By Elizabeth SaFleur
Continuing our series of Sexy Sunday Snippets, below is a free excerpt from Untouchable, a billionaire BDSM erotic romance. Wealthy, D.C. corporate attorney Carson Drake is the master of the romantic pre-emptive strike—until he meets London, the woman who tests every assumption he’s ever had about love.
The woman pushed off the railing and made her way to the circular staircase on the far side of the balcony.
Carson left his drink on a side table and proceeded toward the intriguing figure. Why the hell not? Rarely did he approach someone so early in the evening, but she piqued his interest. Perhaps she sought what he did—pleasure with no complications.
That’s why he liked Club Accendos. No hidden agenda. Defined roles. Clear deadlines—usually the end of the night. No one gets hurt. He laughed to himself. Well, not unless they want the pain.
As soon as the woman’s foot hit the second step down, her familiarity clicked into place. Holy hell. London.
In his peripheral vision, he watched another man join his progression toward her. He plowed through the crowd to reach the staircase first. He cut off the other Dominant with a flick of his eye. I’ll fight for this one. The man understood the warning. He walked by, unbothered by the nanosecond exchange.
As soon as London had descended halfway down the stairs, she froze. Her petulant chin lifted as she recognized him. Within seconds, she resumed her descent, her eyes full of her usual bravado.
When London reached the final step, he held out his hand to help her down. “Hello, sugar.”
She ignored his offer and tried to scoot by him. He captured her arm, lightly. He didn’t want to frighten her, merely get her attention. Her eyes flamed with annoyance and blood rushed to his cock.
She raised her chin. “Excuse me, but we haven’t been introduced.” Of course her voice contained her signature, throaty impudence.
He raised his eyebrow. Playing games? Fine. “I’m Carson Drake. Sit and talk?” He leveled his voice to the business tone she’d recognize, less of a Dominant and more of a diplomat.
Her shoulders relaxed a little but her eyes held debate.
He took her hesitation as a “yes.” He circled her waist and led her away from the crowd toward one of the side doors. As a Tribunal Council member, he had a private room—far from any potential interruptions.
London stopped short. “Where are we going?”
“Someplace more quiet.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
“Then you don’t have to.” He dropped his hold on her waist.
“Yes. Witnesses saw us leave. You’re safe.”
She let him pull her through a gothic arched door. A bodyguard closed it behind them.
He moved them down an expansive hallway lined with closed doors. Only after ushering her inside the last door at the end did he let go of her elbow. She immediately crossed her arms.
“It’s okay, sugar. I’m not going to hurt you.”
“I’m meeting someone.”
“Yes, so I can’t stay long.” She worked her bottom lip and shuffled her weight from foot to foot. Her eyes also darted to the bed in the corner. Perhaps she thought he’d take her right away? She knew his identity. She should know he was committed to due diligence. And he had to know why she was here—the last place on earth he’d expect London Chantelle.
He sat in one of two cushioned chairs set before a lit fireplace. He appreciated her luscious curves, beautifully illuminated by the amber glow of the low fire.
“Sit.” He beckoned her to join him.
“I like standing.”
“Sit.” The commanding tones of a Dom brought the expected result. As she lowered herself into the chair, her ponytail licked one shoulder. “Your hair is beautiful in this light,” he said. “More golden brown than I noticed before.”
She swallowed. “Thank you, um . . . I go by Tatiana.”
“It doesn’t suit you. Why not go with, say . . . London?”
Her mouth dropped to an “O” in alarm, and she leapt from her seat.
“Sit. Down.” He pointed to the chair.
“Please.” Her hazel eyes implored lenience, and her tone of voice surprised him. He liked the beseeching quality. It was quite a departure from her customary, unadulterated demand.
“Please what? You thought a simple mask and change of clothing meant I wouldn’t recognize you?”
“I hoped . . . maybe . . . I can’t do this.”
Before she could complete two steps, he’d risen from his chair and laid his hand on her shoulder. She stopped. He pressed his torso against her back, sending her firm ass into his crotch. He decided to like her stiletto boots. He was a tall man and they made her the perfect height. He waited to see if she’d object, at which point he’d back off. She didn’t move.
He pulled off the elastic holding her hair captive. A curtain of gold-laced chestnut silk cascaded free. He brushed her mane to one side and bared her shoulder. “That’s better.”
Her breathing sped up. “You said just talking.”
“Still, sweetness.” He inhaled her scent of Ivory soap and cinnamon Christmas cookies before stepping backward. “We are talking.”
She twisted to face him. “Carson, please . . .”
He liked how her emotions turned in an instant. She’d test his abilities to direct her psychology in a scene. He nearly laughed at himself. How quickly I have her bound and pleasured in my mind. “There. Now that’s a start. I rather like you begging me.”
“I don’t beg.”
And there goes that chin. “We’ll see.” He took another step back. His instincts told him she wouldn’t bolt.
“Take a seat, London.” He returned to his chair. “When you do, hands in your lap. After you listen to me you can decide if you wish to leave. It will be your choice.”
She hesitated, then nestled her behind onto the chair opposite him. She placed her hands in her lap. The thumb of one hand worked the palm of the other.
“Take off your mask. Show me your pretty face.”
She took a deep breath as her elegant fingers slipped off her disguise, pulling the fastening ribbon through her perfect hair. He wanted to capture her cheeks in his hands. He’d rub off the mask indents and erase the worry imprinted on her forehead.
