Domination, obsession, possession—where the all-powerful Frost comes toe to toe with Juliet Sinclair, a submissive to no one, until her first touch of Frost.
After a chancy one-night stand, Juliet Sinclair runs into Mr. Tall-Dark-Handsome, the only man to make her contemplate true submission—Roman Frost, CEO of Frost Industries, alpha billionaire playboy and her new boss. There is no question that the chemistry between Frost and Jules is sinfully alluring, but being together will risk everything they both have fought so hard to build.
Frost, a controlling megalomaniac, can’t get enough of the only woman who has said ‘no’ to him. Jules, a hopeless romantic, wants to be consumed by love until she stands too close to the fire of Frost. The two of them together are chaos, but the two of them apart are emotional mayhem. Fighting their own inner demons, they launch themselves into the all-consuming cat-and-mouse game of love. Yearning for something more, Jules willingly steps into the belly of the beast, driven by a touch of Frost.
Reader Advisory: This book contains anal play, wax play and a scene of extreme sadomasochism.
General Release Date: 8th August 2017
The windows of Frost Tower stared down at the city like a many-eyed beast. The front doors, although glass, were always strangely dark. Even with the lighting, walking into Frost Towers was like walking into the belly of the monstrosity that I called home. At the top, I stood—the beast himself—Roman Frost, CEO of Frost Industries. Perhaps there was a time when I hadn’t had to be a beast, but I was one now, and it has served me well. From the darkest corners—the pit, my soul—there was not an ounce of light. Like my namesake, it was a frosted hole. Life was easier without the mess of emotion. A person could not stand at the top when their heart was weak.
The only joy I gained each day, was in the knowledge that I truly was King of all things named ‘Frost’. I’d crushed each enemy who had approached without a single pang of conscience. The beast had always held the key to each victory, striking while my enemy was weak, devouring their strengths. No virtue or sweet spot could trump what I brought to the table. I was ruthless, direct, precise and unforgiving. I had it all—money, women, power—everything a man at the top would need. It was my beast that I starved. It craved something I would never feed it—love. A soul needed love to survive, no matter how grotesque that soul may be. But I was willing to push the beast back into its hole for as long as I could.
And so, my beast became a devious little bastard, driving my libido from wet hole to wet hole. It was rarely sated. If it could not have love, it would take second best—pleasure. With each new cunt came a new fire to extinguish, because that was all I did—burn them up and push them aside. I didn’t have time for the games of love. I wouldn’t risk what I’d built for a piece of ass. Anyone who did that was a fool. Slowly, over time, I taught my beast how to be comfortable with silence and being alone. After all, how can one be with someone else when they cannot be alone? My beast gave up and sat back with a smirk, waiting for the day to pounce. It would be carnage once it did strike. I was no fool. I knew preciously what love did to a man.
I was told once that what I wanted to create—this empire—could not be done, not in this day and age, and certainly not by me. I was young and cocky. But here I was, standing in the penthouse of one of the most influential companies in New York. My brand touched every corner of the world. My beast, the cruel bastard, was also an idealist and a realist. I was optimistic but smart enough to know when a deal was going south. I was a diplomat, but a smart one. I put people at ease, drew them to me like a moth to a flame. People wanted to be near me, to become me. But once the ink was dry, I moved on. Sure, most men would feel some sort of guilt, but I was not most men, and most men would have sunk this company in the first year. Instead, I’ve grown it into a multi-billion-dollar corporation, and it was mine, all mine.
I was the same way with women. There was no deal I couldn’t finalize. It was a different kind of thrill that took me over. They were all throwaways. You don’t keep what spreads faster than jam. Everyone had a purpose, and money was no object when it came to mine. I had eclectic tastes, and I paid dearly for them. I searched for the dirty girls—the ones who would let me do as I pleased to their bodies, and if they were good little dirty girls, I’d ask them to return the favor. Even pleased with them, I still pushed them aside. At the end of the night, they went back to being a blurry face that I wouldn’t remember.
At first, I was a gentleman. I always pulled out their chairs, tried to be kind, took their numbers and promised to call them. The cat-and-mouse game grew tiresome. Now, I was upfront and honest. I wanted them for one night, and if they were unusually good, I’d have them for two. I wanted nothing long-term, nothing that rang too close to anything that resembled commitment. I wasn’t there for them, and they knew it. But like most women, they thought they could fix me, make me love them and only them. I’m not sure if it was their maternal instincts kicking in—wanting to mother me—but it was pointless. You can’t fix something that isn’t broken. I’m not broken. This was who I am. I fucked. I caused pain, both figuratively and physically.
