Excerpt from 'In the Eyes of the Law'

Mmm, nice. Michelle will like that.

I take another experimental sniff of the perfume sprayed liberally onto my inner wrist, then glance at the price of Thierry Mugler Angel. At a little over thirty pounds it’s more than I’d usually spend on a birthday present, but my sister has been good to me over the last couple of years, which has brought into sharp focus all that she means to me. The least I can do is shell out for a present I know she’ll adore. Yes, this is the one.

I’m on my way to the checkout when my phone rings. I drag it from my pocket to see Michelle’s smiling face on the screen. I hit answer, mentally crossing my fingers that she doesn’t want to cancel our plans for later.

“Hi. How’s things?” I always like to start out hopeful.

“Okay. No, not okay. Things are fucking bloody wonderful—with bells on and bright shiny whistles.”

“Oh? Did I miss something? World peace perhaps, a vaccine for thrush?”

“No. None of that. Well, maybe tomorrow. Today…I have a gallery.”

“A…?”

“Yes. A gallery. Not just any gallery either. This is the Riverdale. In the city center. They want to display me.”

“I…”

“I know. The Riverdale. Can you hear that?” Her voice has risen to a high-pitched shriek.

“What?”

“That. That tapping sound. That’s my feet dancing up and down the corridor in E-block. The Riverdale, Libby.” Michelle’s final three words are delivered in a hushed, awe-struck whisper.

I smile to myself, picturing the scene. Michelle always did wear her heart on her sleeve. “Won’t the students think it a bit odd, you dancing round the school? Not to mention the head teacher? Have I been to the Riverdale?”

“No students today, or head teachers. It’s Saturday. So it’s just me and the rest of the loyal art crew setting up the displays for the showing to parents on Monday evening. You might not have been to the Riverdale, Libby, but I have. Loads of times. And you will go, I’ll get you executive tickets, the VIP treatment. They’re known for launching up-and-coming artists. They have a mailing list to die for. If they rate my work, well…”

I interrupt the flood of exuberance, genuinely delighted for my sister. “I’m so pleased for you, Shell. You deserve it. Really you do.” She’s worked long and hard for this. She deserves the recognition.

“I know. At least, I think I know. I mean, we all like to believe our work is special, gifted, whatever, but when a major gallery wants to display you… Well, that sort of proves it. Squeee!”

There’s another shrill, excited shriek down the phone, and I can just imagine my sister dancing pirouettes and hugging herself in the deserted corridor outside the art department at St. Saviour’s High School where she teaches GCSE art. I suspect our plans for tonight will be changing after all, but for the better. I decide to check.

“So, we need to celebrate? Yes?”

Michelle gathers her wits sufficiently to be able to answer me. “Too right we bloody do. A girls’ night out, just us.”

“Sounds good. A meal?”

“Yes, if you insist. Then I vote we go see the Fifty Shades movie, then on to a club.”

“What sort of club?” I know a note of caution has crept into my voice. Michelle does have a tendency to get carried away.

Excerpt from 'Spicing it Up'

Cassandra stood naked in the kitchen. There was nothing unusual about her state of undress. It was how she had to be when in the house with Sir. He loved her body—seeing her body, touching her body, using her body—and he wanted her available at all times.

She liked that—it made her feel adored to know how desired she was. But what she didn’t like so much was frying onions ready for the dinner party with her flesh so near to the pan.

“Here, I’ll do that,” Sir said, rushing over.

“Thank you.” She rested the metal spatula down and stepped away. “Sir.”

“You have to be careful.” He frowned at her then wiped his hand over his cheek. He deposited a small streak of butter there—he’d been making dessert. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

She smiled and wiped it away with her thumb. “You’re a messy cook, Sir.”

“It usually tastes okay, though.” He grinned.

“It’s always delicious.” She pressed her lips to his. He had a dusting of stubble—he hadn’t shaved as it was the weekend—and she loved the feel of the sharp little hairs on her chin.

“One quick job before you get dressed,” he said, patting her ass in a playful tap and breaking their lingering kiss.

She didn’t flinch, barely even noticed the smack. She’d had her ass beaten much harder than that—quite regularly, thank you very much—and she thoroughly enjoyed it.

“Oh, what job is that?” Cassandra glanced around the kitchen. The starters were laid out ready, the steaks for the main course would be fried then topped with the onions when their visitors arrived and dessert was now in the oven, baking slowly.

“Cass…” he said with a frown.

