Read In His World: His #8 (A Billionaire Domination Serial) Online
Authors: Erika Masten
In His World: His #8 (A Billionaire Domination Serial)
IN HIS WORLD: HIS #8
(A BILLIONAIRE DOMINATION SERIAL)
by
Erika Masten
KINDLE EDITION
Copyright © 2013 Erika Masten
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Erika Masten
http://erikamasten.blogspot.com
Published by Sticky Sweet Books. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored on, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual persons or events are purely coincidental.
Warning: Explicit content. Intended for mature readers only. All characters depicted herein are 18 years or older, and all sexual activities are of a consensual nature.
This is a work of erotic fantasy. In real life, please protect yourself and your lover by always practicing safe sex.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Novel Preview From
The Ringmaster: Cirque de Plaisir
Walking hand-in-hand with Adrian Knight through his resort on Ilha de Flor had been unsettling at best—with quiet, nervous employees hurrying across lushly carpeted anterooms and through marble corridors and even the guests casting curious glances, reserved and tentative as they mulled over muttered conversations—but the villa… My god, the villa… I had no idea how Manuela had gotten the whole entryway and living room smelling of warm honey cakes, coffee, and hot chocolate, but I could have thrown my arms around her and kissed her and cried, had only she been there. As it was, she had laid out an immense Brazilian lunch on the round table by the shutters out to the patio and pool and left only a crisp white note folded and standing amid the trays and dishes.
The only word I recognized in the note, in Manuela’s hurried but fanciful handwriting, was Adrian’s name. He translated in a worn breath. “Welcome home.” The faint lilt of that faded London accent was coming out, meaning he was tired. Beyond tired.
Those silvered brown eyes scanned the room like he wanted to memorize every detail: sprawling cowhide rugs, the sensual curves of the cream leather furniture, the pressed orchids and leaves in antique frames in a neat row along the wall, and that gleaming brown grand piano. He glanced several times between the Steinway and the feast set out for us, seeming undecided.
I leaned slightly toward the table, in a nearly subconscious urge to draw him away from the piano. My heart couldn’t take it just now, hearing him play. Maybe I was—no, definitely—I was afraid he’d play that adagio again, the one that I had come to associate with losing the men in my life. So long as I didn’t hear that, I could pretend I didn’t see the shadow in Adrian’s expression, the one that said he was…little by little…preparing himself for defeat. To forfeit the island and the home and family he’d made here. To lose the fortune he’d built without the Alexander name behind him—despite it. To go to prison.
Feeling Adrian’s long, warm fingers unlacing from mine cut off that dismal thought. Instead of sitting down at either the table or the piano, Knight stepped up close behind me, his fingertips tracing the line of my arms through my plain white blouse. Shivers prickled along my skin, tightening it, raising goose bumps over my whole body in spite of the fact that it had to have been eighty degrees outside and not much cooler in here.
With a sudden deep sigh, as I felt Adrian beginning to nuzzle my neck, I let my head loll to one side. The trimmed stubble along his hard, wide jaw scraped faintly against my shoulder as he pulled at my collar and the first button on my blouse gave way, the material parting for him. The gentle abrasion of light whiskers on skin was a blissful contrast to the soft waves of his sable brown hair tickling the lobe of my ear, sending a warm shudder down my spine along the same trail as the icy tremor just a moment before. This was the way it always was when Adrian touched me, rough mixed with soft, burning need and bone-racking shivers. How could I do without it now, or ever?
Though reluctant to give up the heat of his breath in my long hair, to interrupt the feathery kisses of those plump, firm lips along my shoulder, I pivoted to read Adrian’s mood. The hard angles of his GQ-handsome face seemed to have worn down with fatigue, his eyes less piercing, disconcerted and exposed instead. Under other circumstances, perhaps in his arms in bed after a…session, I would have caught my breath at that look, at the heart-melting emotional vulnerability some women waited all their lives to see from the man they loved.
Perhaps it was selfish of me, but I wanted my Dom—narrowed eyes and wicked smile and a presence of will that could not be shaken. A man who could not be shaken. I wanted it—the island and Adrian and us—to be like it was before Daniel Vaz and Penn Ellison had stormed Ilha de Flor and shattered its peace, before the media and the federal prosecutors had closed in on Adrian, before I’d lost faith in him and fled back to my hollow existence of law books and mitigation reports and corner offices as though I could ever be satisfied with so small a life after this. When I’d had that silly three-month agreement to act as Adrian Knight’s sexual submissive to use as an excuse for how much I wanted to be here with him.
My fingers acted of their own accord as they slid from one small button to the next. Adrian stood as close to me as he could without actually touching me, though in a way he did—with his breath swirling against my scalp and forehead and the suggestion of heat from his body as all six-foot-two of him leaned over the five-foot-three that was me. It was intentional, I was sure. His nearness made me hyperaware of the rise and fall of his chest behind that debonair, perfectly tailored tan suit. Of the citrus and fine champagne edge to his cologne. Of the slightest flutter of his thick black lashes as he watched my face while I undressed before and for him.
My every movement had to be slow and smooth, careful and deliberate, if I wanted to avoid bumping or brushing him before…before I was ready. Before I was completely naked and in the appropriate mindset. Before I could be sure I wouldn’t simply dissolve into a mess of sobbing pleas and pathetic, desperate groping at his first kiss. God, but I was still undone by those penetrating sorties of his lips against mine, his tongue filling my mouth.
