My name is Madame X.
I’m the best at what I do.
And you’d do well to follow my rules...
Hired to transform the uncultured, inept sons of the wealthy and powerful into decisive, confident men, Madame X is a master of the art of control. With a single glance she can cut you down to nothing, or make you feel like a king.
But there is only one man who can claim her body—and her soul.
Undone time and again by his exquisite dominance, X craves and fears his desire in equal measure. And while she longs for a different path, X has never known anything or anyone else—until now...
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A knock on the door, the silent swing of hinges, and then
heat and hardness behind me, a faint but intoxicating hint of cologne, the
creak of leather. Hands on my waist, lips at my neck. Breath on my skin.
I don’t dare tense, don’t dare suck in a sharp breath of
fear. I don’t dare pull away.
Strong, hard, powerful hands twist me in place, and an index
finger touches my chin, lifts my face, tilts my gaze. I cannot breathe, don’t
dare, haven’t been given permission.
“You are lovelier than ever, X.” A deep, smooth, cultured
voice, like the purr of a finely tuned engine.
“Thank you, Caleb.” My own voice is quiet, careful, my words
chosen and precise.
“Scotch.” The command is a murmur, barely audible.
I know how to prepare it: a cut-crystal tumbler, a single
ice cube, thick amber liquid an inch from the top. I offer the tumbler and
wait, keep my eyes downcast, hands behind my back.
“You were too harsh on Jonathan.”
“I must respectfully disagree.”
“His father expects results.”
I bristle, and it does not go unnoticed. “Have I ever failed
to produce results?”
“You sent him away after less than an hour.”
“He wasn’t ready. He needed to be shown his faults. He needs
to understand how much he has to learn.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Ice clinks, and I take the empty
tumbler, set it aside, and force myself to remain in place, force myself to
keep breathing and remind myself that I must obey. “I didn’t come here to
discuss Jonathan Cartwright, however.”
“I suppose not.” I shouldn’t have said that. I regret it as
soon as the words tumble free.
My wrist bones scrape together under a crushing grip. Hard
dark eyes find mine, piercing and frightening. “You suppose not?”
I should beg forgiveness, but I know better. I lift my chin
and meet those cold, cruel, intelligent dark eyes. “You know I will fulfill the
contract. That’s all I meant.”
“No, that isn’t all you meant.” A hand passes through
artfully messy black hair. “Tell me what you really meant, X.”
I swallow hard. “You’re here for what you always want when
you visit me.”
“Which is?” A warm finger touches my breastbone, slides into
the valley of my cleavage.
“Tell me what I want.”
“Me.” I whisper it, so not even the walls can hear.
“All too true.” My skin burns where that strong finger with
its manicured nail traces a cutting line up to my shoulder. “You test my
patience, at times.”
I stand stock-still, not even breathing. Breath whispers
across my neck, huffs hot on my nape, and fingers toy with the zipper of my
dress.
“I know,” I say.
And then, just when I expect to feel the zipper slide down
my spine, body heat recedes and that hot breath now laced with hints of scotch
is gone, and a single word sears my soul:
“Strip.”
My tongue scrapes over dry lips, and my lungs constrict, protesting
my inability to breathe. My hands tremble. I know this is expected of me, and I
cannot, dare not resist, or protest. And . . . part of me doesn’t want to. But
I wish . . . I wish for the freedom to choose what I want.
I have hesitated too long.
“X. I said . . . strip.” The zipper slides down to between
my shoulder blades. “Show me your skin.”
Reaching behind my back, I lower the zipper to its nesting
place at the base of my spine. Hard, insistent hands assist me in brushing the
sleeves from my shoulders, down my arms, and then the dress is floating to the
floor at my feet. That’s all the help I’ll get. I know from long experience
that I must make a show of what comes next.
I turn my head, and see tanned skin and the perpetual
two-day stubble on a refined, powerful jawline, sharp cheekbones, firm, thin
lips, black eyes like voids, eyes that drip desire. My hair drapes over one
shoulder. I lift one knee so my now-bare toes touch the gleaming teak, curl my
shoulders in, let my gaze show my vulnerability. With a deep breath, I unhook
my bra, let the garment fall away.
I reach for my underwear.
“No,” comes the purr, “leave them. Let me.”
I let my fingers graze my thighs, wait. My underwear slides
down slowly, and where fingers touch, so too do lips, hot and damp, touching my
skin, and I cannot flinch, cannot pull away or express how badly I want only to
be alone, to even once have the right to want something else.
But I do not have that right.
Jasinda Wilder is
a New York Times, USA Today, Wall Street
Journal, and international bestselling author. She is a Michigan native and
currently lives there with her family. Visit her official website at jasindawilder.com.
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