“I mean, what’s that, Sir? What else would you like me to do?”

The crease in his brow relaxed. “Go to the bottom drawer of the fridge.”

She did as he’d instructed and made sure to bend double with her rear up and her legs parted. She wanted him to catch a glimpse of her pouty lower lips and her most private hole.

As she reached into the vegetable compartment, the spoon stopped scraping against the frying pan.

Oh yes, he’s watching.

“What am I getting?” she asked, twitching her hips from side to side.

“The ginger. There’s a fresh root in there.”

Cassandra spotted it still wrapped in a thin, clear supermarket bag. She clutched it and stood, shut the fridge door then turned.

She’d been right. He was staring at her, though he was absently stirring the onions again now, the spoon once more making a grating noise.

“You little minx,” he said, shifting from one foot to the other.

“Sir?” she said, a question in her voice.

“Flaunting yourself like that to me.”

“But I was only doing what you told me to and reaching the—”

“And with no time for me to do anything about it.”

She glanced at his groin. Sure enough, the outline of his cock was visible through his jeans. But then again, that was quite a normal condition for him to be in. He seemed to be permanently aroused these days. Living as Dom and sub full-time, and not just in the bedroom, certainly seemed to be agreeing with him.

Excerpt from 'Kneel for You'

“No, Kirsten, I need you to work on something special for me.”

I glared at my boss in irritation as she cut me off mid-sentence. Okay, as Editor-in-Chief, Tina’s time might be worth more than its weight in gold, but she could at least have heard me out. We were sitting around the large oval table in the boardroom, as we did every Thursday for the editorial meeting, and I’d just begun to pitch my brilliant idea for my next feature. She gave me a hard look over the top of her glasses that clearly said ‘shut up and listen’.

I swallowed my angry retort, acutely aware of the interested stares now directed at me from my colleagues around the table. Okay, maybe now wasn’t the time to argue my case, so I tried my best to smooth away the frown I knew would be giving away how pissed off I was, and waited for Tina to continue.

“Your article about sexual diversity went down very well with our readers,” she said, her sharp, brusque voice masking the implied compliment. “I want you to follow it up with a piece about BDSM—spanking in particular. There’s a lot of hype around that at the moment so now’s the time to give our readers the facts. What do people get up to behind closed doors? Is Britain kinky? Have whips and handcuffs replaced roses and chocolate? I want an in-depth feature exploring spanking and other aspects of BDSM. Oh, and I need it by Thursday next week.”

I stared, open-mouthed, at Tina for a few seconds. BDSM? Spanking? “I… I don’t know anything about BDSM,” I finally managed to stutter. Actually, that wasn’t strictly true.

Tina rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Well, do your research, then,” she snapped, giving me the look she usually reserved for idiots.

Eddie, who I’d secretly had a crush on since he’d started six months ago, gave me a sympathetic smile across the table while Britney, from the beauty section, smirked. Bitch.

The rest of the meeting passed in a blur as I struggled with a combination of memories and panic. I briefly considered telling Tina that I absolutely refused to do it, but if I did that I might as well clear out my desk before the meeting was even over. And I didn’t want anyone asking questions about my kinky past. That chapter of my life was permanently sealed tight with superglue. So I had no choice but to grit my teeth, act clueless and write a convincing piece about the joys of kink. And I only had a bloody week.

When the meeting was finally over I glanced across at Chloe as we rose from the table. She’d become a good friend since she’d started at the magazine just over a year ago and we often bounced ideas off each other. She saw the hidden message in my face and nodded. She’d know what to do. Although she wasn’t aware of my past, she’d once admitted over a few drinks that she had occasionally dabbled in BDSM with her ex-boyfriend and had even been to a couple of fetish clubs. Should I tell her about what had happened three years ago? But that would mean raking up painful memories that I’d tried so hard to bury. No, it was best not to say anything.

As I headed back to my desk my phone bleeped and I quickly checked the text. It was from Chloe.

Meet me at two-thirty, usual place.

Excerpt from 'Silk and Decadence'

“I’m here to play,” Sadie murmured to herself. She stepped into the foyer of Push, the local dance-slash-BDSM club and dragged a long breath into her lungs. She loved dancing to the pulsating beats of the techno music and the pop of the strobe lights. The few times she’d managed to score an invitation to the private side of the club had been even better. She walked into the main room of the building and stayed at the edge of the crowd while her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting.

