Book 3 in the Nature of Desire series. They call her the Ice Queen. At the exclusive BDSM club known as The Zone, Mistress Marguerite is a legend. Tyler Winterman has been fascinated with her since he's known her, though the rules of their world say they shouldn't share more than mutual admiration. He is her male counterpart, one of the most powerful male Doms practicing at The Zone. Due to a computer error, Marguerite lacks the mentoring program stipulation required of all Zone Doms, which includes spending a number of hours learning about BDSM from the submissive's perspective. Tyler considers it an act of fate that Marguerite chooses him to be the Dom who helps her fulfill that requirement. He is convinced she is a "switch", a closet submissive, but the truth will be even more remarkable than the theory, changing their lives in ways neither of them anticipates. Having no equal except one another in their skills at stripping a sub's defenses bare, these two Dominants will turn their considerable talents on each other and discover that who is Master and who is slave doesn't matter, not when two souls have found their mate. Note: This book contains a stark portrayal of the intense BDSM lifestyle. Some of the situations and scenes may be disturbing to some readers. It is not for the faint of heart.
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Ellora's Cave Publishing Inc
November 13, 2009
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Adobe DRM EPUB
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Excerpt from Ice Queen by Joey W. Hill
"Every event in our lives is a chance for the civilized to be stripped away, exposing the darkest side of who we are. Our veneer is our only hope of maintaining the illusion that we can be something better," Marguerite commented.
Tyler noted she now had one hand gripping the other tightly, nails digging into her flesh. "My point..." she said quietly.
Her leg uncrossed, a simple, pleasurable act to watch. A blink too late, he recognized the diatribe and sexual tease for the distractions they were. Surging forward, she clasped the handle of the cake knife in her hand, flipped her grip on it and planted the blade in the narrow space between the third and fourth fingers of his left hand resting on the table. She sunk it clean and deep, cutting through table cloth and solidly into the wood itself so the knife stood on its own, the blade quivering.
Tyler maintained his stillness, even as every muscle tensed in readiness. He'd been in circumstances before where his life depended on razor-sharp intuition, on knowing exactly how to react. Even so, he felt the fury simmer in him at the challenge he would have met equally if he sat across from a man.
"Do you want my violence, Marguerite? Am I that much of a threat to you?"
She stared at him a long moment, her delicate nostrils flaring, her face inches from his. "My point--" she repeated in measured tones, though he almost felt the vibration from her body, an overwhelming tension she was not permitting to become trembling, "--is that savagery is our true nature, Tyler. Like this cake knife, created for such a lovely purpose, to share an elegant dessert. It's a killing instrument, able to be something else only until someone's veneer cracks."
Leaving the knife, she found her tea cup without looking for it, tenting her fingers over it like a spider. "Don't fuck with mine."
Deliberately, Tyler pulled his hand free of the restriction of the knife. Covering her tense hand on the teacup, he pushed it, with her hand still atop, back to her side of the table, easing her back to her chair.
She resisted each inch. Not a fight, but enough so that he had to exert pressure. Their eyes remained locked together until she reached the point where she would need to slide her hips, and then suddenly she gave way, gracefully easing back from his touch. Settling into the chair as if he had simply held it out for her as was her due. It was impressive, but he was logging other signals. The pounding pulse in her throat, the intensity of her gaze. The fact that she, who had so many carefully cherished items in her shop, had so brutally and quickly destroyed the top of a valuable antique table.
"Marguerite." He rose, removing the knife. Holding her gaze, he lifted one of her hands and laid the handle of the knife in her palm, closing her fingers over it. "I'll take you through the sub requirement if you choose to accept me. But I won't lie for you. You decide what's more important. Your veneer, or what The Zone provides for you. You're not a coward. Don't act like one."
She didn't look at him. Merely sat motionless and focused on the scene outside the picture window. The gathering night, a bird taking her last sip of water from the lap of a stone Indian goddess. The light flutter of the leaves of a silver green eucalyptus tree from an unseen breeze.
Marguerite didn't have to look at Tyler to feel his movements, the impact of his expression. She'd faced dangerous situations before but suddenly antagonizing him seemed one of her more foolish calculated risks. Perhaps because she'd not calculated at all, simply reacted. Compelled past control, which had never before been a problem for her.
He released her, moved past her chair. Leaving. She watched the bird move to the ground to scavenge what could be found there. She tried hard to concentrate on that, the mental reminder to replenish the feeder, instead of trying to see Tyler's reflection in the glass, ashamedly hungry to see his form.
She was successful enough that she jumped, unprepared when his hands came down on her shoulders. The fingers of his right hand curled in her braid, digging in so the tension tilted her head to the right and exposed her neck to the heat of his mouth closing over her jugular.
The power of the sensation exploded in her body with the violence of a grenade. It was something she'd never felt before. A man's touch, uninvited and overpowering, had never felt like this. Never something she thought she'd welcome.
He'd chosen a method of retaliation to her mad act which simply swept the floor and the walls away, leaving just the magic of his lips on her skin.
Suckling her, he scored her with his teeth. Muscles were drawing taut low in her belly, and she felt the amazing sensation of wetness on her thighs. Cupping the silk-clad curves of her shoulders in his large hands, he tightened his grip as his fervor increased, his lips moving up her throat to her jaw line. She found herself leaning to the right and back, almost cradled in the curve of his right arm. Overwhelmed by this unexpected turn of events, she couldn't grasp why she was allowing this or what was happening to her. Only when he moved from the line of her jaw to the corner of her mouth did fear and sanity return.
"No...no." She struggled to get the words past her lips. Turning to press her head against her shoulder, it put her forehead against the heat of his hand, his hard knuckles.
He stopped, his lips at her ear, his breath caressing her. His left hand dropped down to where she clasped the knife in two tight fists. She hadn't realized she'd brought her hands together in such a manner. When he closed his palm over the pointed end and bore down, she jerked as the blade punctured his flesh. He turned his palm up so she could see the blood well up from the Venus mound. It trickled along the life line as he tilted his palm and guided the slow, thin flow of blood down to his index finger. She inhaled sharply as he traced the line of her neck with the warm wetness.
"I'm not afraid to bleed for you, Marguerite." His voice was a rough whisper against her ear. "I'll tell The Zone you're thinking it over. Don't disappoint me. Or yourself."