USA Today bestselling author Samanthe Beck lives in Malibu, California, with her long-suffering husband, their turbo-son, and a furry ninja named Kitty.When not dreaming up fun, fan-your-cheeks sexy ways to get her characters to happily-ever-after, she searches for the perfect cabernet to pair with Ambien.
I’m thrilled to be back at RFTC for another Naughty New Year’s Eve! But really, it’s my job to thrill you, so let’s get down to it, shall we? I’m serving up a sexy scene from my latest Brazen, Dirty Games.
My heroine, Quinn, has what I’ll call a personal resolution to get into top physical shape for a major career opportunity, but the powers that be doubt her ability to pull it off without expert help. Quinn’s willing to comply, (more or less), until “expert help” takes the form of elite personal trainer Luke McLean. Luke’s determined to whip her into shape, and he demands one hundred percent compliance…
My heroine, Quinn, has what I’ll call a personal resolution to get into top physical shape for a major career opportunity, but the powers that be doubt her ability to pull it off without expert help. Quinn’s willing to comply, (more or less), until “expert help” takes the form of elite personal trainer Luke McLean. Luke’s determined to whip her into shape, and he demands one hundred percent compliance…
“I can’t monitor you 24/7, Quinn. Nobody can, other than you, and if you’re not up to the job, then we’re both wasting our time. This won’t work if I can’t trust you.”
“You can trust me. Please, Luke.” She looked up at him with a rare show of genuine panic in her eyes. “Give me another chance. I promise I’m not wasting your time. Let me prove it.”
This was exactly what he wanted from any client at this stage—the wavering stage—a renewed commitment to fight for the goal, and the determination to prove she could do it. But for some perverse reason, with Quinn, he couldn’t let it go at just words. “Prove it? How? Losing the role clearly isn’t a sufficiently immediate and motivating consequence for you. What possible consequence can I impose that’s more persuasive?”
Pink tinged her cheeks. She dropped her lashes, took a shuddery breath, and looked up at him again. “You’d have to…punish me.”
No. No, this was going down the wrong path, and yet he felt the inevitability of it even as he tried to put on the brakes. Gently, he warned, “You couldn’t handle it.”
“Try me. Let me prove you wrong.”
She licked her lips after she tossed out the suggestion. No. Not a suggestion. A dare, which was essentially a default setting for Quinn. He walked toward the door.
“Please.”
Etched-in-stone rules faded like weathered hieroglyphics on an ancient ruin. The exquisitely fucked-up convergence of exactly what he shouldn’t do, and exactly what she needed him to do twisted inside him, becoming a single, inescapable imperative. He closed the door and clicked the lock.
“Bend over the hyperextension bench and pull your shorts down.”
Her breath hitched, but a glimmer of relief shone in her eyes. “You dirty pervert.”
“Over the bench. Now. You’ve got five seconds.”
Hands slapped the sides of her thighs as her eyes darted around the gym. “Which one is the hyperextension bench?”
He pointed. She marched to the angled apparatus, hooked her heels behind the crossbar, and leaned into the padded bench designed to support her hips. Then she draped herself over it and gripped the handholds while she squirmed around looking for the least demanding position. Finally she reached around and slid her tight, white shorts down to expose the top half of her ass.
He drew in a breath to clear his head. Get his bearings. “Lower.” His voice sounded gruff to his own ears.
She made a compliant sound, and pushed the shorts down to bare her ass properly. He stepped up and ran a fingertip along the back of her knee brace—a reminder to both of them that she wasn’t as invincible as she liked to project. “Comfortable?”
“Just ducky. Wake me when you’re done.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll be very awake by the time we’re done.” He brushed his fingers up her leg, along her hip, and brought them to rest at the base of her spine. “Head up.”
All her muscles tightened as she obeyed.
“That’s good. Now, tell me the rule, Quinn.”
“W-what rule?” Her question revealed genuine confusion and only a little distress.
He placed his hand across the small of her back, reassuring. “The rule you broke. You know the one.”
“I…um…” She shifted again, as if the air itself itched her bare skin. “I’m only to eat the prepared menu, unless you tell me otherwise?”
“Exactly. And did I tell you to eat the cookies?”
Her head drooped. “No.”
“How many did you have?”
“Oh, God. Three?”
He smoothed his hand over her back once more. “I think it was more like ten.”
“Five!” Her head popped up again. “I ate five.”
“Okay.” He patted her once and then removed his hand. “You’re going to count them off. Nice and loud. I want to hear each number clearly. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
“Respond verbally, please.”
“Yes, dammit. I understand.”
“Are you ready?”
Her body tensed. “Yes.”
“All right. Let’s get started.” But then he waited another long moment. Waited until she dug her toes into the floor and pushed her hips up a barely perceptible degree. Not just consent. A request. Her low moan vibrated with anticipation.
He slapped his palm across one cheek…
“One,” she cried, then added a surprised, “two,” when he immediately backhanded the other unsuspecting cheek.
“That’s one,” he corrected, and watched a tinge of pink bloom across the smooth, pale skin. “Are you prepared for the rest of your punishment? Be sure of your answer, because I’m not going to stop and check in again.”
“I…Yes. I’m prepared.”
He doled out the rest in rapid succession, giving her just enough time to draw in a breath after she called out each number. By the end, she was breathing heavy, her skin flushed with histamine-dilated blood vessels inflamed by the minor impact of his callused palm against her pampered ass. He was in a hell of his own making—a hell he’d entered as soon as he’d agreed to take her on. A hell that only got deeper and more damning the more time he spent with her. He wanted…
Up For Grabs:
“You can trust me. Please, Luke.” She looked up at him with a rare show of genuine panic in her eyes. “Give me another chance. I promise I’m not wasting your time. Let me prove it.”