Anyone who danced at Push was required to wear a mask—even if only one covering the eyes. No identities once inside the club, just fun. Being recognized meant the person could very well be escorted out and not let back in. She crinkled her nose beneath her white feathers and silk and scanned the crowd. Please let him be there.

Only one person mattered tonight—Master E. She wove her way to the bar for a better look at the men in the room. Although identities were meant to be kept secret, she knew this Master anywhere. Her skin prickled and her nerve endings sizzled when she spotted him.

He always wore his short blond hair in spikes and his brown eyes sparkled. The scruff on his cheeks seemed darker in the dim light. She shivered and wrapped her arms around her body. She loved men tall enough to tower over her, and he fit the bill.

If she played her cards right tonight, she’d be in one of the playrooms—with him.

On closer inspection, she realized he wasn’t alone. Two women flanked Master E. Go figure. He did like pretty things, she mused. Ever since she’d started watching him, she’d known he’d be able to give her what she needed. Once he found out her identity, the game would surely end, though. Thankfully, he wasn’t going to find out about that—at least not until they’d started to play.

She waited at the bar for the bartender.

“What’ll you have?” The man behind the counter almost looked out of place at the club. With his crisp white shirt and black bow tie, he could’ve been serving in any upscale place. He smiled, showcasing the dimple in his cheek. “Ordering for E again?”

“Yes, please.” She folded her hands together on the counter. Apparently she had a track record. Oh well. Sadie waited for the bartender to return with the shot of whiskey—E’s favorite.

The bartender placed the drink on the bar. “On your tab?”

“Yes please. I’m going to deliver the drink this time.” The last three times she’d chickened out.

“If you’re ever in the market for someone who’s a lot less of a prick, look me up.” He grinned again then stepped away to deal with another customer.

Sadie blinked. He’d just come on to her. No way. Guys didn’t notice her—unless they wanted something and she happened to be the middle man. Still reeling from his comment, she straightened her shoulders and wound her way through the crowd to the other side of the room.

Once she’d reached E’s general vicinity, her confidence nose-dived. Shit. He wasn’t going to be interested in her. Not when he had two towering beauties to cater to him. She gripped the shot glass tighter. She’d bought him the drink and could at least say hi. If he ignored her or dismissed her, then she’d know where she stood.

“Hello.” Master E eased up beside her. “I didn’t expect to find you here tonight.” When he smiled, her insides turned to warm goo.

“I—I brought you a drink.” She offered up the whiskey. “Old and smooth, just like you like it.” Her hands trembled, sloshing the amber liquid. He didn’t expect to see me? Did that mean he’d noticed her watching? 

Excerpt from 'Properly, or Not at All'

“You know what this fucking means, don’t you?” Tristan said loudly, slamming his car keys onto the hall’s side table and storming into the kitchen.

Jayme followed him quickly, her heart racing. Tristan rarely got angry—sure, he often pretended she’d done something wrong and faked being pissed off about it when they played D/s scenes, but real anger? It was something that just didn’t happen. She wasn’t quite sure what had sparked it, either. The news had been unfortunate, yes. Inconvenient, yes, but it wasn’t the end of the world. Tristan’s only choice was to take the doctor’s advice.

“Um, I take it you mean aside from the obvious?” she ventured quietly, not wanting to piss him off even more.

“Yes,” he said on a heavy sigh, making it clear his anger and frustration weren’t aimed at her. “Come here, you.” He held out his arms, and when she went into them he hugged her tightly and kissed the top of her head. “Fucking hell, Jayme, I’m really going to miss spanking that beautiful arse of yours.”

“And I’m going to miss you doing it,” she murmured into his chest. Then, pulling back so she could make eye contact, continued, “But we’ll cope. There’s loads of other stuff we can do—we can still have fun. As much as I love it, it’s not worth making the problem worse, or screwing up your recovery once you’ve had the op. Your health is more important, babe.”

“Mmm…” came the reply, along with a very displeased expression.

“Hey,” Jayme said sharply, raising her eyebrows, “you might be in charge in the bedroom, mister, but I’m putting my foot down here. Hopefully you’ll get a date through for the operation really soon. And the sooner you have the op, the sooner you’ll be recovered and we can get back to normal. In the meantime”—she grinned widely—”we’ll just have to get creative, won’t we?”

Much to Jayme’s relief, Tristan finally smiled. “You’re right, as always, wife of mine. Clearly I’m not happy about this—fucking carpal tunnel bollocks, spoiling all our fun—but it could be a lot worse, I suppose. At least they’re not operating on my dick!”

