BLURB
One scorching-hot
lesson could leave her begging for more.
The Maison
Chronicles, Book 3
Reeling from the double whammy of her Dom’s abandonment, and
accusations of colluding with a plagiarizing author, all literary agent Camille
Winter wants is some low-profile, drama-free quality time.
Just as she’s settling into a Maison Domine cabin with her
to-be-read pile and a full slate of spa appointments, she finds herself sweet
talked into playing topless assistant so some Dominant can run a BDSM
educational demo.
Architect Damien Winter is on a relationship hiatus, so he
focuses his dominant energies on teaching BDSM classes. A chance encounter in
Maison’s parking lot with a woman who angrily insists she’s no sub—though every
line of her body screams otherwise—turns shocking when she winds up as
temporary replacement for his demonstration partner.
Damien is unprepared for the way her beautiful submission
gets under his skin. And Camille never thought she’d fall, hard, for just the
kind of man she’s sworn off. But when her ex’s vague threats turn serious,
Damien fears he’s already lost the chance to claim her for his own.
Product Warnings: This
book contains a fiery woman burned one too many times and the Dom who entices
her to submit to the heat between them.
BUY LINKS:
AUTHOR BIO
Skylar Kade, self-avowed hedonist and princess
extraordinaire, started her writing career after throwing aside yet another
romance she could not bring herself to finish. The run-on sentences! The purple
prose! Oh, the horror of it was just too much. So she sat down to write her own
tale. Her favorite part about writing is the extensive research.
She currently resides in sunny southern California,
alternately cursing the polluted air and adoring the weather. Skylar spends her
time asking the cabana boys to bring her more mimosas and feed her strawberries
while she dreams up her next naughty adventure.
AUTHOR LINKS
EXCERPT
Three hours
later, he was on his way up to Maison Domine. With his smartphone calling out
directions, he could keep all his focus on the scenery and the satellite rock
station he was piping through his speakers. The freeways of LA weren’t much for
the view, but once he hit the mountains…wow.
It was like the trees drained away all his tension. Or maybe he was relaxing
because he was closer to sating his needs.
After
missing the turnoff the first time he drove by, Damien pulled a U-turn and
crept back down the road until he saw the weathered wood sign with an arrow
pointing up a narrow, tree-lined road.
His car
rolled down the long drive, soundtracked by Guns N’ Roses’ “Welcome to the
Jungle”, then burst into a wide-open clearing with a jaw-dropping view of the
surrounding mountains. A large rustic structure took up the right half of the
clearing, with most of the rest devoted to parking. More cars filled the lot
than he’d expected for a Friday afternoon, but if other Angelinos had had weeks
like his, maybe it wasn’t that big a surprise.
Parking his
car, he wondered what the large building held. Yes, he’d heard other kinksters rave
about the private club, but he’d been to his fair share of upscale
establishments before. What set this one apart?
The answer
sauntered across the parking lot, seeming to come from nowhere and heading for
the front door. The woman’s body hit him like a wrecking ball. Every sense went
on high alert and his heart jacked up its beat.
Jet-black
hair spilled around her shoulders in soft curls, obscuring her face. Her arms were
crossed as she walked, as if warding off the mild day’s nonexistent cold.
Slumping shoulders drew more attention to the beautiful hourglass shape of her
back, her body encased in a flowing, black dress that clung in all the right places.
She looked tall, maybe eye level to his chin, though maybe that was her black
combat boots. Not fragile—supple. Warm.
And crying.
Her shoulders were shaking as she turned away from the building, facing him head-on.
His demolition experts had nothing on that look. He wanted to kiss her reddened
nose, wipe the tears from under her eyes. He popped open his door and headed
for her.
The woman’s
eyes widened and she froze, a deer in the headlights.
Car door
open, keys still in the ignition, nothing mattered but this woman. He approached
slowly, not wanting to alarm her. “Are you okay?” His voice echoed through the
parking lot, though they weren’t that far apart.
The dress
swirled around her knees, tossed by the wind whipping around the mountaintop.
The soft neckline of her dress draped around her full breasts. His palms itched
to cup them.
She nodded,
letting her hair once again hide her face, which looked like it was made of the
finest bone china. “Shitty week.”
He took a
few steps closer, then paused. He saw faint tan lines on her wrist, barely
there, that looked like she’d been wearing a bracelet cuff for some time. “Is
he really worth crying over?”
Her pink
lips clamped shut, then opened. “Look, thanks for your concern, but, really, it’s
none of your business.” She swiped aside her hair to reveal twilight-blue eyes
cracking with anger.
Her defiance
stroked down his chest and reached for his growing erection. “I’m sorry, but
when I see a submissive alone and crying, I make it my business.” He invaded
her personal space until she had to tilt her chin up to meet his eyes, but she
didn’t back up. All traces of her dejection were gone. Good.
The wind
pulled at her curls as she jabbed a finger in his chest, like she was digging
straight for his racing heart. “I’m not a submissve.”
Her nails
weren’t painted or manicured, not high maintenance like many women he’d dated.
He found it refreshing. Authentic, like her anger. “Not a submissive?” He
grabbed the hand that had poked him and raised her wrist to the light. Her
pupils dilated and her breathing tightened. Her tongue darted out across her
bottom lip and Damien had to restrain a groan. His thumb stroked along her
inner wrist where her pulse was jumping like a living thing trying to escape. “How
long did you wear his ownership bracelet while you weren’t a submissive?”
She tugged
at her wrist. A halfhearted attempt, since her other hand was clenched halfway
to touching him. Being the ever-helpful Dominant, he closed the space between
them, pulling her wrist up to his lips and laying a kiss on the pale flesh of
her pulse point.
“What the
hell do you think you’re doing?” she hissed.
In response,
he let her go and stepped back. “I’m proving a point.”
She swayed
toward him before scowling and taking her own shuffle backward.
Her cocked
eyebrow made him ache to play her until she begged to submit. She was a sassy
thing and they had some chemistry crackling between them—something he certainly
didn’t have with Lara, his demo bottom. “If you’re not a submissive, then I’m
the Pope.”
“That’s your
point?” Her jaw ticced and when her hands fisted on her hips, it made her dress
strain across her breasts. She looked beautiful when angry.
Through
sheer force of will he held his ground, keeping the distance between them. “No,
sweetheart, the point was that you’re not crying anymore.”
Her eyes
spit every insult her lips seemed unable to form. It only made his cock harder.
He replied with his most guileless smile, which only seemed to infuriate her.
With a clench-jawed scream, she pivoted away and headed for the woods.
“See you
later,” he called as she retreated. Yeah, coming up to Maison Domine early had
been a good idea. He’d need the extra time to learn more about this mystery “not
a submissive” woman.