This was exactly what he wanted from any client at this stage—the wavering stage—a renewed commitment to fight for the goal, and the determination to prove she could do it. But for some perverse reason, with Quinn, he couldn’t let it go at just words. “Prove it? How? Losing the role clearly isn’t a sufficiently immediate and motivating consequence for you. What possible consequence can I impose that’s more persuasive?”
Pink tinged her cheeks. She dropped her lashes, took a shuddery breath, and looked up at him again. “You’d have to…punish me.”
No. No, this was going down the wrong path, and yet he felt the inevitability of it even as he tried to put on the brakes. Gently, he warned, “You couldn’t handle it.”
“Try me. Let me prove you wrong.”
She licked her lips after she tossed out the suggestion. No. Not a suggestion. A dare, which was essentially a default setting for Quinn. He walked toward the door.
“Please.”
Etched-in-stone rules faded like weathered hieroglyphics on an ancient ruin. The exquisitely fucked-up convergence of exactly what he shouldn’t do, and exactly what she needed him to do twisted inside him, becoming a single, inescapable imperative. He closed the door and clicked the lock.
“Bend over the hyperextension bench and pull your shorts down.”
Her breath hitched, but a glimmer of relief shone in her eyes. “You dirty pervert.”
“Over the bench. Now. You’ve got five seconds.”
Hands slapped the sides of her thighs as her eyes darted around the gym. “Which one is the hyperextension bench?”
He pointed. She marched to the angled apparatus, hooked her heels behind the crossbar, and leaned into the padded bench designed to support her hips. Then she draped herself over it and gripped the handholds while she squirmed around looking for the least demanding position. Finally she reached around and slid her tight, white shorts down to expose the top half of her ass.
He drew in a breath to clear his head. Get his bearings. “Lower.” His voice sounded gruff to his own ears.
She made a compliant sound, and pushed the shorts down to bare her ass properly. He stepped up and ran a fingertip along the back of her knee brace—a reminder to both of them that she wasn’t as invincible as she liked to project. “Comfortable?”
“Just ducky. Wake me when you’re done.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll be very awake by the time we’re done.” He brushed his fingers up her leg, along her hip, and brought them to rest at the base of her spine. “Head up.”
All her muscles tightened as she obeyed.
“That’s good. Now, tell me the rule, Quinn.”
“W-what rule?” Her question revealed genuine confusion and only a little distress.
He placed his hand across the small of her back, reassuring. “The rule you broke. You know the one.”
“I…um…” She shifted again, as if the air itself itched her bare skin. “I’m only to eat the prepared menu, unless you tell me otherwise?”
“Exactly. And did I tell you to eat the cookies?”
Her head drooped. “No.”
“How many did you have?”
“Oh, God. Three?”
He smoothed his hand over her back once more. “I think it was more like ten.”
“Five!” Her head popped up again. “I ate five.”
“Okay.” He patted her once and then removed his hand. “You’re going to count them off. Nice and loud. I want to hear each number clearly. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
“Respond verbally, please.”
“Yes, dammit. I understand.”
“Are you ready?”
Her body tensed. “Yes.”
“All right. Let’s get started.” But then he waited another long moment. Waited until she dug her toes into the floor and pushed her hips up a barely perceptible degree. Not just consent. A request. Her low moan vibrated with anticipation.
He slapped his palm across one cheek…
“One,” she cried, then added a surprised, “two,” when he immediately backhanded the other unsuspecting cheek.
“That’s one,” he corrected, and watched a tinge of pink bloom across the smooth, pale skin. “Are you prepared for the rest of your punishment? Be sure of your answer, because I’m not going to stop and check in again.”
“I…Yes. I’m prepared.”
He doled out the rest in rapid succession, giving her just enough time to draw in a breath after she called out each number. By the end, she was breathing heavy, her skin flushed with histamine-dilated blood vessels inflamed by the minor impact of his callused palm against her pampered ass. He was in a hell of his own making—a hell he’d entered as soon as he’d agreed to take her on. A hell that only got deeper and more damning the more time he spent with her. He wanted…
***
Want to get Dirty in the New Year? Leave a comment on this post and tell me if you’ve made any resolutions. One lucky commenter will win a print copy of Dirty Games!
Good luck and Happy New Year!
For six weeks, she’s all his....
A five figure fee. A private villa at an exclusive tropical paradise. Absolute compliance. Top tier celebrity trainer Luke McLean demands all of the above, plus strict adherence to his zero bullshit policy. Especially when faced with six short weeks to whip a spoiled starlet into leading lady shape.
Quinn Sheridan suddenly has half the time she anticipated to turn herself into an action hero for the role of her career. Luckily, her agent calls in a secret weapon, but the demanding, drop dead gorgeous hardass fails to understand SHE’S the client. She has no problem taking direction, but Luke’s definition of cooperation feels more like complete and utter submission. And she’s tempted to give it to him...
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Ooops, lost the comment. Loved the excerpt. Wild !
ReplyDeleteThanks for giveaway chance.
Carol Luciano
Lucky4750 (at) aol (dot) com
Love this excerpt! Sounds like a great book! Thanks for the chance to read this book! Happy New Year!
ReplyDeleteLove the excerpt and the book sounds good and thank you for the chance :)
ReplyDelete