"Claire has the world round her little finger – she's young, gorgeous, sociable and fun. She's not short of admirers, and in Tristan she has a fanboy who only lives to serve her. From doing her shopping to massaging her thighs, Claire is glad to have him as her sweet, domesticated pet.
Then Claire meets Paul, the best-looking, most powerful and enigmatic man she's ever known, and feels as awestruck in his presence as Tristan does in hers. But Claire is about to learn the dark side of Paul's love, which involves strict rules and even stricter punishment. And when her ass feels the first imperious smack of his hand, it's only the beginning of her education in submission.
""The most erotic thing I've read in years... a lovely spiral into the depths of submission."" -Portfolio Editor, Erotica Reader's Association "
Claudia R., Manic Readers Reviews
"The writing was fabulous, the words flowing together smoothly… There are twists and turns in the story that left me pleasantly surprised, and all and all I would recommend this book to readers if you are into a darker erotic tale."
"Claire Kelsey was a phenomenon, and everyone around her knew as much. Still only twenty-two, yet her life had always been so extraordinarily full, with so many branches and byways that even she could never hope to know them all. So many phases and cycles, friends and lovers, colours and contradictions… life around Claire could never be boring and seldom be comfortable, and her effect on men was as disastrous as a magnet on a watch. Being near her was always an event, both to the few who despised her intensely, and to the many who admired or adored her with varying degrees of infatuation.
For there was no middle way with Claire-the only reaction she could never arouse was indifference. She seemed to radiate an intensity and inner purpose even while asleep, or washing up, or changing nappies. She was not the kind of girl who pours the slurry of grey reason down her front and lets it stain her-instead she felt and lived and did, precisely as it pleased her. And yet it was impossible to know anything for sure, for like all the beautiful insecure, Claire could lie like breathing.
For Tris, just being in the same world as Claire was sufficient to put him in a perpetually heightened state; sharing the same room volted him with a sense of wonder, need, and despair combined that had narcotic power. His need for a fix of her drug, his utter dependency on it to give meaning to what was otherwise an arid life, would not, he felt, be much diminished if she lost her arms and legs. She was his goddess, but in some ways a curiously vulnerable one.
At heart Claire knew entirely her attractions and her worth, but even so there were some traits-pangs of guilt about her fatherless son, worries about phantom fat-that Tristan found bizarre yet deeply touching. For some reason, he even associated her left-handedness amongst these counter-facets of his inimitable Claire; to see her coping gamely with lumpen objects designed by and for the mundane mass was inexpressibly moving, and there were times when his longing to cradle her in his arms surpassed even his sat-upon desires.
But there was something else about her that compounded his addiction, and mocked all puerile thoughts of breaking free; Claire was-and only here could friends and enemies alike agree-a startlingly good-looking girl. This was not, however, the sort of concision Tris himself would use. If asked to describe Claire’s beauty - and it was often she who did so - he would throw his hands up at the hopelessness of the task, before trying every word of wonder that he knew. Men who simply passed her in the street were rather more succinct, and she had long since steeled herself to whispered exclamations never meant to reach her ears.
Had she been asked to list them, plaudits she might recall spanned from the relative decorum of a simple “phaw!” down to the crude if most sincere “Could I fuck that or what!!..” If pressed on the most common summary to waft back down the pavement, she might choose: “My! what a pretty face-nice figure too!”-a verbatim statement of the obvious from a man of eighty-two. But, given a truth-drug or the latter stages of a piss-up with the girls, she would have no choice but to repeat, with bashful pride, that so often-heard and plaintive cri de coeur, “Wow! - just look at the ass on that!”