, a welcome invasion.
The hard bullet slid into her wet sheath with ease, and she gasped at the full feeling. He pushed his body against hers for a moment, lowering his lips to her ear and blowing softly. “Do not come,” he ordered her. And the bullet turned on, vibrating and pulsing within her. He bit down on her earlobe, and she screamed. He moved back from her, no doubt clutching the remote to the bullet going crazy inside her.
She was close, so freaking close. He pinched her left nipple, and she locked her knees to keep from falling.
“Good girl.” His voice deepened every time he spoke. She loved hearing that note in his words. The caress of love beneath his control. The bullet buzzed into high gear, threatening to break her hold on the orgasm she felt simmering below the surface. He would bring her to that edge and play with her there in just the way she liked.
He knew her body now. Probably better than she did. And he knew how fast and hard to bring her. When her life was spiraling out of control, he was the only person who could help balance her out. He was her rock in the middle of the chaos. A second later, a nipple clamp closed down on her already sensitized nub, and she whimpered.
“Almost there, baby. Hold on for me a bit longer.”
She nodded, unable to do anything but accept the pleasure consuming her. When he held a second vibrator against her clit, her whole body spasmed, but still she held on, shoved the orgasm back until she couldn’t stand it any longer. Until the need to come overwhelmed her need to be strong, to deny him. Until it forced the words from her lips.
“Please, Sir,” she begged.
And almost before the words had left her mouth, he commanded, “Come,” pushing the vibrator hard against her clit, and wave after wave of pleasure skyrocketed through her, pulsing again and again as she came, screaming his name.
Liz started awake, drenched in sweat and the sweet release of orgasm. Before she was fully awake, she was grabbing the pad and pen by her bed with one shaking hand and using the other to click on the light. She didn’t try to sort through the images or dissect the dream. She simply put pen to paper.
Write it down.
That was what the shrink had told her when she’d first gone to see him over a decade ago after moving out of her parents’ house. It was the coping mechanism he’d taught her to help her deal with the rage that had taken up residence inside her until it was all-consuming, to the point where she would pick a fight with someone--anyone--who happened to be close by.
So she didn’t analyze the mystery man who had been plaguing her dreams for weeks. Later, she could worry about what had put such ridiculous fantasies into her head, ones she knew she could never want in real life. Ones she would never act on. Instead, she wrote.
She wrote and wrote until her hand seized up. When she dropped the pen and the bright red words on the page swam before her eyes, she blinked hard to bring them into focus. Dawn was peeking into her window, and tension seized her. Digging her thumb into her other palm to massage the cramp, she stared at the pages of her notebook, unsure she could make out some of the furious scribbles she’d made.
Page after page of writing she couldn’t remember putting down flashed by as she flipped through. Holy crap. She hadn’t written like this in years. Hadn’t been so obsessed with an idea that it forced her awake in the middle of the night and was so urgent, so desperate to be put on the page that it wouldn’t wait until she scrambled down the hall and woke her computer. Scripturient indeed. The word encompassed her whole being--having an overwhelming desire to write
The early-morning sunlight was pouring into her window now, and she knew she’d never get back to sleep. She swung her bare legs over the edge of the bed and slid her feet into slippers. Clutching the notebook and pen to her chest, she padded down the hall to the office and sat. After popping open the small fridge under the right side of her L-shaped desk, she grabbed an iced coffee. She closed the fridge with one hand and opened her laptop with the other.
Not reading the pages again--not allowing her mind to wander back to her dream--was the only way to ensure she didn’t lose the words before she got them down. The ideas would flit out of her brain faster than she could chug her iced coffee. And that was impressive. She took a big gulp and tried to hold her mind in that space of awake enough to function but not really fully aware yet. She set the plastic bottle down and yawned. Then her fingers flew over the keys as she transcribed the pages. Forcing herself to turn off her internal editor, she let creativity take hold.
When she finally reached the end of the scrawling notes, she kept typing, forming the scene, finishing the chapter, and then writing the next. Her stomach growled at the same time that she ran out of words, and she glanced at the clock. After nine a.m. already.
She saved, backed up, and closed the file, then shut her computer and wandered into the kitchen. As she rummaged in search of breakfast, she eventually let her mind revisit the dream. The mystery man from that dark purple boudoir had been taunting her for weeks. Maybe longer. She’d refused to acknowledge his presence in her subconscious mind.
Never before had she fought so hard against writing a book. Not even when she first realized she wanted to write erotic romance, knowing how displeased her father would be. At eighteen, though, she’d been used to that reaction from him. Reveled in causing it, actually.
That had been the push she’d needed to put pen to paper that first time, knowing how pissed off he would be with her for writing anything that didn’t fit into his narrow worldview. She put a pan down on the stove and turned it on, then poured a bit of olive oil into it. Somewhere in her fridge were the remains of the skillet she’d had for breakfast at the diner yesterday. She found them and tossed the onions, peppers, potatoes, and garlic into the pan, jerking back when the oil spit at her.
“Screw you too,” she said, the venom in her voice harsh even to her own ears.
Images from her dream flashed in her head, spliced with the image of her fingers as they skittered across the keys. She’d written it. Damn it! She’d done the one freaking thing she’d vowed she would never do. That sick part of her brain that had been so indoctrinated by her parents, the one that said she was supposed to do everything she was told, threatened to overwhelm her. As the rush of desire warmed her, shame was quick on its heels.
She knew there wasn’t anything wrong
with people whose sexual proclivities were of the kinky persuasion; it had just never been her cup of tea, so to speak. BDSM was no longer considered a sexual deviance, but she was still too damned freaked out by it. She didn’t examine the whys.
Liz pulled her focus back to cooking breakfast, but her brain insisted on mocking her with all the ways she’d failed her one goal--to live her life independently of her past. It seemed she couldn’t do anything as an adult that wasn’t tainted by her crappy childhood. As she ate breakfast, she kept telling herself one thing--she was not
going to write this book. It could plague her dreams and her waking hours all it wanted, but she wouldn’t let it out.
When she was sitting at her computer again, staring at the four thousand words she’d written in a single sitting, one word taunted her.