But Master Z takes her under his wing to show her around and teach her the rules — and shadowlanxs for something more from her. And wow, I just adore her ability to bring two people together- one unsure and scared about how sexy she should be and the other harbouring grief and loneliness after a recent loss. It was always just enough to let you know how they are doing and seeing that they are still madly in love. She can either sit and wait in the entrance until the storm dies down about 6am. Still mourning the death of his wife, Master Dan avoids getting involved with women and he never takes a sub twice. Want to be notified when the next book is out?
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You, my darlings, live in the real world and I want you to take a little more time than the heroines you read about. And you listen to him, in return. Share your hopes and fears, what you want from him, what scares you spitless. You will have a safeword, am I clear? Use protection. Have a back-up person. Remember: safe, sane and consensual. I worry, you know. Meantime, come and hang out with the Masters of the Shadowlands. Frigid rain slashed through the dark night, drenching her face and clothing.
Gasping for breath, she knelt in the mud, surprised to have made it to the bank in one piece. She glanced over her shoulder and shuddered. Alligators loved to hang out in Florida ditches. A few moments more and she could have been… She stifled the thought with a shudder. Hands shaking, she scrubbed the water off her face and pushed to her feet. As her fear diminished, she peered through the darkness and could barely see her car. Poor little Taurus, nose down with water roiling around the hood.
Once on the narrow country road, she pushed her tangled hair out of her face and looked each way. Darkness and darkness. She headed that way, stopping to glare at the pool of water where her car had aquaplaned right off the road.
The armadillo, of course, was long gone. Head lowered, she trudged down the blacktop toward the house, getting wetter and wetter. Breaking her leg would be the final straw in a day that had been a disaster from start to finish. Number one mistake: meeting at a halfway point for their first date when the man lived miles and miles outside of Tampa.
She grimaced. Aunt Eunice always swore things happened in threes. So would braking for an armadillo be considered her third mistake, or was there another disaster lurking in her near future? She shivered as the wind howled through the palmettos and plastered her drenched clothing against her chilled body. Doggedly, she set one foot in front of the other, her waterlogged shoes squishing with ev ery step.
An eternity later, she spotted a glimmer of light. Relief rushed through her when she reached a driveway studded with hanging lights.
Surely whoever lived here would let her wait out the storm. She walked through the ornate iron gates, up the palm-lined drive past landscaped lawns, until finally she reached a three-story stone mansion.
Black wrought iron lanterns illumined the entry. And a little intimidating. She glanced down at herself to check the damage. Mud and rain streaked her tailored slacks and white button-down shirt, hardly a suitable image for a conservative accountant. She looked more like something even a cat would refuse to drag in. Shivering hard, she brushed at the dirt and grimaced as it only streaked worse. She stared up at the huge oak doors guarding the entrance.
A small doorbell in the shape of a dragon glowed on the side panel, and she pushed it. Seconds later, the doors opened. A man, oversized and ugly as a battle-scarred Rottweiler, looked down at her. The doors are locked. Then she shivered so hard her teeth clattered together, and her mind was made up. Wait here. Jessica wrapped her arms around herself, standing miserably, and finally the door opened again. Again the brute. Firm hands gripped her shoulders.
She shook her wet hair out of her eyes and looked up. And up. The guy was big, a good six feet, his shoulders wide enough to block the room beyond. He chuckled, his hands gentling their grasp on her arms. Molly left some clothing in the blue room; send one of the subs. Smooth black hair, silvering at the temples, just touching his collar. Dark gray eyes with laugh lines at the corners. A lean, hard face with the shadow of a beard adding a hint of roughness.
He wore tailored black slacks and a black silk shirt that outlined hard muscles underneath. If Ben was a Rottweiler, this guy was a jaguar, sleek and deadly. Ben reappeared with a handful of golden clothing that he thrust at her.
This is a private club. You may sit out here in the entryway with Ben until the storm passes. Or you may sign papers and join the party for the night. The entry was a tiny room with a desk and one chair.
Not heated. Ben gave her a dour look. Sign something? She frowned. Then again, in this lawsuit-happy world, every place made a person sign releases, even to visit a fitness center. So she could sit here all night. Or…be with happy people and be warm. Once she signs—or not—she may use the dressing room to dry off and change.
The manager tilted his head at Jessica. Sign at the bottom. Rules of the Shadowlands. Both men had disappeared. She returned to reading, trying to focus her eyes. Such tiny print. Still, she never signed anything without reading it. Doors will open at… Water pooled around her feet, and her teeth chattered so hard she had to clench her jaw.
There was a dress code. Something about cleaning the equipment after use. Halfway down the second page, her eyes blurred. Her brain felt like icy slush. Turning to the last page, she scrawled her name and wrapped her arms around herself. Ben returned with some clothing and towels, then showed her into an opulent restroom off the entry. Glass-doored stalls along one side faced a mirrored wall with sinks and counters.
After dropping the borrowed clothing on the marble counter, she kicked her shoes off and tried to unbutton her shirt. Something moved on the wall. Startled, Jessica looked up and saw a short, pudgy woman with straggly blonde hair and a pale complexion blue with cold.
After a second, she recognized herself. Not going to happen. I was rude. If she ever got dried off and warm. She needed dry clothes. But, her hands were numb, shaking uncontrollably, and time after time, the buttons slipped from her stiff fingers. The door opened. I think not. His hands were hot, almost burning, against her chilled skin.
Cherise Sinclair: Serie Maestros de Shadowlands
Cherise Sinclair: Serie Maestros de Shadowlands marzo 13, Club Shadowlands Su coche se descompone durante una tormenta tropical y Jessica Randall descubre que la aislada casa donde encuentra un albergue es un club privado de bondage. Ella es inteligente. Solo en el club Shadowlands se siente como una mujer. Eso va a cambiar ahora mismo. Cuando el Maestro Nolan toma a Beth bajo su control, ella se siente aterrada, pero el experimentado Dom solo le provoca placer, no dolor.
CLUB SHADOWLANDS 01 CHERISE SINCLAIR PDF