by Q. Zayne
In the living room, Liliana came right to me and gave me a big hug. She felt like the sister I never got to have.
Buck grinned at us. I suspected he imagined me and Liliana fulfilling one of the all-time most popular male fantasies. I stuck my tongue out at him. I ran it over my lips real slow over Liliana’s plush shoulder, showing him I could read minds, too. His face turned red. Score.
Liliana stepped back and winked at me as though she knew I’d teased my man about a girl-on-girl act.
“Hey, Buck. Great to meet you, Gia. I took the new women’s cab service. Lyle made me promise. He knows Cass, the company’s owner. She drove me here herself. I like her. Sharp woman, big-hearted, and tough. Has as many tats as our men.” She flicked her hair back and smiled. “Cass drove a rig before she started running this fleet of cabs. All the drivers are women. The service has caught on with the university students, travelers, seniors, dancers, cocktail servers, night shift workers. It went from an odd idea at the Fuzzy Dice bar to a necessity.”
“Women’s cab company. Brilliant.”
“Yeah. Cass had been thinking about it for a long time. There are some in major cities. With so many of us giving up things we like to do or having to catch rides to reduce the risk with the killer out there, she tapped everyone she could think of for funds and pulled strings to speed up the licensing. The mayor took an interest, and there will be some good press next week. I’m betting on our knights stopping the bastard before then, but even when this threat is over, there are still the random rapists, gropers, and miscellaneous assholes. When I travel, I often feel uncomfortable in cabs. Nothing bad ever happened, but I know it does. Hearing about that Canadian woman shocked me. Then the killer right here at home. Don’t mind me, I’m rattled. Would you hate it if I made coffee, or would that work?”
“That would be terrific. The works are on the counter. I’m an addict. I’ve cut down to one cup of half-caf a day.” I patted my belly. “That’s a sacrifice. But I’ll live. She’s worth it.”
“I hear you. Decaf for us.” Liliana set her hand on her rounded belly. She grinned.
I smiled back at her, warmed by our shared joy.
She headed into the kitchen, hips and long hair swaying.
I liked the sound of her in the kitchen. Her being here made the night feel cozy, instead of nerve-wracking.
Buck rested his hands on my shoulders. The corner of his mouth turned up and the crinkles around his kind eyes deepened. The lamp light gleamed on his powerful arms and chest. The silver in his bristles glinted.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can, Gia. Don’t worry. We’ll be careful.” Buck squeezed me close with his entire body.
His strength flowed into me, buoyed me up, close to the way I felt when we made love. He was so, big, and strong and present. I felt his full attention, something I never had with any other man. I needed him like water.
“Alright. I trust you, Buck.”
“I honor that trust, Gia, my love.” He kissed me hard, making me breathless.
I clung to him.
His kiss turned soft and lingering. His hand soothed my shoulders, came to rest possessively on my lower back. It slid to my ass and squeezed. He stepped back and rubbed his mustache, eying me with sexy appreciation.
“Get some rest. I’m liable to keep you up the rest of the night when I get back.” His husky voice went right to my pussy.
“I’m counting on it, stud.”
He gave me that slow, confident smile that melted me the first night. I took a deep breath, watching him walk away. All the locks clicked shut behind him.
The smell of coffee grounds came from the kitchen. We got it fresh, even the decaf, and ground some beans each morning. The aroma filled the whole place when we opened the vacuum jar.
“Yum, this is the good stuff.” Liliana exclaimed.
“You’ll like it,” I called to her.
It felt natural to have Liliana making herself at home in the kitchen.
“I’m sure I will. Thanks for having me over. I’d be pacing alone at our place.”
“Same here. I’m glad you came.” I giggled, flashing on my man’s fantasy.
She laughed outright, an open, natural laugh that made me sure she guessed my man’s fantasy.
I liked her more than I expected. Early on, the admiration in Buck’s voice when he showed me her picture with Lyle flipped my jealousy trigger. But he was just so damned happy for his friend. I’d never been around guys who were such a close brotherhood. They cared about each other. I felt like I gained a family, because I did. I never had a sister, and here was Liliana, pregnant too, and in love with another hunky knight of the road. Lyle was hot as hell, but I had my own man.