“How long have you been without a master?” he asked.
“I-I’m not . . .” Her jawline hardened. “It’s none of your business.”
“That’s a shame. I’m good at business.” His mouth broke into a smile at the thought of bending her over her desk, papers sticking to her bared breasts, pens falling to the floor. He’d smack her ass with that leather portfolio she carried around like a shield. He wouldn’t stop until her engraved initials imprinted her skin.
“Why did you bring me here?” she whispered.
“You’re looking for a Dom. I’m a Dom looking for a sub.”
She flinched at his final word. “What do you want, Carson?”
What I want. Did it matter? He’d given up what he wanted long ago—a spirited submissive who matched his desires. Someone who might actually stick with him and not drop him the minute a better offer came through. He didn’t allow himself to think finding such a woman was possible anymore.
“Time. Willingness. Pleasure.” He folded his hands and laid his chin on his knuckles. “Now, I want to know what you want.”
“No, you don’t.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Toying with me will not get you anywhere, sweetness.”
“Isn’t that what you are doing with me?”
“Hardly.” He let silence take over the space.
“Then what?” she whispered after long minutes.
“Patience will be your first lesson tonight. Then I’ll consider you.”
“Consider me?” She gave him a hardened, fuck-off look.
“Yes. Last time. What do you want?”
He let a few seconds tick by. Then he stood. “If you won’t tell me why you’re here, what you seek, then I can’t help.”
“I-I didn’t mean . . . it isn’t easy . . .”
“You must answer my questions when I ask them. No delay. It’s for your safety and mine.”
Her lips pursed, her signal she realized she was losing. Her sassiness had its usual alluring appeal—futile, but adorable. She licked her bottom lip, the subtle move urging him forward.
“Stand,” he said.
She stood cautiously.
“What is your safeword?” he asked.
“Excuse me? A-a scene. With you? You’re a client. If anything ever got back—”
“Then we would both lose. And I don’t lose.”
“No, You take what you want and damn the consequences.”
“London.” He walked toward her and she backed around the chair. “What are you afraid of? Afraid you might get what you want? Experience what you’ve longed for?”
She let out a huff, but continued to retreat as he advanced. He sent her in a backward circle until she closed in on the canopied bed. Yes, most definitely submissive. The urge to discover how deep her desires ran raged through him like a brushfire.
“How would you know what I long for?” Her haughty chin jutted out.
“I want to know, London. Tell me.”
“Why?” She’d backed up until she connected with the bedpost.
“Fair question. And one I’ll answer. Given you and I dance well together at the boardroom table, why wouldn’t we here? Had I known your proclivities I might have offered. Why didn’t you come to me before?” How had he missed her signs?
“B-but you hate me.”
Now he was puzzled. “No, I don’t. You sometimes . . . irritate, but I could never hate you. Surely you noticed my tendencies.”
“Being a bully in a boardroom does not make you a Dominant I’d be interested in.”
“Ouch, London. That hurt.” He slapped his chest above his heart but kept his face stony.
“I didn’t think you could feel pain.”
“Everyone feels pain.” Her lips parted when he closed the last inch of distance between them. His thighs touched hers, and he softened his voice. “It pleases me you’re here. There’s no use in fighting this chemistry.” He hooked a thumb on his waistband. “One weekend.”
“What will you do with your harem?”
He unbuckled his belt. “Your second lesson. Don’t force discipline with a smart mouth.”
“I don’t have that kind of time.” She raised her impertinent jawline—again.
Lesson three: discipline your haughty chin.
“Not enough time to learn discipline or not enough time, in general?” The loud rasp of leather yanked through his belt loops sent her attention to his torso.
“What are you doing?” Her panicked gaze shot to his face.
“I don’t have a collar on me.”
“I am wholly disinterested in being collared.”
“One weekend, London.” He grasped one of her hips with his free hand. “If you’re disappointed at any time, you can walk. I’ll never speak of it again. Our work together will go unaffected. No one—and I mean no one—but us will know.”
“Would you put that in writing?” Her eyes filled with mischief.
Priceless. London lured him toward a lightning storm. He could play. Hell, nothing appealed in the moment more than a weekend playing with her. Yes, this is what he wanted. Now he needed to know if she was willing.
“I’ll do one better.” He snaked the belt around her waist until the leather rested against her hips.
“I’m not a notch on a belt.”
“You could never be a notch, London Chantelle. You’re the whole belt, sugar.”
Her face softened, and the playfulness in her eyes died. He recognized the deliberation behind them, the wonder if she’d be safe, here and at work. She needn’t have worried. She might get scared, but mutual satisfaction was the only way his brand of sexual fulfillment worked.
“Say yes or no.” He pressed his torso to her corseted body, the last space between her body and his obliterated. “But say yes.”
“What will happen if I say yes?”
“What you want. What you’ve probably always wanted.”
Her eyes misted with a surprising vulnerability. “Yes.”
What’s next? Read more in Untouchable, an Elite Doms of Washington novel.
Until then follow Lady Smut and get what you’ve always wanted, too.
Elizabeth SaFleur writes contemporary erotic romance and she’s not afraid to get a little graphic about it — “it” being the sex, the BDSM or Washington, DC society, which she regularly features in her series, the Elite Doms of Washington.