Small-town romance writer Elizabeth Holmes’ novels may be hot, but her love life is tepid at best. What else can you expect after fourteen years of marriage to man whose idea of adventure is ordering a new dish at the Hunan Palace?
Then she meets Sebastian Faulkner.
Panther-lean with rock-star swagger and bedroom eyes, the young actor is breaking into Hollywood with the film adaptation of her first novel. When she meets him on set in Manhattan, he makes it clear that what he really wants is to play the lead in her dirtiest fantasies. Though Elizabeth is tempted, she’s not about to trash her marriage vows for a night of passion with a man who has a reputation as a serial seducer, no matter how persuasive he is.
But what Sebastian wants is not just one night of throw-down, no-holds-barred sex. What he wants is Elizabeth’s complete submission. And Sebastian always gets what he wants.
Want more? Read on.
Flipping through the pages of Tattler as she walked down the hall to her hotel room, Elizabeth sensed someone and looked up. Sebastian was leaning against her door.
Elizabeth’s smile widened, involuntarily. “Shouldn’t you be on set?” she asked, stopping.
“My scenes are finished.” He walked toward her, slowly.
“For today,” she clarified.
“No. Forever. Cullen wants to look at the rushes tonight to see if we need to reshoot, but I doubt it. I never reshoot.” The cocky smirk.
“So, after tomorrow …” she said, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice.
“I’m back in LA.” He stood so that their toes were nearly touching. “Unless there’s something that compels me to stay.”
“Like reshoots,” she said, feeling her pulse in her ears. He was so close.
She was holding the Tattler open against her chest, her arms crossed over the top. Sebastian slid it out, laughing. “Tattler? Really?”
“It’s my guilty pleasure,” she admitted, defensively.
He smirked, looking down at the page she had opened it to. “Is it?” He held the magazine out to Elizabeth. It was the Calvin Klein underwear ad The picture showed Sebastian reclining on a kitchen table in a pair of tightie-whities, looking at the camera through half-lidded eyes, one hand resting suggestively on his thigh.
Elizabeth felt the blood rush from her toes all the way to the crown of her head. She reached for the magazine, but Sebastian held it behind his back.
“I was just flipping through it …” she started, angry in her embarrassment.
He smiled, dropping the Tattler and lunging for her, pressing her up against the door to her room.
“I like that I’m your guilty pleasure,” he said, holding her hands above her head, against the cool wood of the door.
Elizabeth was almost dizzy with his proximity. He smelled like a cornfield on a hot day, green and fresh and dark and loamy all at the same time.
He held her wrists with one hand as he slid his hand down her back to her butt, squeezing her against him so she could feel him, hard, through their clothes.
“What do you want from me?” she asked. Her senses were all singing, but her brain had checked out. If someone had asked her what her name was, she couldn’t have answered.
His mouth was close to her ear. “Complete and total submission,” he whispered, then laughed, a low, throaty chuckle. He slid his hand into the back pocket of her jeans and slipped out her room key.
Freeing the card from her back pocket, Sebastian released her wrists. Elizabeth’s arms slid down the door as he grabbed her hair and tilted her head back. Her eyes were closed, her mouth open. She felt his lips, barely brushing hers, sending fingers of sensation into her core. She heard the click of the door releasing and she was walking backward into the room as Sebastian kissed her, parting her lips further.
He pushed her against the wall, letting the door close behind him. His tongue was in her mouth, hot and wet and muscular. His firm body pinned her to the wall. Elizabeth felt as if she had no skin, no bones. She was just a mass of nerve endings and a pounding pulse.
Suddenly, she was kissing him back, her hands sliding up under his t-shirt on the warm flesh of his back. It was as if all thought had deserted her; she was just stimulus and response. She had never wanted anything more.
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