I rested back on the cushions and watched Liliana pad back into the room on cat feet. Liliana was gorgeous, with lustrous red hair, a figure full as mine, great eyes, and a smile that lit the room. Buck picked me.
“Our decaf’s coming right up.” She sat next to me. “No worrying. Our big, strong men have got this.”
“Yeah. They do.” I met her lingering gaze. Deep in her eyes, the ferocity of a lioness. Lyle met his match alright.
“I feel better already. You’re going to be a great mom, Liliana.”
“You, too. Lyle’s been guiding me in tuning into my second sight. I get flashes about people. I hope you like big families. I see you surrounded by kids,” she looked past me and lowered her voice, “mine and Shelby’s, too.”
“I love children.”
“We’re going to have such a good time having babies together.” Liliana’s smile hit me like sunshine. She dug into her India-print bag. “I brought fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies, walnuts, and tangerines.” The rich, chocolaty, buttery scent of the cookies reached me with the tang of the tangerines.
I swallowed. Missing my mom, and suddenly hungry, pregnant-hungry. “I love you already.”
“Love you, too. Sister.”
Yeah, another mind-reader in the family, alright.
Happiness made me feel I was floating off the sofa.
Liliana popped up and padded into the kitchen. The sounds of her plating the snacks and pouring coffee filled me with a sense of all being right in my world.
I grabbed the cushion. The baby moved. I rested both hands on my belly.
The men were taking care of business. They’d put things right on the highway and be back to be daddies to our babies. I knew it with the deepest knowing of my life, magnified by being with another woman who had the same certainty and a knight’s baby in her, too.
“Sister. Yes.” I smiled at Liliana as she set the tray of coffee and treats on the table. The combined aromas made my mouth water.
Liliana sat close to me and handed me a coffee. A light waft of honeysuckle came from her.
“To our knights and their successful quest.” Her firm voice conveyed her certainty that they’d prevail.
We clinked cups.
“To our knights.”
I sipped. She made the coffee as strong as I did.
I bit into a cookie. It was still warm. Chocolate chips dissolved on my tongue.
Yes, everything was alright. The knights could handle this. They’ll make the world safe. That’s what they did.
“Yes,” Liliana whispered. Her lips curved in a Mona Lisa smile.
I giggled, transported back to high school, sharing secrets with my best friend forever. We munched cookies in relaxed silence. I sensed that like me, Liliana was lending her heart and prayers to the knights’ success.
The coziness of spending this time together eased my concerns about the men going up against the killer. I settled back into the sofa cushions, easing my back, and surrendered to waiting for our men’s return.
Get this collection of one of Q. Zayne’s most popular series. Each heroine becomes the entertainment for a private billionaires’ club on an exclusive island. Being auctioned and taken by multiple men is only the beginning. Please note that while there is a bit of romanc
e, this is faster, harder erotica than the Truckers series.
Excerpt from Captured
HINDSITE: I SHOULD have scouted for a camping spot before it got dark. What was I doing, trying for the castaway doofus award? All my life people told me I was smart. But I didn’t feel smart at all. I was lonely, and if I thought about anything much, I’d be scared. This sucked.
No world record, no reunion with Dad, no expensive-assed, hope-giving cancer treatments for him, just ... hell. Possible death on some unknown freaking island, damn it to hell.
I flashed on The Chameleon lying wrecked on the fang rocks with a huge bite out of her prow. Thunder in my ears and tears flooded down my face. Fuck it, so I’d have a cry. Then I’d lay on the mud and have a sleep. In the morning, I’d search for food. I could do this. I had to.
I sobbed so hard my whole body shook. As I feared, I couldn’t hear a predator approaching.
“Excuse me, forgive me for interrupting. I’m Gabe. This is my island. Welcome. I wonder if you need any help.” The low, cultured voice shocked me into silence.
