Model Release (The Art of Domination #1) (11 page)

As Nolan filled me, his
body sank lower and lower, settling over mine. A raspy sigh shuddered unevenly
from deep in his chest, reverberating against me. That was as close as he came
to crying out his release—surprisingly controlled in that revealing moment.
Finally, I lay flat with his chest flush against my back, his groin pressed to
the curve of my ass, his weight partially relieved by his arms and legs to
either side of me. I felt bone-deep exhaustion and the satiation that went with
it. I felt… good.

Endorphins,
Iva; of course it feels good
.

Nolan was breathing
into my hair, face nuzzled into the curls he had arranged and teased into place
just so. The pumping of his chest grew shallower, until I could barely feel the
heat of his breath against my neck. How strange, to feel Nolan still, really
still
. It made me realize that my
impression of him the rest of the time was… that he was always performing, even
when just standing, just watching.

As I considered him,
observed him, the slightly roughened fingertips of one of Nolan’s hands traced
my flank, above the tangle of silk around my waist. His feathery caress
traveled up my arm and neck, sending out little shivers like a pebble hitting
the surface of a lake. When his fingertips slid along my cheek and caught the
lower edge of the silk mask, started to push it up and away….

I squirmed out from
under him without knowing I was meaning to do it, without knowing how I’d done
it, without thinking about it. The mask came away in his hand, and I left it
with him as I stepped out of the stiletto heels and ran, tugging at the dress
to cover my breasts, across the studio floor in bare feet.

“Iva?” he asked, but I
was already at the dressing room curtain, drawing it closed behind me.

In the three-panel
mirror, I saw my flushed face, and I felt the distressing coolness of the air
on the skin exposed by the now missing mask. My instinct was to cover my eyes
and cheeks with my hands, to hide what the lack of a mask revealed. A bracing
chill washed over my naked back, my bare legs. I couldn’t get away from the
reflection, couldn’t get out of that dress and back into my sweats, couldn’t
get that mass of curls pulled back into a ponytail quickly enough. Clumsy,
hurried fingers dropped the crystal stud as I removed it. I heard the subtle
tink
as the stud
skipped along the wood of the floor. After looking for it on hands and knees
for a couple of seconds, I gave up. I shouldn’t have kept that stud to begin
with, right? Better that it was gone.

My hand hesitated
before I jerked back the heavy black curtain. Where was Beal? It was both a relief
and, strangely, a letdown to see him sitting casually, ankle balanced on
opposite knee, on the velvet loveseat like he hadn’t left it. The white paper
in his hand told me otherwise.

Avoiding direct eye
contact with the man… with the man I’d just begged to fuck me, I walked across
the studio floor to the edge of the set. I tried to tell myself I didn’t smell
cinnamon and rum and sex, as I steeled myself to ask, “Is that Cheri’s model
release.”

Nolan rising to his
feet made me look up at him. His blue-black eyes were impassive, unreadable as
he came near. When he stood looming over me, less than six inches from me, he
handed me the paper without saying anything.

A typed form with lines
for filling in the blanks…. Handwriting in blue ink…. My gaze caught the words
Model Release at the top but only skimmed the rest before reaching the bottom
and finding Cheri’s signature.

“Thank you,” I muttered
without looking back up at him, as I clutched the paper to my chest like it
could shield me—from anything Beal might have said then, from what we had just
done. “I’m sorry this is going to cause you problems with your show,” I
blurted, like somehow some semblance of courtesy was appropriate now, even as I
turned toward the door. “Thank you.”

You’re
babbling, Iva.

He let me get halfway
out those massive lacquered door before he said, “The second page is for you,
Iva.”

The second page? I let
the door slam, felt the whoosh of air and the vibration of wood smacking wood
against my back I stood so close to it as I stopped to shuffle to the piece of
paper behind Cheri’s model release. I found an identical form with my name
written into it in bold, masculine block lettering. Only my signature at the
bottom was missing.

“You have to be crazy,”
I said under my breath as I scurried to the stairwell. On the fifth floor and
the second, I tripped with my own reckless urgency to get the hell out of that
building. The papers crinkled loudly against my body where I hugged them with
one arm, my other hand skimming the handrail to counteract my breakneck
descent. “Let people see those photos? You
are
crazy.”

I was cursing freely by
the time I got to my car, got the door open, and locked myself up tight inside.
“Fucking insane.” Nolan Beal was
fucking
insane
if he thought I was going to sign that release. And march back up
there to deliver it to him? That session was a necessary evil, and what
happened afterward…. That was a slip. Tomorrow I was going to put on sensible
shoes for work and show up early to finish the filing that Mitsy wanted done
before she got into the office and avoid the least flirtation from Todd. I was
going to work all evening on the graphic designs I needed for my portfolio to
make up for the time I’d lost tonight. I was going to tear up both of these
model releases. And I was never going to see Nolan Beal again.

So why was I still
sitting in my car saying, “You are crazy,” over and over and wondering if I
meant Beal or me?

Why weren’t the
releases already in pieces all over the floor mats?

And why
why
why
were my knees still
trembling?

