From Bestselling Erotic Romance and Erotica Author Erika Masten The First Title In A New Eight-Part Erotic Domination And Submission Romance Serial
The Art Of Domination: Model Release A Domination and Submission Romance
Reformed wild girl Iva Moreau is doing a passable job of convincing herself that leaving behind the artist lifestyle for the safety of suburbia and the respectability of academia is the mature decision. She suffers her job as an Art Department secretary at Vandergriff University, belittled by her supervisor and pursued by lecherous professors, as willing penance for her former life on the art scene and all the damage it ultimately did not only to Iva but to her family. But she can’t maintain that distance when her baby sister, Cheri, starts down a path all too familiar to Iva.
Unrepentant bad boy Nolan Beal is the up-and-coming rock star of the photography world with a seven-figure salary snapping shots for glossy fashion magazines and his own nouveau noir erotic exhibition at the gallery in town for controversial and provocative art. His work explores power and the hypocrisy behind sex… and the masks people use to hide their true natures and desires even from themselves. Themes of domination and submission run as rife through his life and his liaisons with beautiful woman as they do through his photographs.
When Iva shows up at Nolan’s studio to demand that the photographer stop using her younger sister as a model for his erotic exhibition, an instant recognition and attraction between them causes the very different masks they wear to slip. And they strike a deal. In exchange for Iva submitting to one modeling session for Beal, he will give her Cheri’s signed model release and relinquish the right to use the photographs forever. The perfect solution, giving Iva the chance to see once again how self-destructive the hedonistic artist’s lifestyle is while she is also saving Cheri from the same mistakes, and providing Nolan with the opportunity to crack the false front Iva presents to the world and possess the passionate submissive he senses behind her defenses.
Neither are prepared for the passions released by the first meagre glimpses of the true Nolan and Iva behind the masks.
Novella Length: 24,600 words or roughly 80 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 excerpts from bestselling At His Whim: His #1 (A Billionaire Domination Serial) and the domination and submission romance novel The Ringmaster: Cirque de Plaisir by Erika Masten.
The Art Of Domination Series The Art of Domination: Model Release (release date 1/3/2014) The Art of Domination 2: Photo Slave (release date 1/10/2014) The Art of Domination 3: Catchlight (release date 1/17/2014) The Art of Domination 4: Dominant Object (release date 1/24/2014) The Art of Domination 5: Soft Focus (release date 1/31/2014) The Art of Domination 6: Double-Exposure (release date 2/7/2014) The Art of Domination 7: Safelight (release date 2/14/2014) The Art of Domination 8: Flare (release date 2/21/2014)
There wasn’t anything pleasant, to be sure, in the painful skip I felt in my chest or the sloshing wave of nausea swirling inside my stomach when I saw the photographer again. He wasn’t even looking this direction and I was feeling the same panic I had the first time we’d made eye contact.
What’s he going to do to you, Iva?
From behind, the sculpted musculature of Beal’s tanned back tapered gradually into his lean torso. Because he obviously worked out, the contour along his spine was pronounced and as flowing as Michelangelo’s David. I didn’t think I’d ever wanted to touch something quite so much—or resented the urge so thoroughly.
No tattoos. I wasn’t sure why I expected, even wanted, tattoos. Not the kind like my grandfather had. Pop’s were military, meaningful; they said something about where he had been and what he had done with his life. On Beal, I expected whatever was hip at the moment, maybe something tribal on a bicep or something wicked and gothy on his chest or arching along his back from shoulder to shoulder. That was the stereotype, I guessed. And if he had at least fit stereotype, I could have at least relied on that to anticipate him… and to disregard him.
It was eight at night, and Beal didn’t look like a moment had passed since I’d left, as he whirled from a little knot of other models and activity to face the sound of my footsteps. My breaths squeezed unevenly up through my tightened throat in a staccato beat of shallow huffs that would barely have stirred a hair. Why had I assumed we’d be alone, just the photographer and assistant and I? Small mercy I didn’t see Cheri in the group.