The hitching sobs wracking me stopped. My humiliation was complete. Wrecked, and now found bawling like a baby by the man who owned the island. Fuck me. He sounded educated and charming. I’d grown up in the company of intelligent men, enjoyed bantering and matching wits with Dad’s friends. Maybe things would be okay. He’d have a way to communicate with the mainland. Maybe I could get supplies and equipment dropped and repair my boat. Hope surged. I wiped my face with the bottom of my T-shirt. It was still wet and didn’t help much. I scrambled to my feet and faced my rescuer.
The stranger was so tall and so close I craned my neck to see him.
He stepped back. Golden light from the dying day hit him dead on.
“Oh!” I covered my mouth. He looked like an ad for menswear for a super expensive magazine, or someone you’d see on the cover of an adventure novel: strong, tanned face, crinkles around the eyes—outrageous eyes the color of the sea when it’s that unbelievable blue-green that looks like it goes on right to the bottom where the treasure ships wait.
His thick beard made him timeless, like a ship’s captain from another century. The pure masculinity of it drew my eyes, and it seduced me into imagining his mouth and chin naked, the way a striptease artist plays on what’s hidden more than on what’s revealed.
Damn, he looked fine. All big, muscular shoulders, open-collared linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up over cords of arm muscles, pale jeans rolled up on strong, hairy calves. Clinging low, those worn-to-hell perfect jeans gripped his meaty thighs, big package, and the muscular cuts on his hips that framed his happy trail. Damn. The man was porno on feet.
I closed my mouth. Glanced away. Had to be a hallucination. Glanced back. Still there. Still hot.
Yes, he looked as old as my father with dark hair sporting silver streaks and silver curls in his chest hair. He could be any age from 35 to 60 or so. He had that timeless presence, total male confidence. I stood there staring like a mouse mesmerized by a snake.
“I won’t bite,” he whispered. “Allow me to offer you some hospitality.” He handed me a beach towel I hadn’t noticed in my distraction by his other assets.
He turned his back. “When you’re dry, you’re welcome to my shirt. Not much point getting dry and putting on wet things.” His deep voice caressed me.
This was getting out of hand. I felt like I’d dropped into one of those movies shown only on TV stations for women.
Of course he’d give me his shirt warm from his body and stand there in reach of my hands naked except for those jeans that showed off every contour of his smoking hot body below the waist. This was not fair. This was insane. Whatever happened, I’d never tell Dad. I blushed.
I slid off the too-big wet shorts, yanked off my T-shirt, and buffed myself dry with his big, thick, warm beach towel. Damn, that felt good. I wrapped the towel around my body, hoping it disguised my hard as hell nipples jutting right at him. I was a good girl. The shipwreck addled my mind. As soon as he got away from me, I’d be fine. I’d be normal and stop thinking about having no-strings sex with a strange older man on his island.
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Preview: Spanking
DEAR READER,
I enjoy previews in books. Providing samples is one of the few inexpensive and effective tools I have to sell my books. All my previews begin at the first sentence, so they don’t spoil the book. If you don’t like reading part of a book, skip it. :)
This romantic suspense serial is set at a Caribbean island BDSM resort for the ultra-wealthy. All five episodes are live. Submission Island features a half-Egyptian 28 year-old curvy woman, Cleo, and her new older master. This is a one-one-one sensual BDSM.
SPANKING
by Q. Zayne
Temptation
My Submission Island serial is set in the Caribbean where I’m traveling. Spanking is a character-driven adventure novelette and the first episode of a serial with strong elements of dark fantasy.
Cleo discovers she can experience the complete fulfillment of her secret desires. She has only to ask.
A joking email from my favorite co-worker leads me to a naughty site. Submission Island offers a free, all-expenses paid vacation at a Caribbean resort for qualified women.
It doesn’t seem likely the exclusive resort would accept a curvy, twenty-eight year-old with limited kinky experience. The application reads like a menu for perversion. I click off the Yes, No, Maybe activities and upload my most appealing lingerie photo. Hell, I need a vacation full of sex with no ties except the ones that get undone after a happy ending.
I’ll roll with what happens without thinking too much so I don’t lose my nerve. This time, I’ll go after having my erotic dreams come true.
