Who wouldn’t want to marry a rock star? That’s what Petra told herself when she agreed to fly from Minsk to Los Angeles—a mail-order bride to the lead singer of Bluebeard, one of the most popular American rock bands of the twentieth century. The question really was—why would a rock star want to marry her? Find out in this modern take on the Bluebeard fairy tale by Selena Kitt!
Warning: This title contains elements of BDSM including domination, submission and spanking. It also makes mention of sex, drugs, rock and roll, masturbation, German philosophers, Hindu goddesses, and an incorrigible pug dog who likes to steal things, including your heart!
...[A] really spicy read. I have read several books by Ms. Kitt, and they are always good. Warning, if you wear eye glasses, you may want to keep a rag handy to wipe off the fog you will get from reading this book...[The characters] were smoking together. This book will have you looking at fairy tales in a whole new light.
More From Modern Wicked Fairy Tales
“What?” She looked up at him, inquisitive, his presence making her already racing heart skip beats, fighting the urge to put her arms around him.
“I gave Max and Mrs. Ribya the day off.” Blue slipped his arms around her waist, lifting her, breathing in her scent.
She gasped, crying out in surprise at his touch. “You did? Why?”
“Because you’ve been a very, very bad girl.” He nuzzled her neck, his hands moving lower, oh god, grabbing her ass, lifting her higher! “And you need to be punished.”
“Blue!” She cried out as he squatted down, easily hefting her over his shoulder. She squealed all the way down the hall, wiggling on his arms. “What are you doing? Put me down? Milyi!”
The poor little pug was only one left in the house she could call for help!
“He’s locked in your room, remember?” Blue smacked her ass—hard! “By the way, he dropped the key under the dining room table.”
“How did you…?” But of course he knew. Her heart sank. The cameras. They were everywhere. And Max. Had he been watching? Oh god, he would have told Blue everything.
“Please, put me down. Let me explain.”
She cried out again. He was angry—an emotion she didn’t often see in him. She could tell by the way he strode down the hall, her body bouncing as he carried her down the stairs. “I’m going to give you one more chance to do as I say.”
One more chance. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes, praying he was taking her to his bedroom. Oh, god, his unlocked bedroom. He knew she’d been in there too. And were there cameras…? No!
“You’re familiar with this room, aren’t you?”
Her eyes flew open as she twisted, trying to see. He strode through the carved door, slamming it hard behind him. Was this it, then? Would she be one of those mail-order brides murdered by their American husbands?
“Blue, please,” she begged. My god, he’d her carried across the whole house, down a flight of stairs, and he hadn’t even broken a sweat!
Then he was opening the second the door, the one she hadn’t unlocked. He didn’t use a key. She saw it all upside down, making it even more surreal. There was a bed in the corner, similar to the one in his room, a four-poster. Over the bed there were decorations on the wall, things reminiscent of his concert days—floggers, crops, ball-gags, handcuffs.
Then he was sitting, putting her upright in front of him, pulling her into his lap. Her head swam and she clung to him, so surprised by his nearness, the way he grabbed her, touched her, after months of so much distance between them.
“Where are we?” she whispered, wanting to look around more, but unable to take her eyes off his. They were dark, animalistic—and angry. She wiggled in his lap and he grabbed her hips, growling low in his throat.
“Hold still,” he hissed. “Don’t make me tear this dress off you.”
The blood drained from her face, heading straight between her thighs.