I brought out the worst in everyone—from ladies who turned into prostitutes to loving husbands who became cheaters. That was what power did. It was all consuming and everyone wanted to touch it. Without perfect control, it brought out the hidden beasts within them. If arrogance wasn’t my worst vice, I don’t know what was. I was brutally honest, painfully so, to so many. Over the years, I had learned one thing—blood before water. The only thing aside from my empire that was important to me was family. A cruel person wouldn’t hold their family with such esteem. That was not who I was. I might be a beast, but my family was no burden.
“Speak of the devil,” I called out to the only woman I hadn’t tried to fuck, my executive assistant, Francesca Maxwell. She was as close to family as my blood. Like clockwork, she debriefed me before leaving for the night.
With another week under my belt—in a very long line of weeks—I was ready for a night out. After closing the Murdock account and buying up the entire fleet of Murdock Transportation, I was itching to release a little pent-up steam.
“Mr. Frost, how are you doing?” Francesca peered at me over her glasses. Her wearing her glasses meant she was done for the day. Rarely did she ever appear tired. And if she was and I had asked her to work until dawn, she would have. She was a rare breed—a woman who knew what she wanted and would cut your throat to get it. She and I had a lot in common.
“Pretty good. Going to head out soon, meeting my brother for drinks. Yourself?” I stepped back from the window and sat in my chair.
She handed me a file. “I believe I’ve found the replacement sous-chef. If you could kindly not screw this one?”
I grabbed the file and gave her a warning look. “Watch the line, Miss Maxwell.”
She dropped into the chair in front of my desk. “Line? I believe that line disappeared years ago when I started paying off the women you slept with. Hiring and firing staff because you’re sleeping your way through your company is not my specialty.”
“Then what is? Certainly not questioning the man who signs your enormous paychecks,” I asked.
Francesca leaned forward and pushed her glasses onto her head. “That girl? The last one? She’s all kinds of fucked up now, Roman. She, like many before her, thought you loved her. Now she’s in a padded room and can’t be around anything sharp.”
“I was upfront with them all. One night, maybe two, but that was it. Giving them a wad of cash should have been clue number one that I was only there for the sex.”
She groaned in frustration. “Stay away from the new girl. She’s the daughter of Chef Penelope Remington Sinclair, who is a dear friend of mine. I don’t have many dear friends, but those I do have mean something to me. We both know how hard I work to protect what matters to me. Don’t push me on this one.”
I opened the folder and glanced down her resume, menu choices and the interview transcript. I glanced back up at Francesca and nodded. Deep down, I knew she was right. Sleeping my way through Frost Industries was a mistake—a huge one and not the smartest business move. Having Francesca directly ask me to stay away from someone was a first. Francesca had never brought up my sex life before. Apparently, this meant enough to her for her to come to me.
“Mr. Frost, I’m asking as a personal favor. Please do not sleep with this one. Juliet is not like the others. She is important to me.”
I raised my eyebrows. A personal favor? Well, there was a first time for everything. If I crossed Francesca, I risked losing the one person I counted on almost as much as myself. Is a piece of ass worth it? I said no, but I knew myself well enough to know I was intrigued only because I was being told no.
“Remind me why I keep you around.” I looked over the edge of the folder.
“Because I am the only other one here willing to do what it takes for the win, the victory. I know that there is no second place. There is winning then there is losing, and I am not one to accept an ‘almost’. There is no second best, and I’m willing to go for the throat to secure that win for you. And, well…no one else will put up with you long enough to be of use to you.”
I grinned. Francesca was as much of a shark as I was. “I’ll stay away from Miss Sinclair.”
I stood and buttoned my suitcoat. I left Francesca in my office and headed straight for my shower. The week had drained me. I needed to refuel, and there was only one way I knew how to do it—with my cock buried in a wet hole and a stiff drink in my hand. The Frost brothers were going to paint the town in ice, and I’d end it in my chamber of pleasure and pain.
L.A. Kennedy, beyond the story…
L.A. Kennedy is a Canadian born writer, living in the ever-growing city of Vancouver, Canada. Here, she spends her days getting lost in the beauty of reading and writing. L.A. Kennedy mainly writes fictional books. And can be found researching myth, folklore, and everything in between, with a special interest in edge-of-your-seat paranormal romance. L.A. Kennedy can be found behind a mountain of books, on any given Sunday.
L.A. Kennedy’s writing credits include two hit series that mix mystery, horror, paranormal romance, fantasy, and intrigue.
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