I tossed my blouse over one arm of the couch beside us, then my lacy bra and black pencil skirt. My PDA phone slipped out of the skirt pocket and threatened to burrow between the cushions, and I made a mental note of where to look for it later. As the sudden, rough encounter with Adrian in the conference room at the Natal courthouse had already relieved me of my panties, once I had stepped out of my heels and swept them aside with a nudge from my bare foot, I was nude. Skin-prickling, sex-aching, hands-trembling nude. The way Adrian had kept me whenever I had been alone in the villa with him, before…everything.
Chancing a glance into his eyes, I was absurdly relieved to see a steadier gaze directed back at me. Was it the submissive in me calling out the Dom in Adrian? Did he recognize as I did the seemingly paradoxical truth that these sessions of domination and submission between us, these hours when we submerged ourselves in such overpowering sexual hunger and sensual intensity, were what kept us solid, firm, fixed in a world where boundaries were either too few or entirely too mutable? We had proven as much at the courthouse, in those stolen moments, regardless of the consequences.
“Are you…?” Adrian began in that rich, low voice. His British accent had faded—with conscious effort, I was sure—to that teasing suggestion of posh, upright civility that made me weak-kneed even when he wasn’t talking dirty. I almost felt him tap down his hesitation, all the doubts worrying the fringes of his thoughts. A moment of softness passed over his face before he hardened his jaw and subtly pursed his lips, taking a second to draw a slow breath in through his nose.
“Are you certain you want to do this right now, Miss Bloom?”
Miss Bloom. That was what I needed to hear, that formal address made utterly lascivious by the lilting undertone, by the rakish perk of his dark brow and the enthralling movement of his lips as his mouth formed each word.
“Yes, sir.”
His stillness made me tense up, from the bristling tightness along my scalp to my toes curling in the rug. His tone said he wouldn’t deny me, but…
“Fix me a coffee,” he instructed me at last. “You know how I take it.”
I fought down a sigh of relief so explosive that I feared even the security guard outside the front door would have heard had I not contained it, and I turned and padded the few steps to the table to pour the coffee. After stirring in the sugar, I spiced it with cinnamon and a touch of cayenne. Though I shouldn’t have, I glanced over my shoulder several times, past the veil of my long brown hair. I couldn’t help it. I could hear the rustle of fabric as Adrian unburdened himself of his suit jacket, vest, tie, and I wanted to watch him.
“Pay attention to what you’re doing, Miss Bloom. We don’t want to resort to correction so soon, do we?” And that brought a smile to my face, even if I wasn’t getting everything I wanted.
When Adrian came to stand behind me at last, as I was finishing stirring the spices into his coffee, I felt the smooth contours of his firm chest through his open shirt and the ridge of arousal in his pants as it teased the cleft of my bare ass. In an instant, my mouth went dry, my nipples peaked, and wetness slicked the shaved lips of my pussy and my tensed inner thighs. Knight’s fingers toyed with mine as one hand traced the rim and handle of the coffee cup before catching it up and bringing it to his mouth. From the corner of my eye, I focused on the gleam of moisture along his lips as he lingered over an unhurried swallow.
“Very nice, Miss Bloom.”
The urge to lick that sheen of sweet coffee from the bow of his subtle smile had me swaying off balance, counting the heartbeats pounding in my ears as I debated taking such a liberty with my Dom. But Adrian denied me the opportunity when he put the cup down in its china saucer and pulled out one of the heavy dark wood chairs, upholstered in damask in several faint shades of cream and sand. He settled and motioned toward the food. “Honey cakes and some of that cheese to start, I think—cut into small pieces, if you would.”
He’d never had me serve his food before. Such a small variation to set me on edge, to keep me uncertain and expectant. That was the point, I suspected. When I had prepared a plate just so, Adrian yanked me into his lap, and I fell against him hard and breathless, blinking in surprise.
“We’ll dispense with these and be scandalous today,” he teased as he removed the silverware and set it to one side. Contrary to Brazilian table manners, he grabbed a piece of chocolate-drizzled cake and fed it to me by hand. Too nervous to eat breakfast this morning, I’d been hungry so long I almost wasn’t hungry anymore, until I tasted Manuela’s honey cake. My eyes sank closed as it melted against my tongue, and my stomach growled in anticipation while I worked the sweet crumbs along the inside of my mouth. “Mm-hm, that’s what I thought,” Adrian purred. “You needed that.”
Food wasn’t all I needed, and I illustrated that by licking little smears of rich chocolate from his fingers while he watched intently. Adrian tasted like he smelled: heady and earthy and slightly salty but clean, like lemon and dark alcohol. Mixed with sweet, thick chocolate sauce, the flavor was the ultimate aphrodisiac. Beneath me, his cock twitched and stiffened perceptibly.
Another bite, another lick, another throb from inside his tightening slacks. Another flutter of need deep inside my sex. We stared at each other, hard, with that kind of unwavering focus that turned the weight of our gazes to palpable caresses. Pupils dilated, brown on brown, cinnamon and latte.
I accepted a small wedge of cheese from Adrian’s fingertips, my gaze never leaving his as I opened my mouth and allowed him to slide the soft, salty morsel suggestively between my lips to place it quite precisely upon my waiting tongue. After the sweetness of the honey cake, the bite of the savory cheese was a sharp contrast, like a light slap or pinch or pull of hair after a slow kiss. I knew that technique, the sensation play that lulled and disarmed one moment only to nip and harrow and enliven the next, and it was one of Adrian’s favorites.
