From Bestselling Erotica Author Erika Masten The First Title In A New 8-Part Erotic Romance Serial
At His Whim: His #1 (A Billionaire Domination Serial)
Chloe Bloom is running away from a life’s worth of unfaithful men, the most recent being society scion Penn Ellison. The South American cruise is supposed to be her chance to forget her problems in exotic locales and the arms of gorgeous strangers, if only her heart and libido would cooperate.
Adrian Knight lets people think he’s the manager of the luxury resort on the private Brazilian island of Ilha de Flor when in truth he’s the owner, a perfectly poised example of the kind of rake you get with a few generations of ridiculous wealth. Sex is a transaction for him, until Chloe Bloom walks out of the arms of Knight’s lifelong rival and into his resort.
With Chloe looking to explore this particularly male concept of lust without love, and Adrian unable to resist his competitive urge to claim what his rival lost, it’s a matter of time before she is on her knees and at his whim.
Length: 12,500 words
Bonus Material: Includes excerpts from erotica shorts Weekend Submissive and Sweet Resistance: The Dom Next Door #2 by Erika Masten.
Warning: Explicit sexual content, including elements of light domination. Intended for mature readers only. All characters depicted in this story are 18 years of age or older, and all sexual activities are of a consensual nature.
In the span of a moment, a hand slid warm and firm along my back, another on my upper arm, and a voice like good liquor burning its way through my insides sounded just behind the curve of my ear. Lemon and champagne. “You didn’t give me your name.”
When I jumped at the touch, at the sound, at the warm breath against my skin, Adrian’s hands tightened on me as though to steady me. My body, my whole body, throbbed as he gripped me hard. That was a first for me, such a visceral reaction to being grabbed by a man. Though touching someone’s arm or back during greeting and conversation was common in Brazil, that was among friends or at least warm acquaintances. Adrian Knight was taking liberties, and I was sure he knew that. I heard him breathe out a low chuckle before I spun to face him, nearly dumping my plate down his linen shirt and perfectly fitted black pants.
“Easy there,” he said, almost pointedly not stepping back to give me space, looming over me. At five-foot-six, I was used to men being three or four inches taller, but with Knight it was more like six or eight. Even three-inch heels didn’t make up for it. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Liar, I wanted to shout, surprising myself with the force of the thought. But something inside me coiled, flushed with anger and…and sudden lust, irrationally convinced now that Knight’s teasing was wholly intentional.
Calm down, Chloe, I told myself. What was that about being all logic and to hell with intuition? The man hadn’t done anything but embarrass me a bit and surprise me over the dessert table. Well, that and plug my libido directly into a power outlet, from the feel of it.
Knight slowly withdrew his hands to clasp them at the small of his back, but he still leaned close, towering. “You are?” he prodded again.
Straightening, feeling a hot blush flood my face and neck, I was determined to salvage the moment and a scrap of dignity. A deep breath. Not too deep, not too noticeable, I hoped. “Chloe Bloom.”
His lips, dark rose and plump and surrounded by a roguish dusting of carefully cultivated five o’clock shadow, pursed around a suggestion of a grin before he repeated, “Chloe Bloom.” Odd, that tone of satisfaction, like he’d already known the answer. More likely it was satisfaction at my reaction, at seeing how obviously his presence was affecting me. “Would you dine at my table with me, Miss Bloom?”
Absolutely not. That was what I said inside my head. I had only just today stopped being utterly numb from walking away from Penn, whom I had thought I loved. I had only just now found myself physically attracted to another man. The next stage in breakup recovery was lots of sugar and a little bit of weeping into a pillow. Not sitting next to a torturously handsome man with a mischievous gleam in his eyes and a certain something about him that I could not place.
“Certainly,” I said.