“True.” She giggled. “That would take some creativity of epic proportions!”

“It would,” he agreed. “So, does this mean we have to have sex more often, then?”

Frowning, Jayme replied, “How do you figure that out?”

“Well, if it’s too risky to spank you, then surely wanking is going to be bad for my wrist, too! And I’m not sure that when the doctor asked if we had any questions, he meant of this nature, did he?”

Jayme laughed again. “No, I’m sure he didn’t. I think we’d have given the poor man a heart attack if we’d started asking him how we were going to get on with our particular kind of sex life without exacerbating your problem. And I was under the impression we already had plenty of sex and that you don’t feel the need to toss yourself off very often.”

“I don’t.” He shrugged. “But you can’t blame a man for trying, can you? Especially when that man’s wife looks like you.”

“No, I suppose not.” She grinned then slipped her arms around the back of his neck and pulled him in for a kiss. Closing her eyes, Jayme allowed herself to get into the touching of their lips, the parting, the questing tongues, shoving all thoughts of not being able to have her arse reddened to the recesses of her mind. She loved Tristan with all her heart, and their relationship was so much more than sex and kink, so they’d just have to get on with it.

Excerpt from 'A Private Education'

Emma had never met a member of the aristocracy before, but Lord Leopold Denby-Peel, Ninth Earl of Folchester, wasn’t what she’d been expecting. Tall, broad-shouldered and handsome, he stood before her, his hair hanging in an unruly mop, his blue-gray eyes glittering in a craggy, big-boned face. Emma hadn’t, either, been expecting the earl to be answering the enormous oak door to Ashlaine Hall, or to be naked from the waist upwards. Didn’t the nobility have butlers? Shirts?

The earl rubbed his damp, tousled hair with a hand towel. Emma’s eyes briefly strayed over his muscular, richly-haired chest and down to the dark line that disappeared into the waistband of his gray sweatpants.

“Forgive the déshabillé,” he said. “Just got out of the shower. I’m rather short of staff these days.” He flung his towel over one shoulder and thrust out his hand. “Call me Leo.”

His grip was warm and confident, as was his smile. “Do come in,” he continued. “I’ll take you straight up to the library. I bet you’re keen to get cracking.”

Emma followed the earl into a grand entrance hall, her heels ringing on the checkerboard tiles while his bare feet padded noiselessly. Muscles shifted in the broad wedge of his smooth, honey-tanned back as he toweled his hair, dark fluff flashing under his arms. Above them, an enormous chandelier glinted in the wintry sunlight, and the high gloomy walls were hung with stags’ heads and militaristic flags on poles.

“The place has become a bit of a burden,” he said, draping his towel over both shoulders. “The East Wing is leaking and causing terrible damp problems. The tower needs renovating, the outbuildings are practically derelict. And I don’t have the readies to fix it.”

“Do you live here alone?” asked Emma, glancing left and right at grand reception rooms and corridors.

“Yes, apart from a couple of dogs and a handful of staff,” he replied, turning to offer a polite smile. “I’m not the marrying kind.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Not at all. I’m not gay either, if that was your next question. Just one flight of stairs. Follow me.”

“I wasn’t—”

“If I can get some money together,” he went on, his hand on the oak banister, “I should be able to attract some funding for repairs and upkeep. I’m loath to sell the library to a private collector, though, so I’m very grateful that you’ve taken an interest. Obviously I’d need some form of financial recompense but—”

“Well, the library service does have a pot of money for acquisitions,” said Emma, arching her neck to address the back of his head rather than his pert backside. “But the books would need to be deemed of public interest. And I’m afraid we couldn’t pay the sums you’d get from a private collector at auction.”

“That’s not a problem,” replied Leo curtly. “I’m a book lover. I want the books to be housed where they can be appreciated, not squirreled away in the home of some old fogey with more money than sense. Books shouldn’t be status symbols, don’t you agree? Just along this corridor.”

Emma hurried to keep pace with the earl, inhaling the clean, soapy scent trailing in his wake as they passed gilt-framed portraits of important-looking men from bygone eras. Leo’s stride was long and confident, while Emma, dressed smartly in heels and a chocolate-brown skirt-suit, was hampered by her clothing and had to keep scampering so as not to fall behind. Eventually, they reached a glossy wooden door.

“After you,” said Leo, pushing the door open.