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About the author:
Alana Khan writes under a pen name because until recently she was a practicing psychotherapist and didn’t want to scandalize her clients with the steamy stories she writes for fun. Her history as a therapist gives her unique insight into people’s thoughts, feelings and motivations. It provides her writing the ring of truth and deep emotion.
Many of her characters have been scarred and traumatized. They have to work hard to earn their happily ever after, which is guaranteed in every book—they deserve it.
Here is a short sample from the book:
“I don’t want to scare you, Victoria. I don’t wish to hurt you, nor do I wish to punish you. What I desire is the true bond that can exist between a Zinn and his human mate. I watched it all my life with my parents.”
“Yes, Sir.” Wow, he’s doubling down on the kindness ploy. I hate to admit—it’s working. His face is even more handsome when he’s not ordering me around. The harsh set of his jaw relaxes and the parentheses that bracket his mouth draw my attention to his perfectly shaped lips.
“Go over there.” He motions to the wall. I comply.
“Over our time together you will learn certain postures. I will teach you this one first. It’s called Wall.”
“Feet here.” He points his toe two feet from the wall. “Arms above your head, hands on the wall.” He stands behind me and presses my feet farther apart.
A hot spark of humiliation flashes through me. I’m on display, ass thrust out, center of gravity slightly off-kilter. Although the power dynamic has always been skewed between us—I woke up tied to a sex table for God’s sake—I now feel even smaller in his presence.
“You will maintain this position until I say, ‘free to move’. Do you understand?”
His warm hands slide up from my ankles along the outside of my legs to waist to underarms. After placing his hands on my shoulders, he glides downward back to my ankles. Now just the backs of his hands drift up the insides of my legs until they touch my outer lips. They lodge there for a moment.
The heat of his body penetrates my skin. The moment is caught in time. My total focus is on him. Silently, I urge him to touch my channel. But he moves up, caressing my ass with long, slow strokes. My inner walls quiver.
His huge hands span my waist. I’m not a little woman. There’s something about those large hands covering me, claiming me, that make me feel owned. I hate to admit I like it, but the wetness trickling between my legs reveals the truth.
“You like my touch, Victoria.” It’s not a question.
He slides my hair to one side of my neck. How can that one movement be so sensual it awakens every nerve ending in its pathway?
Running his hands from my shoulders to wrists and up again, he takes his own sweet time, making certain to touch every inch of my skin. I hate my body right now because it’s giving its allegiance from me to him. I can’t control my own responses.
My breath catches, I feel my heartbeat thrum faster. It’s confusing as hell that I can dislike everything about this situation—everything about him—and yet desire him at the same time.
His hands surround my throat, like a tall collar–another nonverbal testament to his ownership. Even as my mind rebels at the thought, my body oozes slickness, readying myself for his invasion.
He nudges my head forward, then moves the playing field to the front of my body. I guess he wants me to watch as his hands commence their slow, sensuous slide from ankles to inner thighs, then lodge in the crease between my thigh and my folds.
My mind plays a repeated mantra, psychically urging him to touch my core, I’m burning for it. Perhaps he heard me because he cups my sex. I hiss and dip my knees, desperately struggling for more pressure. He rips his hand away and scolds, “I told you not to move. Now I have to punish you.”
I hate pain; I hate even the sound of the word punishment. Until today, that is. Until right this fucking moment. Because my inner submissive just woke up, ears pricked, wondering what the big Zinn plans to do to punish me. Her eager interest tells me she’ll enjoy it.
“Yes, Sir.” Instead of sounding indifferent or insolent, my tone is breathy and needy. I can’t hide a thing from him.
“I’ve decided what I’m going to do. You’ll have to wait and wonder for a few minutes.”
Then his hands return to their slow stroking, awakening, claiming every inch of my body. My clit quivers for him, desperate for his touch. My internal walls clench and release, pretending there’s something in my channel to clutch onto.
“Move your feet farther from the wall.”
“Yes, Sir.” I comply. Now my balance is off. My weight is on my hands; if they were pulled away I’d fall forward and break my nose. I’m at his mercy a million miles from home and the only thought drumming through my head is that I want him to penetrate me.
He strokes up over my belly to my rib cage and then circles my breasts where the orbs meet the chest. Even though it’s not even an erogenous zone, I moan at his touch.
“That’s right, Victoria. You can enjoy this,” his warm breath brushes past my ear, giving me goosebumps. The flat of his tongue licks vertically up my neck to my hairline. I’m mesmerized. Waiting for his next move.
Those long, strong fingers that have been circling the edges of my breasts move closer to my nipples. That’s right, Voxx, it’s like a target. Touch the bullseye. But his movements are so slow. I groan again and bite my bottom lip. Don’t let me beg. Dear God, don’t let me beg.
Circling, circling, his touch sets fire to every nerve under my skin as he makes his way toward my aching, pebbled tips.
“Watch,” he orders.
“Yes, Sir,” I sound breathless.
Circling the aureole, both hands in unison, I observe as he pulls first one hand and then the other away. His hands return, palms glistening, I guess, from his saliva. He circles the flat of his palms on the tips of my nipples and I groan in surrender. Dear God, that feels so good.
His sensual attentions go on for long minutes as I fall deeper into a cocoon of lust. The bastard is such a quick study. What he’s doing to my nipples is pure ecstasy. My inner thighs are slick with the testament to my need.
“Ready for your punishment?” he croons.
“Yes, Sir.” My inner slut is eager to find out what he’ll do.
“Beg, Victoria. Beg me to give you release.”