No man can own me. I negotiate sex for money at an illicit blindfold club, but my body is not for sale. I don’t submit and I don’t surrender.Until I meet him. This beautiful artist’s tattoo now covers the scar of the worst mistake of my life.Being with him could expose everything I’ve been hiding, and although there’s so much at stake, I can’t stop myself. The battle for control between us is too hot, too powerful to resist.With all my dirty secrets, what’s going to happen when he forces me to come clean?NOTE: This book is a standalone with no cliffhanger ending, but does include scenes of MFF. Mature readers only.
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“I think you want this almost as badly as I do, Regan. You’re going to take your clothes off because I’m putting my hands on your fucking body in a few seconds, and you don’t want me to ruin your clothes.”
He left me standing there in surprise and went back to the table. He picked up the charcoal pencil and rubbed it between his palms, covering his hands with even more black dust.
It was impossible to have friction without heat, and it flickered through my body, warming all the way down to my toes. He’d told me to take off my clothes, but it was really a choice. I could stay as I was and call his bluff, do as he asked, or walk away.
What would those dark hands do? Would they leave perfect black handprints against my ivory skin? The image was too powerful to deny. I locked my gaze on him, only breaking it for a moment as I tore my sweater up over my head.
Lust made his eyes heavy as he watched me shed the plain white t-shirt, and work the snap of my jeans. I tugged them off and tossed them to the floor with aggression. “Okay, done. Put your filthy goddamn hands on me.”
Fire flared so hot, it made the room scorching. He came at me, but I held my ground. His hands lifted to cup my face—wait, no. That wasn’t his intent. I inhaled sharply when he put both hands around my neck.
I fought the instinct to break his hold. There wasn’t any tension in his fingers as his hands wrapped around my throat, they simple rested there. It was dominating, but it was exciting, too.
When he released me, Silas made a noise of satisfaction. The sight of his black handprints on my skin obviously pleased him. My pulse sped to a million miles an hour. Did these handprints ringing my neck look like a collar? Like he owned me?
“The bra,” he said on a hurried breath. “Take it off.” He gazed at me like I was the most beautiful thing he’d seen, and my hands moved instantly. The clasp was undone and I slipped the straps down my shoulders, letting the bra fall away. My exposed breasts felt heavy and aching for his touch, which he seemed eager to do.
He filled the weight of one in his hand, pressing his dark, rough palm against my pale skin. As he peeled his fingers away, we both looked down and admired the perfect gray handprint he’d left. God, it was sexy. He instantly did the other breast so I had a matching set.
“That looks fucking amazing,” he said. “Stay right like that.” And then he hurried for his camera.
Nikki Sloane landed in graphic design after her careers as a waitress, a screenwriter, and a ballroom dance instructor fell through. For eight years she worked for a design firm in that extremely tall, black, and tiered building in Chicago that went through an unfortunate name change during her time there. Now she lives in Kentucky and manages a team of graphic artists. She is a member of the Romance Writers of America, is married with two sons, writes dirty books, and couldn't be any happier.
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