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About the author:
Writing was one of my joys as a kid, but life took me away from that love. In 2011, I took the NaNoWriMo challenge. I finished National Novel Writing Month with 50,000 words, a very good start to a novel, and a renewed love of telling stories. I’ve also got a couple more books perking away, but Erin and Jerry grabbed me at the beginning of 2013 and wouldn’t let me go until their story was out. Of course, it’s not really over. There is much more to tell, tales of dark desires and consuming cravings, freaky fetishes and carnal lust, demanding Doms and obedient submissives, corruption of innocence and indulgence of perversion, and pleasure wrapped in pain. Oh, and hot, juicy, steamy romance!
What inspired you to write your book?
I had no choice. I woke up one morning with Erin and Jerry having a very hot and heavy scene together. Everything seemed so real, like I was a voyeur hiding in the corner of Erin’s bedroom. I had to hurry to get the scene written down before I forgot it. However, that’s turned out to not be a problem. Because that scene is burned into my brain, and the characters never leave my head. All I had to do was start asking the players questions, and they were more than happy to fill me in on the details of their lives.
Here is a short sample from the book:
Chapter One – Forbidden Fruit
Friday Night, September 14
“Don’t you dare come, sub. When are you allowed to come?” Damn. My eyes water as The Saint follows his sharp command and question with a vicious slap to my already reddened inner thigh. Fresh stains of fat fingers blossom on that tender flesh. My Top has easy access because I’m on my knees, strung up, bound with my legs splayed wide open for him.
A shudder of wicked delight zings through my body. Yum. The image of ripe golden fruit dripping with juice makes my lips purse, and my snug back hole puckers in anticipation of being stretched and stuffed. I never imagined I could be so turned on by something so forbidden.
“No, Sir. Only when you’re between my peaches, and only when you give your permission, Sir.” It’s such a dirty thing to give voice to the even dirtier thing we will soon do. My eyes almost cross with the effort to stay this side of the abyss as his unrelenting fingers plunge in a steady rhythm into my aching pussy.
“Where, miss priss?” He doesn’t fool me. The gentleness of his tone warns he’s at his most dangerous, dangerous to my resolve to not disappoint him.
“In my tight ass, Sir.” He’s the one who calls my firm globes “lush peaches.” The Saint prefers I use profanity. Me, not so much. I’m a good girl, or I try to be, and he gets a kick out of watching me squirm when I say bad things on his command.
Ever since claiming my anal virginity during our second scene, Dillon St. Laurent, known in the club as The Saint, makes sure he gets some back door action every time we’re together. He doesn’t just want it; I know he’s almost obsessed with it because he’s very vocal while sliding between my sweet cheeks. Part of the appeal for me, what makes me tremble, is how he moans in pleasure when he’s in deep. My desire to please this strong, stern, sexy man, to send him to paradise, is instinctive. My heart soars whenever I succeed.
The Saint leans toward me from a thickly padded, black leather ottoman. The over-stuffed, wingback chair I’m kneeling on is the only kindness he afforded me when he tied me securely—bindings at more points than usual—and spread me wide to give him unrestricted entry to my most intimate places. We sit at the same height, eye to eye, and I take a direct hit of his burning gaze.
“Damn, you have such a beautiful body, priss.” This large and powerful man doesn’t go for the petite types—Dillon says they’re too breakable. I’m not small at 5’8” and carry a little extra padding. “A classic hour-glass figure,” he says as he glides his calloused fingers over my glowing skin, soothing the sting where he smacked me. His glowing appraisal warms my heart. I used to call my body just plain, old “fat.” Now, with all the attention and praise I’ve been getting here at the club, I finally appreciate my curves.
Dillon grabs hold of my hair and snaps my head up. Damn him. He insists I wear my long, raven locks in a thick braid when we scene. He can’t resist tugging on the hair rope to get my attention, like he’s doing now, or coiling it around his hand and leading me about as if I were on a leash. At work, I always put my hair up in a bun or French braid. No one leads me around in the outside world; I’m the boss. But it’s another universe here inside Devil You Know Kink Club, affectionately referred to by its members as DYKKC. That acronym always makes me blush. It’s the stupidest thing, but “dick” is the one word for penis that I have trouble saying out loud.
My big, beautiful bad boy leads me up close to the peak of ecstasy for the third time tonight. Usually, he’d have some sympathy and be ordering me to come right about now. My sanity is slipping away, but, with valiant effort, I try to hold on. Another severe slap to my thigh brings me back.
“Pay attention. Look at me, priss.” Dillon’s gravelly voice softens slightly when he adds, “Don’t you want this, my little sub? Isn’t this what you asked for?” A quick pang of shame jolts through me. I asked for this. His pacifying voice has insinuated itself into my subconscious and has made me want, made me beg, for many wanton things since we met. He is a maleficent corrupter. They call him The Saint, but I know he is a demon.
“Yes, Sir. Please, Sir. I need your fat cock in my tight ass.” He loves to hear me beg, even if I hate to hear that weakness in my voice, the yearning for connection and completion. The problem is that I do need Dillon and what he is doing to me right now far too much. Every cell in my body is tingling, every synapse in my brain exploding like popcorn. The stimulation assaulting all my senses overwhelms me. I breathe deeply and slowly to try to still my body. My attempt is futile. I’m just a puppet, and, tonight, Dillon is pulling all the strings, like the Master he is. The best I can do is force myself to hang on and follow the steps he’s making me dance.