I’m
back to share another exclusive excerpt from my new release, The
Heart of the Deal. If you like BDSM erotica with a romantic
HEA (actually, two...), you should check this one out.
Business, bondage, discipline and desire...They call me “Ruthless Ruby”. Not the most complimentary nickname, but I wear it with pride. I have no qualms about playing dirty – very dirty – if that’s what it takes to close a business deal. Sex? Sure. Especially if I’m the one on top.I love the game, and I expect to win. But so does my competitor Rick Martell. He’s got some weird charisma that inspires helpless lust in every woman he meets. Even me. I won’t surrender, though. Oh, I do want him – kneeling at my feet, cringing under my whip.
(You
could win
a copy by commenting on my release party post...)
Exclusive
Excerpt
I
am in my Asian bitch goddess mode. I have pulled my hair back into a
long, tight ponytail that hangs down to my waist. I am wearing
butter-soft, black leather: laced vest, miniskirt, stiletto-heeled
boots, broad studded belt. From that belt hangs an elegant little
flogger, a statement and an invitation. My eyelids are silver and my
lips are scarlet. I am gorgeous, I know, an exotic vision of female
power.
I
stride into the churning mass of dancers on the stage and begin to
dance. The music pulses, alien and compelling. Techno is not usually
to my taste, but tonight it suits my mood.
Swirling,
grinding my hips, flicking my hair from side to side, bathing in the
heat of the flesh around me, I am beginning to feel better. Richard
Martell had best beware if he plans on crossing Ruby Chen.
Part
of me is lost in the beat and the movement. But I am also scanning
the crowd, seeking an appropriate partner. I notice him just as he
sees me. He is a bear of a man, with lush black hair and a beard.
He’s dressed in medieval mode, a flowing shirt of royal blue whose
open-laced neck shows more hair on his chest. Riding boots, leather
wrist-cuffs, a chain-mail bag at his waist. Despite his size, he
moves well. His tight suede leggings show off his muscled thighs. As
I hold his gaze, I also can see the telltale swelling at his groin.
With
the slightest motion of my head, I summon him to me. He towers above
me, despite my four inch heels, but when I fix my eyes on his, he
cannot sustain the contact. Instead, he looks down at the instrument
of punishment on my belt, half-fearful, half-eager. He licks his
lips.
“Let’s
dance,” I say, more a command than a suggestion. He nods, and we
begin to move together.
I
shake my shoulders, my hips. Thrust my breasts forward, so that the
thong lacings part and he can see the shadowy valley of my cleavage.
My body is close to his, close enough for me to smell his nervous
sweat, but I do not allow us to touch. My crotch dampens. That
familiar, demanding ache rises in my sex. I trail my fingers through
the air, across his body, a hair’s breadth from his bulking
erection. So little space between us—does he catch the musky scent
of my desire?
I
lean a little closer, so that he can hear me over the whine of the
synthesizer. “You were staring at my whip. Do you like it?”
Underneath
his beard, he blushes. He nods, reluctant but obviously excited.
“Do
you want it?” I ask, pushing him further. “You will have to earn
it, you know.”
The
music is too loud for me to catch his response. But I see his answer
in his face.
“Come
with me, then.” I turn and slink toward the side corridor, heading
for one of the private balconies. I do not look back, but I can feel
him following me, sense his eyes on the tight leather that sheathes
my hips.
When
he parts the velvet curtains, I am already ready for him, sitting on
one chair, legs apart with a booted foot on each of two others.
“Remove
your shirt. And kneel.”
He
does not require more explicit instructions. He pulls his lovely blue
tunic over his head. His torso is powerful and darkly furred. His
bulk making him a bit clumsy, he lowers himself to the appropriate
position between my thighs, then looks up at me for further orders.
I
recall my fair-haired, graceful supplicant of earlier in the day;
poor, ambitious Mr. Dalton. The memory makes me hotter. Power surges
in me.
“Now,
as you have requested, I will flog you. Meanwhile, give me your
fingers.”
I
raise my skirt a bit higher, and let him see that I am wearing
crotchless panties of black silk. Just a few wisps of lace, really,
framing and highlighting my creamy thighs. And the dark, moist,
hungry gap between.
He
begins to play with my labia, watching me all the time to see if I am
pleased. I am soaked.
Holding
his hand palm up, he slips three fingers into my cunt. There's no
resistance. I stifle my moan. His thumb is pressed against my clit,
rocking it back and forth. Very good. Oh, yes, very nice indeed.
“Your
other hand now. In my arse. And lower your eyes. You may not look at
me unless I give you permission.”
He
bows his head and leans forward a bit. I slump further in the chair,
presenting my hind hole to him. He has large, powerful hands, but he
is tentative and gentle, wiggling his way through the ring of muscle
guarding that passage. I press my bum against his hand, forcing him
inside. I shudder with pleasure at the delicious desecration.
It
is difficult to concentrate as he stokes my fires with his nimble
fingers. But I am not one to renege on a promise. I reach for the
flogger, which I left conveniently at hand.
“Prepare
yourself,” I gasp. I bring the leather thongs smartly down on his
shoulders, once and again.
At
the first slap of the whip, he moans. The second makes him squirm and
thrust his fingers deep into me. It is not the pain, I know. In my
supine position, I cannot really swing the instrument hard enough to
do much damage.
He
is intoxicated by his own submission, and by my power. The thongs
whistle through the air again and land smartly his hairy back.
Another swipe, and yet another. With each one, he works me harder. He
has two fingers in my arse now, spread apart so that the rich, dirty
sensation is edged with pain.
I
cannot control my strokes anymore. I drop the flogger and lean back.
“Bring me off,” I order, my voice husky and edged with
desperation. He is like a machine, his fingers pumping piston-like
inside me. A race car sweeping around the track, my climax
approaches. Acceleration. Frenzy.
The
Heart of the Deal: Business, Bondage, Discipline and Desire by Lisabet Sarai
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