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About the author:
Author Eden Claire, a/k/a Island Girl, can often be found working hard on her tan, indulging her Thai food addiction, and, singing karaoke. She believes in peace, love, and a hot alpha billionaire for every woman.
Here is a short sample from the book:
“Against the wall. Don’t say a word,” The man orders in a husky voice as his hands grip my shoulders tightly, pressing my face against the cold sheetrock.
His hand retreats from my body. Then I hear the heavy steps of his boots on the floor and finally the sound of the heavy metal door closing shut.
I turn around and see that I’m not alone. I catch sight of a tall shirtless man with a carefully sculpted chest and muscular arms. The stranger’s frame is imposing. It takes a minute before I register that his face is covered in a mask.
Even though discretion is the order at Club Shamballa, some of the Doms wear masks to protect their high profile lifestyle. The stranger’s eyes are green and penetrating against the dark mask. As I gaze into them, I seek direction. I get nothing.
His dark boots strike the floor heavily as he walks over to me. The ominous sound causes my heart to beat fast. That’s part of the rush of Shamballa; you never know what’s going to happen next. Soon Mask is only inches from me, and his strong, masculine scent becomes a welcome invasion. He grabs my long brown hair with his strong fist and turns my head so it’s facing the wall. As he tightens the grip on my hair, I breathe in his intoxicating smell, wishing I could glimpse his rock hard muscles. His other hand travels down my shoulder, causing shivers to rush down the length of my spine. Then his fingers move lower, tracing outlines on my back.
Chills- the good kind, are now coursing through every nerve on my back.
No one ever touched me like that before. His harsh grip on my hair and the gentleness of his hand on my back form a stark contrast. He grunts in frustration, letting go of my head which is pounding slightly from his rough hand. I feel the edge of his nail dig into my back. It’s sharp like a mini blade, but not enough to draw blood, only sharp enough to get his point across. When someone can’t get a message across it becomes louder, or in this case quieter.
I didn’t survive ten years of captivity without learning how to read the unsaid. I learned to read every micro expression on Ray’s face, every movement and every lack of one. That’s common with Stockholm syndrome survivors. That’s what I’ve read, and Dr. Drake later confirmed it with me. Of course, I’m not a prisoner anymore. I’m here at Club Shamballa by choice, and I’m more than willing to take what this mysterious Dom has to offer.
Mask wasn’t the same Dom who ordered me against the wall. I can tell the difference between their footsteps. He’s trying to tell me something with his scratches. What he’s trying to say isn’t exactly clear. Not yet.
I make out the letter “I.” He continues writing.
“Want to taste you.”
It takes a second before the words on my back take on meaning.
I want to taste you.