[Siren Everlasting Classic: Erotic Consensual BDSM Romance, public exhibition, spanking, paddling, flogging, forced-seduction role play, sex toys, HEA]
When Shannon Bloomfield hears a rumor that an influential, anonymous food critic is visiting her restaurant, she has no idea it’s the exotic bad-boy Tate Gooding, who holds her fate in his culinary hands. Tate, burned out on the club circuit life and traveling around the U.S. for his guidebook company, wants a deeper, more meaningful relationship with the three-star chef.
Tate instructs Shannon in a thrilling new realm of private—and public—play, pushing her limits with every new scene. Shannon discovers that her inner “Force-Me Queen” is an expert tease, skilled at keeping Tate on the edge.
But a creepy stalker has photos and threatens to expose Tate’s cover and their back alley scenes. Tracking down the culprit brings the couple closer than ever in their power plays, and Shannon learns that breaking out of her comfort zone is an arousing adventure when it’s Her Master’s Choice.
http://www.bookstrand.com/her-masters-choice
STORY EXCERPT
And then his eyes met hers.
The guitarist’s
smoky eyes held a glimmer of acknowledgment, as though they had known
each other before. Shannon tried to only briefly engage diners’ glances
because she didn’t want to get drawn into long, trivial conversations
with them.
This time it was
different. She met and held the musician’s warm, sly look. His eyes
looked as though lined with kohl, his upper lip under the sparse Latin
lover’s moustache full and bowed like a cherub’s. Women would kill for
cheekbones like his, and he had a thoughtful, poetic aura as he slightly
tilted his head and regarded her.
She had no choice. She had to go to his table and acknowledge that he’d engaged her.
Luckily he was
sitting one table down from the commander in chief, who really seemed to
be getting off on that hand-cut pasta. The President hadn’t even
touched his water glass, he was so intent on rolling the slimy mushrooms
around in his mouth. Good.
“Hi,” Shannon said
experimentally. It wouldn’t hurt if Reagan saw her chatting it up with
diners. In addition to handing out stars for excellence, Hamsun rated
each restaurant in slightly lesser categories such as ambience and
service. These were notated as one to four fourches, or forks,
printed in bold pink if it was exceptional. Shannon had always had a
bold pink fork for service. Ambience was never bolded, probably due to
her sloppy chalkboard. “How is your meal? I see you selected a glass of
Summerhawk cab. That’s my personal favorite, too.” It was. It really
was.
He didn’t seem
concerned about his meal or his wine. “Are you Shannon Bloomfield?” His
voice was deeply resonant, and it occurred to Shannon he could be an
actor, too. Actors dressed flamboyantly hip like that sometimes.
“Yes. I am.”
He grinned crookedly. “I was just wondering if I should order the flan.”
Shit!
He was referring to
that whole Hamsun debacle a year ago—and within earshot of the new
rater! Instinctively, Shannon tried to stand between him and the Teflon
President, who luckily didn’t seem to have heard. “Oh, that! I
personally think we were just having an off day. Every other reviewer
gave our flan top rating. We don’t even serve it anymore.”
“But you should keep serving it, to prove that rater wrong.”
Shannon changed the
subject. “I see you’re having the grilled squid. That’s our special
tonight—we change our menu weekly.” She wanted to make sure Reagan heard
that, but he appeared to have his mouth and concentration buried in the
lamb with roasted garlic sauce.
The musician disregarded her promotional skills. “Are you married, Shannon?”
What the fuck?
What the hell does that have to do with anything? I like self-confident,
but this guy is a bit too arrogant for his own good!
However, she had to be gracious within earshot of the alleged rater.
“No, I’m not. This restaurant is my life. I’d never have time to get
married. You know, to some of us who are dedicated to pairing opposing
flavors and using ingredients at their absolute peak—”
“You should.” The
musician regarded her levelly, utterly fearless and confident. “You’re a
stunning woman, but your inner glow would burst forth more freely if
you just let loose and allowed yourself to get properly fucked once in
awhile.”
Shannon was struck
mute. The young couple at the next table were, too. They both swiveled
their heads, their eyes widening in shock. And, naturally, The Gipper
had heard the entire thing, too. Lamb actually fell from his mouth onto
his plate, tumbling along with a few peas. His Superman hair gleamed in
the romantic candlelight.
Once Shannon
determined the musician had actually said what she thought he had, she
had to respond politely. Maybe he was from a rival restaurant and wanted
to ruin her second chance at regaining her star. She moved her mouth,
hoping something halfway mannerly would come out. “Uh. Yes. That
probably never hurts anything, now, does it? However, I do date someone. He’s very supportive of my free-form plating and my unique—ah, here he is now.”
Shannon for once
bought a break when this guy she’d dated about three times breezed
through the doorway. She hadn’t seen Tom Bukowski’s name on the
reservation list, yet here he was, happily striding toward her with open
arms. He was a chef at another no-starred Berkeley restaurant and he
really did nothing for her. She was going to tell Tom she was too busy
to date just because they had no chemistry. Tom was definitely “bro
zoned.” Men were never interested in being only friends, but he sure did
come in handy right now.
The musician looked at Tom with disgust, his upper lip trembling. “I said properly fucked, Shannon.”
