The Dom of My Dreams: A BDSM Novel

Chapter One

One of my favorite fantasies involved falling in love with a writer.
 
Poets and novelists seemed so romantic to me.
 
It was no wonder that I worked in publishing.
 
I had dreamt of meeting with a famous author over coffee, where we’d fall madly in love, then get married, have kids and live happily ever after in a beautiful house with a white picket fence.
 
I would go to all of his book signings and readings and everyone there would know that I was his wife and that he had dedicated all of his books to me.
 
It was just a silly fantasy, one I indulged in whenever my cynicism took a momentary leave of absence.
 

The aforementioned fantasy was the first thing that sprung to mind when I sat across from David J. Seton—the man who held the future of Bookends AtoZ in his hands.
 
He was even more handsome in person than he was in the back-cover photo of his three consecutive bestsellers.
 
I crossed my legs and smoothed down my blouse, hoping I looked poised and unconcerned as I stared into the loveliest pair of green eyes I had ever seen in a man.
 

“May I ask why you’re interested in writing for us?” I said.
 
“You’re a bestselling author and we’re an obscure publishing house.”

He said nothing for a few moments, holding my gaze as he considered my question.
 
He looked cool and relaxed in his tailored suit, with the self-possessed air of a man in control.
 
The corners of his mouth twitched until he flashed me a sideways grin.
 
“For my amusement,” he answered.

Silence fell between us.
 
Amiable chit-chat drifted from neighboring tables.
 
A bored-looking waitress sauntered by, and I opened my mouth to order a drink but Seton, in a commanding, no nonsense tone, cut me short and ordered a bottle of red wine.
 
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and tucked away a lock of chestnut-brown hair that had spilled across my forehead, wondering if I’d heard him correctly.
 

“For your amusement?”

He smiled again.
 
“Yes.
 
I thought it would amuse me to see exactly what you’d do and how far you’d go just to get me to write for you.”

My jaw dropped at his words.
 
It wasn’t just what he’d said, shocking as that was, but the way he’d said it.
 
The tone of his velvety-smooth voice sounded a little too sensual and intimate for my liking.
 
I closed my mouth and squirmed in my seat again.

“By ‘you,’ you mean Bookends AtoZ, right?”

He smiled an enigmatic smile and said nothing.
 

“Look, if there’s anything I can do to help persuade you to join us,” I offered earnestly, “I’ll be more than happy to oblige.”

More silence.
 
He just sat there, grinning.
 
Now he was just getting on my damn nerves.
 
If he didn’t want to elaborate on what he’d said, then fine.
 
I wasn’t going to play his game.
 

It was our first private meeting.
 
We were first introduced during a staff meeting, where my boss, Alfred Williams, had broken the staggering news that
David James Seton, international bestselling author, might be joining Bookends AtoZ.
 
My first reaction had been: why?
 
We were, after all, located in Nowheresville—better known as Northampton, Massachusetts, a funky, bohemian city laden with angry poets and suicidal artists—which meant that big-name authors were few and far in between for us.
 
We catered to local authors for the most part, a vast majority of whom were either poets or short fiction writers, and many of whom were gay.
 
Northampton has a big open gay community.
 
My best friend and colleague, Jeremy Walters, was gay and notoriously known for flirting with some of our authors.

Apparently, David J. Seton moved here recently from England and was “intrigued” with our quaint little publishing house.
 
He’d also said that he wanted me to edit his book, which was strange.
 
I’d never met the guy before, only seen him during my occasional trips to Starbucks, but he had insisted on conducting this meeting with me, and Alfred had persuaded me to court Seton, claiming I was perfect for the job.
 
I didn’t see why.
 
All of my authors had already been writing for Bookends AtoZ when I began working with them.
 
I had never courted a potential new author during the four years I’d worked there.
 
What made Alfred think I could not only court but win over an international bestselling author?
 
Call me suspicious, but something didn’t add up here.
  

When the waitress brought the wine, Seton poured me a glass.
 
His dreamy eyes traveled slowly over my upper body, moving over my breasts, sliding up my neck until they lingered on my lips.
 
His gaze was full of smoky heat.
 
Ice would have melted under such a look.
 
Warmth stirred within me, and I felt my cheeks flushing pink.

“I’d like to work on my new book with you,” he finally said. “But first you’ll have to do something for me.”

His voice suggested that this was more than just a conventional business proposition.
 
Gathering my wits, I narrowed my eyes suspiciously at him.
 
“And what would that be, Mr. Seton?”

“Call me David, sweetheart,” he drawled smoothly.
 
“I thought informality was Bookends AtoZ’s MO.”

I ignored his comment and cut straight to the chase.
 
“What are you suggesting, Mr. Seton?
 
Because if you’re suggesting what I
think
you’re suggesting—”

“And what am I suggesting, according to you?”