To Be Continued In

The Art Of Domination 2: Photo Slave

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ALSO
BY ERIKA MASTEN

At His Whim: His #1

Chloe Bloom is running
away from a life’s worth of unfaithful men, the most recent being society scion
Penn Ellison. The South American cruise is supposed to be her chance to forget
her problems in exotic locales and the arms of gorgeous strangers, if only her
heart and libido would cooperate.

Adrian Knight lets
people think he’s the manager of the luxury resort on the private Brazilian
island of Ilha de Flor when in truth he’s the owner, a perfectly poised example
of the kind of rake you get with a few generations of ridiculous wealth.
 
Sex is a transaction for him, until Chloe
Bloom walks out of the arms of Knight’s lifelong rival and into his resort.

With Chloe looking to
explore this particularly male concept of lust without love, and Adrian unable
to resist his competitive urge to claim what his rival lost, it’s a matter of
time before she is on her knees and at his whim.

An Excerpt From Erika
Masten’s

At His Whim: His #1

In the span of a moment, a hand slid warm and firm
along my back, another on my upper arm, and a voice like good liquor burning
its way through my insides sounded just behind the curve of my ear.
 
Lemon and champagne.
 
“You didn’t give me your name.”

When I jumped at the touch, at the sound, at the
warm breath against my skin, Adrian’s hands tightened on me as though to steady
me.
 
My body,
my whole body
, throbbed as he gripped me hard.
 
That was a first for me, such a visceral reaction
to being grabbed by a man.
 
Though
touching someone’s arm or back during greeting and conversation was common in
Brazil, that was among friends or at least warm acquaintances.
 
Adrian Knight was taking liberties, and I was
sure he knew that.
 
I heard him breathe
out a low chuckle before I spun to face him, nearly dumping my plate down his
linen shirt and perfectly fitted black pants.

“Easy there,” he said, almost pointedly not stepping
back to give me space, looming over me.
 
At five-foot-six, I was used to men being three or four inches taller,
but with Knight it was more like six or eight.
 
Even three-inch heels didn’t make up for it.
 
“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Liar
,
I wanted to shout, surprising myself with the force of the thought.
 
But something inside me coiled, flushed with
anger and…and sudden lust, irrationally convinced now that Knight’s teasing was
wholly intentional.

Calm down, Chloe, I told myself.
 
What was that about being all logic and to
hell with intuition?
 
The man hadn’t done
anything but embarrass me a bit and surprise me over the dessert table.
 
Well, that and plug my libido directly into a
power outlet, from the feel of it.

Knight slowly withdrew his hands to clasp them at
the small of his back, but he still leaned close, towering.
 
“You are?” he prodded again.

Straightening, feeling a hot blush flood my face and
neck, I was determined to salvage the moment and a scrap of dignity.
 
A deep breath.
 
Not too deep, not too noticeable, I hoped.
 
“Chloe Bloom.”

His lips, dark rose and plump and surrounded by a
roguish dusting of carefully cultivated five o’clock shadow, pursed around a
suggestion of a grin before he repeated, “Chloe Bloom.”
 
Odd, that tone of satisfaction, like he’d
already known the answer.
 
More likely it
was satisfaction at my reaction, at seeing how obviously his presence was
affecting me.
 
“Would you dine at my
table with me, Miss Bloom?”

Absolutely not.
 
That was what I said inside my head.
 
I had only just today stopped being utterly numb from walking away from
Penn, whom I had thought I loved.
 
I had
only just
now
found myself physically
attracted to another man.
 
The next stage
in breakup recovery was lots of sugar and a little bit of weeping into a
pillow.
 
Not
sitting next to a torturously handsome man with a mischievous
gleam in his eyes and a certain something about him that I could not place.

“Certainly,” I said.

Buy
At His Whim: His #1 at your favorite online retailer.

ALSO
BY ERIKA MASTEN

The Ringmaster: Cirque de Plaisir

Cirque de Plaisir. Circus of Pleasure.
 
An upscale underground theatrical pageant of desire and allure.
 
A masked BDSM spectacle bringing forbidden
fantasies to life for the select few with the power, wealth, and influence to
secure an invitation.

For Donovan Haigh, the man they all call Ringmaster, the Cirque de
Plaisir is illusion, showmanship, and
domination
brought to the level of performance art.
 
It is the culmination and affirmation of his grasp of human nature mixed
with business acumen and sheer force of will. And no one dares ask what wounds
and personal losses underlie the Ringmaster’s resolve to maintain that
unwavering control.

For Olivia Keane, the Circus of Pleasure is a vision in the night, a
hunger in the dark, and a promise of freedom couched in the terms of
submission.
  
Become the Ringmaster’s
slave and escape the grasp of her manipulative, belittling family.
 
Succumb to the tightrope-taut sexual tension
between the showman Dom and herself and blossom in the warmth of the spotlight
and Donovan Haigh’s embrace.

But when the Ringmaster’s slave becomes the star of the show, drawing
the lion’s share of attention and princely sums for private command
performances, will Donovan be willing to share either the spotlight or his
submissive?
 
The Ringmaster’s hold on
Olivia and his own self-control begins to fray as powerful admirers try to woo
her away, and
at least
one suitor
proves he is not who he seems.
 
Old pains
and family hatreds will not be so easy to escape for the Ringmaster and his
slave, even in their secreted world of glamour and passion.