Sensual Thursday {26}: Mature love

 

So this week, I'm not gonna pimp out my new release - even though lord knows there's enough sex in it I could do a month's worth of Sensual Thursdays posts and not repeat a scene twice.  Nope, this week I'm going to switch gears a bit, and give you a glimpse of what I've been calling my secret project - I don't know if anyone else has noticed but one of my Doms of Chicago books has mysteriously disappeared from several store fronts and there's a good reason for it.  My sexy mature couple, Myrna and Alastair are getting a make over for Christmas.  Their story will not only be more polished, it will be highly expanded - as there has been several scenes that never made it into the final copy.  

So this week, I'm going to give you all a sneak peek into one of the new sexy scenes that will be included in the re-release.  Who says mature couples can't still have fun as well?

Snippet: 

“Relax.” Amery kept his tone soft – almost as soft as the nylon rope between his fingers. While not traditional as some shibari enthusiasts would demand, he loved the soft feel of the dark purple and pink paracord against his palms as he found the middle of the rope and divided it neatly in half. The soft supple fibers wouldn’t scratch his lovely sub’s skin like hemp would, nor would it bite like traditional cloth rope when she began to writhe against them – and she would writhe, or he wasn’t doing his job right.

Myrna shifted her weight from foot to foot while eying the length of rope he held. He could almost see the curiosity brewing inside her head. But would she go for it? Or hide behind excuses and platitudes about why she couldn’t?

“I…” she licked her lower lip before finally meeting his gaze. “I don’t think this is a good idea, Sir.”

He arched a brow as he closed the distance between them. “And why is that, sub?”

She flushed. “Well, I’m not as young as I used to be - nor am I as limber as most rope bunnies. Most shibari ties wouldn’t work…”

The side of his mouth kicked up. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that, m’gnogag?”

Her eyes widened as he draped the rope across her shoulders, allowing the long ends to lay across her impressive bust before spilling down the length of her body. The excess pooled on the floor at her feet.

He kept his gaze on her as he adjusted the cord, silently battling her insecurities with each deft twist of his fingers as he guided the rope into place. By the time he was done, the paracord would not only highlight, but accent how beautiful he truly found her.

2018 ©Dakota Trace All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. No portion of this work may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.

Monday Moans {13}: The mind can be a sexy thing...

Is there anything sexier than a man who likes to read?  Particularly if your stuff?  Nope...can't think of it.  (And no this man is not mine - mine I'm keeping all to myself!)
  

Monday Moans {5}: In His Pocket

There's just something sexy about sticking your hand in a man's pocket - the heat of his warmth through a thin layer of cloth as his leg flexes... *sigh*   So this week's Monday Moans is in tribute to all those folks who enjoy slipping their fingers into their man's pocket. 

#MySexySaturday {99}: Its time...

Once again it's time for #MySexySaturday! In this week's edition, Lynn wants to us to find those snippets about our heroes and heroines keeping it sexy.  A tall order if you're writing a book about a new couple. But lucky for me Under His Domme's Control is about an established couple. One that has been married for several years - so enjoy Steven and his Domme, Hope.  And don't forget to stop by the rest of the peeps blogs.  They always have something yummy on tap. 

Dakota 

Snippet: 

Do you trust me, Steven? 

With the memory of the first time she’d asked the question at the forefront, he swallowed hard and gazed up at the lit window. Just like on his wedding night, his apprehension ebbed away as Hope pushed back the curtain. Even not being able to clearly see her expression, his nerves settled. She just had that effect on him. Happy, sad, angry or even frustrated, that sexy moody bitch was his. His wife. His lover. His mistress. No matter her role after ten years, he loved her and knew she’d never truly hurt him. She would give him what he needed. 

He blew out a ragged breath. It was time. 

Time to face the music. 

He rolled his shoulders, then exited the car and pocketed his keys. He took one last glance at the dark shadow against the window, watching as she moved away – more than likely to wait at the top of the stairs for him. His punishment awaited, and in it he would find his salvation. And if his cock enjoyed the hell out of it – all the better. 

Opening the front door, he took a moment to kick off his shoes and toss his keys in the bowl on the credenza. He twisted the lock on the door, and set the alarm. He wasn’t stalling – just being neat like his mistress wanted – or so he told himself as he performed his nightly ritual of securing their home. Even though the crime rate was almost non-existent in their neighborhood, it satisified some primal part of him to protect his wife.

“I’m waiting.” The two words floated down the steps and sent a shiver up his spine. It was time.

Blurb: 

Steven has slipped up by lying to his wife, now it's up to his Mistress to bring him back on the straight and narrow.  But when he finds out the price for his deception will he still surrender?

©Dakota Trace All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. No portion of this work may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.