Oh my God. Will nothing shut this man up?
ADULT EXCERPT
The rain had now let
off so Tate could toss her Winnie-the-Pooh umbrella to the ground,
giving the spectators on their decks a better view. When he dipped and
bent his knees, his free hand had slid around the back of her ass. The
dress was so tight she could practically feel each fingerprint as he
gathered a handful of the slippery rayon fabric. Cold air swirled around
her naked butt cheeks, and when the raised ridges of one fingerprint
barely tickled her clitoris like a breath of air, she sucked in air and
jumped.
“But I know nothing
about you,” she whispered. Over Tate’s shoulder she could see two of the
three friends on the deck rubbing their crotches lewdly. Pretending she
hadn’t seen, she assisted Tate by unzipping her dress nearly to her
navel. Her lacey push-up bra amply displayed her average-sized globes,
and as she’d hoped, the two eager men on the deck started taking their
own dicks out. It made her feel lascivious and obscene, complete
strangers getting off on her sex. “I don’t even know where you live, and
you probably know where I live.”
“I do not,” Tate
murmured. Stalking wasn’t his style. “And you’ll find out where I live
the moment you give me a ride home today. Now listen. That couple, that
man and woman watching us from their deck. What are they doing?” Tate
sucked on her throat some more—he’d probably leave an embarrassing,
childish hickey, and Shannon didn’t care. He spread butterfly kisses on
the upraised globes of her tits as though trying to distract her while
two fingertips now nudged between the swollen lips of her pussy.
“Ah!” she
gasped when he found the exact right spot, the money spot on her clit
where rubbing and twiddling was always the most effective, when Shannon
didn’t have a detachable shower head to toy with. “The couple?” Shannon
was shocked to see how brazen the couple was getting. There was probably
a direct sight line to at least some parts of the highway, where people
stuck in traffic could get a good eyeful of that notorious apartment
building.
Tate diddled her clit, making her gasp again. “Yes. Is watching us making them hot?”
“Oh, yesss…The man is behind her, and he’s taken her tits out of her bra and is playing with them.”
“Just playing? Be more descriptive, my pet.”
“He’s twiddling her
nipples between his fingers. Her tits are bouncy and round, much bigger
than mine. He’s leaning her over the balcony rail as though about to
fuck her from behind.”
“Ah, dog-style, one
of my favorites.” Tate approved of the man’s choice, and he bent his
knees deeper to take a suck of Shannon’s teat now too. Ecstasy shot
straight down her abdomen from her nipple to her clit, the blissful
feelings mingling right there at her center of passion. “What are those
horny men doing? Have they stripped off their pants yet?”
To her surprise, one
of them actually had. He had even stepped up on a chair or a box or
something because his prick was practically eye-level with one of his
buddies. A shudder gripped Shannon’s poor wracked body as she wished
they were three gay men. It couldn’t hurt her impending orgasm to watch
that baby-faced guy suck off his buddy. But they were just jacking
themselves, and it stroked Shannon’s ego as well as her libido to know
they were getting off over her. “Yes, one guy’s up on a chair and he’s furiously jacking himself off.”
“Good. I want as
many people as possible to find pleasure in my princess. And I think
they’ll find more pleasure”—in one fluid movement, with his left hand
Tate whipped the trench coat belt from its loops and had twined it
around one of her wrists—”in watching a bound woman come to a forced
orgasm.”
Shannon smiled when
she recalled his Rumpus Room attendance. She trusted him, so there was
no issue about refusing, but it was sort of fun to pretend to struggle.
“Oh, no,” she said in a girlish voice. “Please, Mr. Gooding. Please
don’t tie me up. How will I get away from you if I’m helpless?”
Shannon didn’t know
until much later that she was instinctively enacting “rebel play,” a
scene where the bottom pretends to resist the top. They would revisit
that scene often. Tate didn’t miss one beat with his fingertips against
her bulging clit as he expertly bound her wrists using only one hand.
The knot wasn’t the tightest, but she couldn’t escape without a lot of
struggle. And every time she struggled, her tits bounced nicely. “Isn’t
helpless the point, young missy? I want you helpless. I want you
spread-eagled with wrists and ankles bound, your mouth gagged so you
can’t protest.”
“Oh, Lord, no!” The
innocent little girl that Shannon had suddenly become didn’t want her
most intimate parts displayed to strangers, especially since that guy on
the chair looked on the verge of—”Oh, God! That disgusting boy
up there is ejaculating over the side of the deck! His friend is
slapping him on the ass congratulating him. It’s absolutely disgusting.”
So disgusting, in fact, that Shannon wriggled her hips even faster to
encourage Tate to speed up his twiddling against her clit.
“And the couple? Has the husband mounted her yet?”
“Yes, it seems like
he has. His hips are pumping into her. He’s squeezing her bare tits and
she has a blissful look on her face. Oh, Mr. Gooding, this is too, too
shameful! How dare you expose my breasts to strangers?”
Tate held the tip of his nose to hers. “It gives them pleasure, and it gives me pleasure. And I think it gives you pleasure too, you little minx.” And he dove down to suckle on her nipple again.
--
The Good Switch, December 2013
Her Master's Choice, November 2013
Three For All, October 2013
The Subject Was Rose, August 2013
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