From Bestselling Erotic Romance and Erotica Author Erika Masten The Third Title In A New Eight-Part Erotic Domination And Submission Romance Serial Available for 99 Cents Through Its Debut Weekend Only!
The Art Of Domination 3: Catchlight A Domination and Submission Romance
Since the day Iva Moreau walked into photographer Nolan Beal’s studio and demanded he stop using her baby sister as his erotic model, only to end up being compelled to pose for him herself in exchange for her sister’s model release, a storm has been building inside the former wild girl artist. Her head wants her to take the safe and responsible path of suburban life and a conventional academic or commercial career, as a teacher or a graphic designer. Her heart, however, has thrown its lot in with the seductive bad boy—and sexual Dominant—and with the passionate creative life he embodies in all the most sensual and dangerous ways. As Iva indulges her hunger for the directing hand of her alpha Svengali, telling herself she can flee back to safety once her appetite has been sated, the pressure builds inside her and the façade she wears to protect herself from judgment—and from love—begins to crack.
The touted opening of Beal’s nouveau noir erotic art exhibition nears, and what began for Nolan as fascination with his defiant model and submissive has become a possessive urge to strip Iva of her protections and pretenses and lay her bare in a way no other man has ever known her. He hadn’t expected that the process to churn old memories, from growing up unwanted on the streets to the rise of his high-profile career from the rubble of his mentor’s. The more he pries Iva open, the more vulnerable and alluring she becomes, and the stronger the temptation to let her see the Nolan no one knows.
As two artistic, passionate, and wounded souls come together in a dance of sexual and emotional domination and submission, Iva and Nolan will have to decide which is the greater pain, that of lying even to themselves about who they are or the risk letting someone close enough to see behind the masks and the photographic effects.
Novella Length: 22,300 words or roughly 75 traditional print pages.
This is a domination and submission romance containing strong sexual content 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.
Bonus Material: Includes excerpt from domination erotica short Valentine’s Dom by Erika Masten and blurb from BBW domination romance Going Too Far (The Curvy Submissive) by Jordan Bell.
The Art Of Domination Series The Art of Domination: Model Release The Art of Domination 2: Photo Slave The Art of Domination 3: Catchlight The Art of Domination 4: Dominant Object The Art of Domination 5: Soft Focus The Art of Domination 6: Double-Exposure The Art of Domination 7: Safelight The Art of Domination 8: Flare
Catchlight. That was the photographic term for the glimmer of a highlight, the reflection, in someone’s eyes in a portrait. I glimpsed that in Nolan’s eyes now, a natural play of light, and looked away. He was already heartthrob, heartbreak handsome without it. The gleam lent his hard-edged good looks a certain softness, a pensiveness. It suggested disarming vulnerability, close-held emotions at work somewhere deep under the surface. I wondered if he was doing that, looking like that, on purpose. He would have known just how to pose and tilt his head to catch the light, wouldn’t he? To stage the moment, all on command?
Between me where I sat on the side of his low platform bed and Nolan perched on his massive black antique desk hung a clear and fragile silence. Dim rays of light striped the space from here to there, as a winter dawn sifted over the city skyline and into the apartment above his studio. This distance and quiet gloom provided no buffer for the palpable weight of his scrutiny on my skin, and on my thoughts. I sat there rigid in my black lace bra and panties, hiding behind the long, untamable wave of brown curls and reaching out blindly for my blouse. It was somewhere on the floor beside the bed, the once pristine garment now a crumpled white swatch of cotton bereft of at least two buttons.
With clumsy fingers working at the first button I found, midway down, I slipped my feet into my shoes and stood unsteadily. Then I realized these weren’t my sensible loafers but the femme fatale stilettos the photographer provided for me to wear during our private photo shoots and when he took me to clubs and sometimes when I was wearing nothing else and he was holding my wrists crossed behind my back and grinding himself into me relentlessly.
I took a deep breath to clear that thought and to still the trembling in my tightening stomach. Where would my slacks have been? Beside the desk where Nolan had bent me over to spank me with his thick leather belt, or had that been the night before? Two nights back? They blurred. I’d been belted over that desk and on the vanity against one wall. I had crawled naked across the floor for him and knelt under his desk sucking his hard cock while he made business phone calls. I had even leaned exposed against the cold glass of one of those tall industrial windows lining the wall of his apartment while he explored my quavering pussy and even the anxious bud of my virgin anus with his long tanned fingers.
He hadn’t let me come, not once during all of that, because I had yet to sign the slave contract he had presented to me. We could play, he’d said, meaning he would work me into a fever of need and exasperation and even anger. But no more. Not until I signed the contract establishing our sexual limits. I could only imagine how that would have undermined my emotional boundaries, so the contract remained folded up in my purse, the signature line blank.
All of this had dominated my life and my thoughts over just the five days since I had relented and given myself permission to indulge the desperate hunger kindled in the very deepest pit of me for Nolan Beal and his glamorously chaotic life as an artist. He paid the bills and bought Aston Martins with his work as a celebrity and fashion photographer, but strip the man down and he was just a roguish hedonist with a camera in one hand and a fifty-dollar bottle of rum in the other. A cult of personality, and one that I couldn’t resist worshipping like everyone else, so it seemed.
This lifestyle—up all night working and partying, sleeping all morning, surrounded by creative people and stunning models—and the affair I had begun with Nolan Beal as the subject of his photos and as his sexual submissive, these eroded the clean edges of daily life. Most of the last few days, I’d felt far too exhilarated for a woman so sleep deprived. And far too vulnerable and intimately connected to Nolan Beal for having met him less than three weeks ago. It was a false sense of closeness and familiarity. I had submitted myself to Nolan and these sensations in the name of overindulgence, with the idea that the hair of the dog that had bitten me could also somehow cure me. Instead I had put Beal in the perfect position to generate, orchestrate, manipulate my every thought and need.
I had predicted I would get sick of this quickly enough, thought I would remember all the reasons I had left this artist’s life after college, thought my attraction to this bacchanalian bad boy would wane. This was supposed to be “getting him out of my system.” That was still a possibility, I insisted to myself. But how many days more before the hunger dulled? Another five? Ten? Not so long, really, but every night spent writhing in bliss at Beal’s touch felt like ten times that number cut away from the three years I had behaved myself, had gone to my respectable secretarial job at the university while I waited for an assistant teaching position to open up. If I stayed here much longer….
“Iva.” Nolan’s voice didn’t rumble or growl so much as roll, deep and smooth with just the edges roughed. Like his sipping rum. I closed my eyes and let it pour down through me, stinging and warm. “Iva,” he said again, and I relented and let the tension in my shoulders go when I realized he meant for me to look at him.
Give in, Iva. No point in fighting it. This is the reason you’re here.
Nolan still sat barefooted on his desk, with his knees spread in an open display of confidence and comfort, wearing only his jeans and that ever-present heavy metal cross. He leaned to one side, elbow balanced on his muscular thigh, and held a plain white, diner-style coffee cup cradled in his hand. God, no mortal man should have had abs like that, at least as tight and defined as an Olympic swimmer’s. With his hair ruffled and an extra quarter-inch of stubble beyond his usual well-trimmed five o’clock shadow, he looked mussed and sleepy and impossibly sensual. After two and a half weeks, I didn’t wince so badly, but it still hurt to look at a man that beautiful.
I waited for the command. Crawl to him and open my mouth. Bare myself. Spread myself. Or else it would be one of his questions, the kind that made me wonder if he was reading my mind, prying into private hurts and treasured memories. My heart seized mid-beat when I saw him gather a breath to speak.
“That’s my shirt.”