1. Do you only work on one book at a time?
Yes and no. I usually only draft one book at a time, but while that’s happening
I plot out a second book and, if things align, edit a third. This is perfect
for me because when I get annoyed with one project, I hop to the next!
2. Who is your favorite fictional couple? What
a tough question! Danielle and Prince Henry from Ever After are definitely at
the top of that list. I love the way they change each other for the better.
Their interactions are romantic and funny and they have the most interesting
power dynamic inversion as this independent, strong-willed peasant shows the
dashing prince how to stand for his beliefs—even when that includes falling in
love with a commoner.
3. Favorite TV show? Sherlock. Well, most
anything on the BBC, but I enjoy having a mini-series so I can gorge on it and
then fangirl over it for a year until it returns. I also love to have an excuse
to look at this picture every day.
4. Do you set daily writing goals? Word count?
Number of chapters? Do you get a chance to write every day? My only goal is
to write every day. Sometimes it’s a blog post and sometimes it’s 5,000 words.
I’m very fortunate to have a schedule that allows me to make time for it.
5. Who was the last person you hugged?
Does my dog count? I have a sweet old pup who’s feeling a little achy, so she
gets super cuddles.
BLURB:
One scorching-hot lesson could leave
her begging for more.
The Maison Chronicles, Book 3
Reeling from the double whammy of
her Dom’s abandonment, and accusations of colluding with a plagiarizing author,
all literary agent Camille Winter wants is some low-profile, drama-free quality
time.
Just as she’s settling into a
Maison Domine cabin with her to-be-read pile and a full slate of spa
appointments, she finds herself sweet talked into playing topless assistant so
some Dominant can run a BDSM educational demo.
Architect Damien Winter is on a
relationship hiatus, so he focuses his dominant energies on teaching BDSM
classes. A chance encounter in Maison’s parking lot with a woman who angrily
insists she’s no sub—though every line of her body screams otherwise—turns
shocking when she winds up as temporary replacement for his demonstration
partner.
Damien is unprepared for the way
her beautiful submission gets under his skin. And Camille never thought she’d
fall, hard, for just the kind of man she’s sworn off. But when her ex’s vague
threats turn serious, Damien fears he’s already lost the chance to claim her
for his own.
Three hours later, he was on his
way up to Maison Domine. With his smartphone calling out directions, he could
keep all his focus on the scenery and the satellite rock station he was piping
through his speakers. The freeways of LA weren’t much for the view, but once he
hit the mountains…wow. It was like the trees drained away all his tension. Or
maybe he was relaxing because he was closer to sating his needs.
After missing the turnoff the first
time he drove by, Damien pulled a U-turn and crept back down the road until he
saw the weathered wood sign with an arrow pointing up a narrow, tree-lined
road.
His car rolled down the long drive,
soundtracked by Guns N’ Roses’ “Welcome to the Jungle”, then burst into a
wide-open clearing with a jaw-dropping view of the surrounding mountains. A
large rustic structure took up the right half of the clearing, with most of the
rest devoted to parking. More cars filled the lot than he’d expected for a
Friday afternoon, but if other Angelinos had had weeks like his, maybe it
wasn’t that big a surprise.
Parking his car, he wondered what
the large building held. Yes, he’d heard other kinksters rave about the private
club, but he’d been to his fair share of upscale establishments before. What
set this one apart?
The answer sauntered across the
parking lot, seeming to come from nowhere and heading for the front door. The
woman’s body hit him like a wrecking ball. Every sense went on high alert and
his heart jacked up its beat.
Jet-black hair spilled around her
shoulders in soft curls, obscuring her face. Her arms were crossed as she
walked, as if warding off the mild day’s nonexistent cold. Slumping shoulders
drew more attention to the beautiful hourglass shape of her back, her body
encased in a flowing, black dress that clung in all the right places. She
looked tall, maybe eye level to his chin, though maybe that was her black
combat boots. Not fragile—supple. Warm.
