My name is Madame X.I’m the best at what I do.And you’d do well to follow my rules...Hired to transform the uncultured, inept sons of the wealthy and powerful into decisive, confident men, Madame X is a master of the art of control. With a single glance she can cut you down to nothing, or make you feel like a king.But there is only one man who can claim her body—and her soul.Undone time and again by his exquisite dominance, X craves and fears his desire in equal measure. And while she longs for a different path, X has never known anything or anyone else—until now...
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Hands blaze over my bared skin and ignite my desire against my will. I know all too well the heat of this touch, the fires of climax, the moments of afterglow when dark eyes drowse and powerful hands are stilled and I am allowed to let my guard down. I stand still, knees shaking, as lips scour and slide over trembling skin. My thighs are nosed open, and lightning strikes with the touch of a tongue to my slick skin.
I gasp, but a single look silences me.
“Don’t breathe, don’t speak, don’t make a sound.” I feel the whisper on my hip, feel the vibrations in my bones, and I nod my assent. “Don’t come until I tell you.”
I have no choice but to stand and accept silently the assault on my senses: down-soft hair against my belly, stubble on my thighs, hands cupping my backside, fury blooming within me. I hold it back, keep it tamped down, bite my tongue to silence the moans, fist my hands at my sides, because I haven’t been given permission to touch.
“Good. Let go now, X. Give me your voice.” A finger pierces me, curls, finds my need and sets it free, and I loose my voice, let moans and whimpers escape. “Good, very good. So beautiful, so sexy. Now show me your room.”
I lead the way to my bedroom, push open the door to reveal the white bedspread, plumped black pillows, all tucked and arranged, as required. I lie down, setting aside pillows, and wait. Eyes rake over my nude form, examine me, assess me.
“I think an extra twenty minutes in the gym would do you well.” This criticism is delivered clinically, meant to remind me of my place. “Trim down, just a touch.”
I hide the clutch in my gut, the ache in my heart, the burn in my eyes. Hide it, bury it, because it is not allowed. I blink, nod. “Of course, Caleb.”
“You are lovely, X. Don’t mistake me.”
“I know. And thank you.”
“It’s just that our clients expect perfection.” A lifted eyebrow indicates that I should finish the statement.
“And so do you.”
“Exactly. And you, X, I know you can deliver. You are perfect, or very nearly, at least.” A smile now, blazing and brilliant and blinding, excruciatingly beautiful, meant to soothe. A finger touches my lips and then traces favorite locations on my anatomy: lips, throat, breasts, hips. “Roll over.”
I move to my stomach.
“On your knees.”
I draw my knees beneath my stomach.
“Give me your hands.”
I reach back with both hands, and my wrists are pinioned in one large, brutally powerful hand. My shoulder blades touch each other as my arms are drawn together, and my face is pressed into the mattress. I swallow hard, brace, breathe.
Oh, the ache, the fierce throb as I’m penetrated. I’m rocked forward and my shoulders twinge and the grip on my wrists holds me in place.
I have no choice but to feel the burgeoning blaze, no choice but let it push through me and make me breathless, and I want to cry, want to cry, want to cry.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
I let myself go when I’m told to do so: “Come for me, X.”
And then it’s over, and I’m turned to lie on my back, gasping, and whispers bathe over me. “So good, X. So beautiful.” A finger to my chin, lifting my gaze. “Did you enjoy that?”
“Yes.” It’s not a lie. Not entirely, at least.
Physically, I am rocked to trembling. Physically, aftershocks still seize me and touch makes me shiver and I am breathless. Physically, yes, I enjoyed it. I cannot help but enjoy it.
Yet . . . there is a space within me, a deep, deep, deep well where truths I do not even dare think live hidden and always buried. Down there, where those truths reside, I know I crave . . . absolution, freedom, a breath taken in privacy, a word spoken without ulterior motive.
But I cannot let those thoughts bubble up. Cannot, and do not. I am a master of self-control, after all. I could hold off orgasm indefinitely. I could go without breathing until told to breathe or pass out. I could remain sitting motionless for hours, until told to move. I know I can do these things, because I have. I learned total control in the harshest of schools.
And so it is child’s play to let my body drape loosely in the guise of intimacy on a hard, taut, muscular body until a chime from discarded slacks demands attention.
“I have to take this.” A pause, a breath, a tap of finger on a cell phone screen. “This is Caleb. Yes. Yes. Sure, give me twenty minutes. Of course. No, don’t let him in until I get there.”
A kiss to my temple, a finger tracing my body from shoulder to hip to foot. “I have to go.”
“All right.” I don’t ask when to expect a return, because I don’t want to know, and because I wouldn’t get an answer.
“Will you miss me?”
“Of course.” This is a lie, and we both know it.
“Good. Your next client is in two hours, so you have time to shower, dress, and prepare. His name is William Colin Drake, and he’s the heir to a technology development company worth fifty billion. Usual terms and conditions apply. The file on William will arrive in the usual manner.”
“Should I expect as much trouble with William as with Jonathan?”
A quirk of a smile, amusement. “No, I should think not. William is a much different animal, from what I’ve observed.” A pause, and a speculative glance at me. “But, X?”
“Yes, Caleb?”
“Watch yourself with William. He’s got a mean streak.”
“Thank you for the warning.”
“He needs to learn to control it, so you’ll have to draw it out of him and make him aware of it. But be careful.”
Draw out his mean streak. Poke a snake, prod a sleeping bear. Risk injury. It won’t be the first time, and it won’t be the last. Hopefully I won’t need medical attention like I did last time. That’s not covered in the contract, of course, but it’s understood: Never, ever harm the property of Caleb Indigo; it’s just not smart business.
When the door closes behind a broad, suit-swathed back, I shower the sex-stink off. I scrub harder and longer than I have to and fight the boil of forbidden emotions. When my skin is rubbed raw, I force myself out of the shower and dress, apply makeup, remake the bed, prepare tea.
And then I seat myself on the couch and breathe, compose myself, push down the vulnerability, put away the fear and the desire. Once again, I am Madame X.
Jasinda Wilder is a New York Times, USA Today, Wall Street Journal, and international bestselling author. She is a Michigan native and currently lives there with her family. Visit her official website at jasindawilder.com.
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