I scowled and made no response.

Seton laughed—a low, husky sound that made my breath catch somewhere in my throat.
 
“All right.
 
Let’s say I’m indeed suggesting what you think I’m suggesting.
 
What would you do?
 
You’d turn down the opportunity to work with me?
 
You’d tell me to go away?”

Annoyed, I shot him a look and gritted my teeth.
 
Why?
 
Why was I forced to have drinks with this dark-haired alpha male?
 
And why did his licentious proposition send fluttery sensations down to the pit of my stomach, sweeping lower to…more interesting areas?
 

“Well, you got me there,” I muttered, crossing my arms over my chest.
  
“So you
are
suggesting what I think you’re suggesting.”

He laughed again.
 
“Miss Fordham, if you think I’m suggesting a brief encounter in a motel room somewhere then you are quite mistaken.
 
A quick, meaningless fuck has never been my style.
 
What would I gain from that?”

I raised an eyebrow.
 
“Your power over me?”

“What I have in mind involves power, yes,” he purred.
 
“My proposition is rather…particular.”

The come-hither tone in his accented voice made me all goose pimply and hot.
 
His words sounded too much like the number of fantasies I’d had about him since I met him last week, and they disconcerted and confused me to the core.

This meeting wasn’t going the way I had expected.
 
I’d expected him to be difficult—he was, after all, a bestselling author—but I hadn’t expected something like this to happen.
 
What did this “proposition” of his entail?
 
Well…I
knew
what it entailed.
 
But why did he want it from me of all people?

Then something occurred to me.
 
Something so obvious that I wished I had noticed it sooner.
 
I narrowed my eyes again.

“Did you have this proposition of yours in mind before arranging this meeting?” I asked him.

His eyebrows shot up in mock surprise.
 
His lips weren’t smiling, but his eyes certainly were.
 
They twinkled with amusement.

“Look,” I said in my best no-bullshit tone, “just tell me the truth.
 
This proposition of yours…it wasn’t spontaneous, was it?
 
You had this in mind from the very beginning, didn’t you?”

“Perhaps,” he drawled teasingly.

I glared at him.
 
It all added up.
 
Alfred delegated the job of courting a bestselling author to a rookie.
 
The aforementioned bestselling author was making sexual propositions to said rookie.
 

Coincidence?
 
Not friggin’ likely.

“This is the reason why you told Alfred that you wanted
me
to court you, isn’t it?”

He looked at me from underneath those thick eyelashes of his.
 
“Whatever do you mean?”

The mocking tone in his voice and the sheer amusement in his glinting emeralds confirmed my suspicions.
 
I blew out a breath, tearing my gaze away from his.
 
Great.
 
Just great.
 
My first time meeting a superstar author and he turned out to be an egocentric, sexual-harassing jerk.
 
I had no idea if I should be turned on or offended.
 
I felt the former, but knew I should have felt the latter.
 
Irritation surged through me, and I clutched my wineglass and gulped down what remained of the wine in a weak attempt to calm myself.
 
I was getting nervous, and when I get nervous I get thirsty.

I needed answers, but first I was going to give Seton a piece of my mind.
 
I turned stormy eyes to him, and the look I gave him would have terrified anyone.
 
Seton, however, seemed tickled by my glare.
 
Obstinacy gripped me, and I was determined to wipe out the smirk out of that gorgeous face at all cost.

“So this was a setup?” I asked him, voice sharp.
 
“Alfred didn’t give me this job because I was perfect for it, he gave it to me because
you
forced him to, didn’t you?
 
And all so you could play your sick power games just to ‘amuse’ yourself, as you so eloquently put it.”
 
I paused while I sipped my drink, but it did little to ease the dryness in my throat.
 
“Did you tell Alfred that you wanted to sleep with me?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but I held up a hand and cut him off.
 
“No!
 
I don’t want to know.
 
Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Seton.
 
I’m a book editor, not a whore.
 
I want to work for Bookends AtoZ, but not at the expense of being jerked around by a spoiled, egotistical asshole like you.
 
Goodbye.”

Outraged, I grabbed my handbag, got up and turned to leave.
 
I looked over my shoulder at Seton before reaching for the door and noticed his jaw was clenching.
 
It was evident from the incensed look that flickered across his face that my words had upset him.
 
Good.
 
Mission accomplished.

I paused to give him a chance to stop me from walking out on him, but he made no move.
 
It was obvious from the way he looked at me that, though clearly pissed off, he was neither impressed nor intimidated by my tour de force.
 
Oh, well.
 
It was too late to back down now.
 
I had to leave behind a very famous author.
 
Alfred wouldn’t be pleased, but I had the upper hand in all this.
 
After all, my boss had, in the words of
I Love Lucy
’s
Ricky Ricardo, some explaining to do.