Public Display of Submission: The Dom Next Door #1

excessica publishing

Heat Rating: Sextreme
Word Count: 8,400
1 Ratings (4.0)

From Bestselling Erotic Romance and Erotica Author Erika Masten

Public Display of Submission: The Dom Next Door #1 An Explicit Erotic Short Story

If Sommer thinks that her neighbor Cade is a safe, sweet, boring guy just because he is soft-spoken and controlled, she’s got another thing coming. She’s about to find out, quite publicly, that the boy next door is more Dom than all her bad boys combined.

Light, romantic domination and submission erotica.

Bonus Material: Includes excerpts from His Submissive: Body Worship and Military Maledom: An Officer And A Dom by Erika Masten.

Warning: Explicit sexual content. Intended for mature readers only. All characters depicted in this story are 18 years or older, and all sexual activities are of a consensual nature.

Public Display of Submission: The Dom Next Door #1
1 Ratings (4.0)

Public Display of Submission: The Dom Next Door #1

excessica publishing

Heat Rating: Sextreme
Word Count: 8,400
1 Ratings (4.0)
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Excerpt

Cade greets me with a kiss on the cheek from those firm, silky lips before his gaze skims down my long legs, making me quiver in deep, private places. “The restaurant is in Garden Square. I thought we’d walk. The heels look great, but are they going to be a problem?”

“A problem?” I flip my long, loose curls and lift my chin. “I could do a six-minute mile in these things.”
He takes my hand, holding it tightly, and leads me down the porch steps. I thrill at the warmth of his skin, the careful strength I feel as his fingers lace through mine and give a playful squeeze. “That’s not quite what I had in mind for the evening, but it’s good to know I can put you through your paces just the same.”

Again, I imagine all sorts of subtext to that comment and fight back the urge to pull Cade back into my house for hot, half-dressed impulse sex.

We walk the four blocks to Garden Square, to a hip little café run by a prominent local chef famous for having sold off her successful New York City bistro to come back to her roots. Despite the handful of couples waiting along the low wall around the outdoor seating, the hostess calls Cade by name and takes us right to his usual table.

After the innuendo that I’ve been frantically interpreting and reinterpreting all afternoon, I find this reassuring. “A creature of habit, I take it?” I picture my sweet boy next door coming here for dinner three or four nights a week, always ordering the same thing, finishing with coffee or a glass of wine while he reads the evening edition. My imagination adds a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, even though I’ve never seen Cade wear any. All hot intellectual guys wear reading glasses, right?

Cade looks at me sidelong as his large hand comes to rest on the small of my back, guiding me to the leather booth tucked into the quietest corner of the restaurant. “Not quite. If I’m honest, it’s more about being a little on the possessive side. The chef is an old friend. I convinced her to take a chance on this place, and I drummed up a lot of business for her when the café first opened. Now I keep an eye on it, and I have a favorite table, yes. I suppose you could call me…territorial.”

Using words like possessive and territorial, and the way they sound in that deep but gentle voice, from those soft, full lips, isn’t helping me fight off the old tendencies or the fantasies of being pushed against a wall and having my panties ripped off at the end of our first date.

“That’s so sweet of you,” I tell Cade as I slide into the leather seat, but I’m mostly saying it to myself, reminding myself to stop projecting desires I’m trying to avoid onto every little thing Cade says or does. “To be so supportive of your friends… I should have invited you to dinner a long time ago. I need more guys like you in my life.” As soon as the statement is out of my mouth, I know it came out wrong. It sounds too platonic, too smug, like he’s a pet, a breed I’m interested in collecting.

This gets another chuckle and shake of Cade’s dark head. “And by sweet you mean safe, boring.” I stiffen, stunned that I’m so transparent, wondering what it is about the things I’ve said and done that made my assumptions so obvious. “S’okay, Sommer. It’s adorable that you think that of me. But you’re also…a little off the mark.” He leans in close, and I smell woody soap and a hint of citrus in his cologne, and my mouth waters. “Lack of tattoos and a motorcycle doesn't necessarily mean safe.”

The broad smile he gives me floods me with affection for his patience, his good-natured attitude, the humor he brings to tense moments. “I’ll take my chances,” I whisper coyly.

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