I can do this.
Something happens when you face your deepest desires. You change. You can’t turn back.
I enter a labyrinth where I get to choose what happens to me.
I think a spanking will be safe.
I JUST WANTED some fun. The breakup with Josh was months behind me, and I missed having someone to excite, someone who appreciated me and got me off until I couldn’t come anymore. I wasn’t thinking of anything too twisted.
I checked out some sites Jen sent me for laughs. She thought I was way naughtier than her because I went to a couple of South of Market SM sex clubs. The note on the third link said, ‘You should go here, Cleo.’
Things weren’t going well at work and Jen was my only friend in this idiotic place. She got me. Maybe because we both had the same kind of crazy-responsible childhoods that left us trying to take care of other people even when it wasn’t necessary—and definitely wasn’t in our own best interests.
The other people at work were like aliens. I couldn’t fathom their motivations for constant pettiness. The manager Stu’s compulsion for meaningless reorganization mystified me. He was the kind of insecure flea sac who got aggressive if anyone dared to ask a question. It frustrated me to have to learn another of his moronic systems every few days only to have to scrap all that and replace it with the next round of nonsense. Perhaps the company was a front for some burned-out druggie’s mind-control experiment.
I amused myself by pretending I was in an old science fiction movie and all the other people except Jen were pod people. It helped me get through the day and reminded me not to waste energy puzzling out the depths of stupid my coworkers attained on a daily basis.
Teaching jobs and other gigs that would be a better fit with my degree in Classics weren’t thick on the ground, so I adopted a strict ‘ignore all stupidity’ policy. Accepting that nothing at this company made any sense got me through the day, and beat heavy drinking as a coping mechanism. Laughing myself sore with Jen after work helped, too.
So, hell, I clicked the third link.
I la
nded at Submission Island. Oh, fuck, Jen. It’s perverts’ paradise.
COME TO SUBMISSION ISLAND, AN EXCLUSIVE BDSM CLUB IN THE CARIBBEAN. FULL PRIVACY, PHOTOGRAPHY PROHIBITED ON SITE, CONFIDENTIALITY ASSURED.
The small print caught my eye: Qualifying women vacation for free.
What overworked woman doesn’t want a free Caribbean vacation complete with kinky sex?
I clicked on the application before I could lose my nerve.
They had strict requirements for ID, and the place was strictly legal adults-only, so that was reassuring. Lots of probing questions. Okay. I raced through that. I’d joined naughty dating sites before, I knew the drill. I specified the important stuff: no scars, no modifications, no body wastes, no knives, no needles, no play with any party under the influence of drugs or alcohol, no unsafe sex. Maybe that would disqualify me right there. I had a career and plans for my life. Some guys wanted full ownership, 24-7, including ‘breeding.’ No.
Recent bikini or lingerie photo required. Okay. I scrolled through my pics and chose the most alluring one. It was a shot Josh took of me in a black satin corset and matching thong with lace-top black stockings. The corset and panties laced up the front, revealing a slice of my pale flesh. My sex-mussed hair hung down my back. Other than the lingerie, I wore nothing but my ankle-strap 4-inch black fuck-me shoes, smoky eye makeup, and labial scarlet lipstick. I was bigger than most of the women in the website’s pictures—another possible reason for disqualification.
My favorite salty Classics professors said, ‘Don’t disqualify yourself’ when I bemoaned my odds of getting a merit-based scholarship for my graduate studies. I owed her the rest of my education. Without her nudge, I wouldn’t have tried. I got a scholarship and finished the program. My imagination balked at envisioning Mary’s expression if she ever learned that I used her sage advice to make myself apply to a BDSM club. Still, she was right. If I took myself out of the game because I might get rejected, I didn’t have a shot. Better to take a chance. I sat up straight, faked confidence, and continued. I looked hot in that picture. Things were changing. There were many more plus-size actresses, singers and models countering the restrictive media standards of beauty than when I was a kid. So what if I didn’t look like any of the models displayed on the website? This was worth a shot. I huffed out a breath. I’d apply. If they didn’t want me, fuck ’em.