“The brown-eyed girl returns,” Nolan said as he sauntered toward me with a disconcerting display of firm muscle shifting under smooth skin, still bare-chested. Maybe the jeans had changed, but I was trying not to stare. It still hurt to look at him in the way it hurt to look too closely at the sun. The hair was still perfect, and he still smelled like the pages of a glossy men’s fashion magazine, the kind with ads and samples for expensive colognes the average guy would never be able to afford or even pronounce. He wore a smile that was no more than a suggestion, an impression, or maybe just my wishful thinking seizing on something that wasn’t really there. Just lights and makeup and Photoshop, this whole place, all these people.
Now one thick, neat sable brow twitched in a moment of what might have been surprise or… satisfaction as Beal looked me in the face, then up and down. “No makeup. Clean, loose hair. Comfy, zippered sweats that are easy to get into and out of,” he observed, and numerous parts of me shivered under his scrutiny. “Someone might think you know the way this works, Miss Moreau. You have a background in modeling?”
This question annoyed me, as we both knew I was too short and weighed too much to be a model in any traditional sense. I wasn’t heavy or stumpy, but I also wasn’t the lanky, willowy, long-limbed type required for fashion and lingerie modeling. Tipping my head impatiently to one side and grimacing up at Beal, I bit out a curt, “No.”
“Then as an artist,” he said with a smug grin—not asked, stated, like I’d answered more than one question with considerably more than a one-word response. Like I’d helped him win a bet to which I wasn’t party.
My annoyance cut the adrenaline and sensory noise vibrating through my body, steadying me, affording me a moment to catch my breath. “Let’s get this done,” I told him, and I was proud of myself for keeping a firm, unaffected tone when I was anything but.
Beal lifted his square chin and peered down his strong, straight, model-perfect nose at me. “Right to business, just like this morning. That how you always operate, Miss Moreau? No pleasantries or dawdling or rose-smelling?”
Ironic, I thought, that his small talk came off as particularly pointed and purposeful, like a verbal Rorschach text. But why would he need to assess me? What exactly was he hoping to find out? And then, what was he planning on doing with that information? The sudden anxiety that he was looking for a way to renege on our agreement gripped the base of my spine like a fist.
“Your dime, remember,” I growled through clenched teeth, recalling his earlier insistence that his studio was his realm, a place where he directed the creative bedlam, controlled it, bought and paid for it.
I pointedly leaned to one side to look past him at the audience pretending not to watch us from the corners of their eyes: ferrety Stan, the caramel blond Rilla (so the assistant had called her), another shirtless male model with messy golden hair and a strangely familiar rock star look to him, the little slip of a brunette I recognized as the makeup artist I’d seen that morning, and a malnourished-looking redheaded teen girl sporting raccoon-ish black eyeliner and skater flannel over ripped jeans.
“Am I working with them?” I asked, voice cracking briefly. I tried to swallow the tremor as I heard it, but by then it was too late.
Those dark dark blue eyes registered his keen attention to my reaction. “No, I was just wrapping up with them. It always takes a while to transition, though. You mind, Iva? Rather we worked alone?”
“No,” I blurted, my negative reaction being split between the suggestion that I would want to be alone with Beal and the unnerving intimacy of hearing him use my first name. Luckily, my response actually sounded like I was answering his questions instead of cursing in distress. “Can we just—?”
“Get this done, yes.” The photographer straightened a little, enough to remind me he had at least six or seven inches on my five-and-a-half-foot height. The posture broadened his shoulders and chest, like… like a bird of prey spreading his wings just before…. Just before what, Iva? Strangely, I wondered if the gesture was a prelude to devouring me or sheltering me, falling upon me or taking me under those wings.
“Take your clothes off,” he instructed with his voice lowered and smoothed. When my eyes flared so wide they felt like saucers, a smirk flashed at one corner of Beal’s full lips. Bastard. He was thinking devour, definitely devour. And he had the nasty habit of playing with his food. With the nod of his head, the man motioned to one of three small dressing rooms. Thick black curtains gaped to reveal crumpled street clothing on the floor, dresses and lingerie hanging from knobby metal pegs. “Your outfits for the shoot are in the middle room.”