And crying. Her shoulders were
shaking as she turned away from the building, facing him head-on. His
demolition experts had nothing on that look. He wanted to kiss her reddened
nose, wipe the tears from under her eyes. He popped open his door and headed
for her.
The woman’s eyes widened and she
froze, a deer in the headlights.
Car door open, keys still in the
ignition, nothing mattered but this woman. He approached slowly, not wanting to
alarm her. “Are you okay?” His voice echoed through the parking lot, though
they weren’t that far apart.
The dress swirled around her knees,
tossed by the wind whipping around the mountaintop. The soft neckline of her
dress draped around her full breasts. His palms itched to cup them.
She nodded, letting her hair once
again hide her face, which looked like it was made of the finest bone china.
“Shitty week.”
He took a few steps closer, then
paused. He saw faint tan lines on her wrist, barely there, that looked like
she’d been wearing a bracelet cuff for some time. “Is he really worth crying
over?”
Her pink lips clamped shut, then
opened. “Look, thanks for your concern, but, really, it’s none of your
business.” She swiped aside her hair to reveal twilight-blue eyes cracking with
anger.
Her defiance stroked down his chest
and reached for his growing erection. “I’m sorry, but when I see a submissive
alone and crying, I make it my business.” He invaded her personal space until
she had to tilt her chin up to meet his eyes, but she didn’t back up. All
traces of her dejection were gone. Good.
The wind pulled at her curls as she
jabbed a finger in his chest, like she was digging straight for his racing
heart. “I’m not a submissve.”
Her nails weren’t painted or
manicured, not high maintenance like many women he’d dated. He found it refreshing.
Authentic, like her anger. “Not a submissive?” He grabbed the hand that had
poked him and raised her wrist to the light. Her pupils dilated and her
breathing tightened. Her tongue darted out across her bottom lip and Damien had
to restrain a groan. His thumb stroked along her inner wrist where her pulse
was jumping like a living thing trying to escape. “How long did you wear his
ownership bracelet while you weren’t a submissive?”
She tugged at her wrist. A
halfhearted attempt, since her other hand was clenched halfway to touching him.
Being the ever-helpful Dominant, he closed the space between them, pulling her
wrist up to his lips and laying a kiss on the pale flesh of her pulse point.
“What the hell do you think you’re
doing?” she hissed.
In response, he let her go and stepped
back. “I’m proving a point.”
She swayed toward him before
scowling and taking her own shuffle backward.
Her cocked eyebrow made him ache to
play her until she begged to submit. She was a sassy thing and they had some
chemistry crackling between them—something he certainly didn’t have with Lara,
his demo bottom. “If you’re not a submissive, then I’m the Pope.”
“That’s your point?” Her jaw ticced
and when her hands fisted on her hips, it made her dress strain across her
breasts. She looked beautiful when angry.
Through sheer force of will he held
his ground, keeping the distance between them. “No, sweetheart, the point was
that you’re not crying anymore.”
Her eyes spit every insult her lips
seemed unable to form. It only made his cock harder. He replied with his most
guileless smile, which only seemed to infuriate her. With a clench-jawed
scream, she pivoted away and headed for the woods.
“See you later,” he called as she retreated.
Yeah, coming up to Maison Domine early had been a good idea. He’d need the
extra time to learn more about this mystery “not a submissive” woman.
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Bio:
Skylar Kade, self-avowed hedonist and princess extraordinaire, started her writing career after throwing aside yet another romance she could not bring herself to finish. The run-on sentences! The purple prose! Oh, the horror of it was just too much. So she sat down to write her own tale. Her favorite part about writing is the extensive research.
She currently resides in sunny Southern California, alternately cursing the polluted air and adoring the weather. Skylar spends her time asking the cabana boys to bring her more mimosas and feed her strawberries while she dreams up her next naughty adventure.
She blogs at the SkylarVerse and with the Nine Naughty Novelists.
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