Emma Holland didn’t expect a reply after she sent an anonymous email to her favorite author letting him know how much his books have meant to her, but Alden Fisher surprised her. He didn’t just write back, he wanted to get to know her better.
Fearful that a handsome, successful man like Alden could never be interested in a geeky fangirl like her, Emma created a fake profile to impress him. But as their relationship grew into an intimate, passionate online romance, Emma’s guilt grew as well, and when her shame became too great she disappeared from social media.
But Emma is about to discover that Alden is not content to let her write the ending to this story. He is determined not only to show Emma that he fell in love with the woman behind the profile, but to give her the correction and dominance he knows she both needs and craves.
He tracks Emma down and soon she is lying over his knee for the intense, painful spanking she has needed for so long.
Though she is shocked by Alden’s sudden return to her life, his firm discipline and loving guidance give Emma confidence she has never had before, and being claimed properly by him at last is better than she ever dreamed. But when a secret from his past threatens to tarnish Alden’s reputation, will the ensuing scandal destroy the bond Emma has built with the man who changed her life first with his books and then with his belief in her?
First off, let me just say if you are going to read this, you may want to have something to cool you down sitting nearby. However that may look for you. Because this book is quite steamy hot!
It starts with our heroine Emma engaging in an online relationship with author Alden Fisher. She craves his dominance, but when it starts to get too real for her, she disappears from his life. Lucky for her, he manages to track her down and surprise her. He wants to continue where they left off, and uses some underhanded means to get her to agree.
But a jealous co-worker and an ex of his manage to throw a wrench in the works that might just derail their relationship.
I loved this book a whole lot! The sex scenes were positively so smoking hot I needed to fan myself! I loved how Alden stood up for Emma and how he boosted her confidence, he’s what every man should be like, especially dominants. And both of them are broken in their own ways, especially Emma, but they manage to be each other’s support in such a wonderful way. This book is definitely a keeper!
5 Hot, Spanky, Stars
“Put your hands between your legs and spread the lips of your pussy.”
When there was no reply, his next question came quietly, but with the increased authority that made her tingle. “Are you doing it?”
She swallowed nervously. “Yes.”
“Close your eyes,” he instructed. “Move the forefingers of your other hand over your clit, but softly. Barely graze it. Move them lower, over the inner folds.” He paused. “Are you wet?”
She’d been talking to him long enough to know his sighs as well as his words. This one indicated irritation.
“You aren’t doing it.” There was stern disappointment in his tone, and she wondered how he even knew, given there was an ocean between them.
She glanced over at the cell phone, her heart pounding as if the man behind the cool British accent might somehow jump out of the tiny speaker.
“No,” she admitted, hoping the speaker didn’t pick up her voice. But he’d heard her. Touching herself had never come easy for a woman who was raised to hate her own body. It had gotten easier, with him, and she loved it. But sometimes it was still difficult.
“When we are finally together next week, when we are more than just pictures to one another, I will punish you for this.” Another pause. “And for the other things on my list.”
She has no doubt that he meant it. Her pussy clenched with need, and she wondered if he’d give her permission to use the vibrator later. She glanced over at the computer on her desk, where his picture served as her background. It was a private picture—one he’d never made public on social media or used on the ‘About the Author’ section of his books. This was one he’d sent just to her. In it, he was standing against a stone wall, rolling hills of emerald green behind him. He wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t frowning either. He looked thoughtful, intense. She liked this picture better than any other, not just because it was hers alone, but because whenever she looked at it, she was instantly drawn to the eyes. The gaze had always held her, and even now she fancied he was watching her as she obediently parted her labia with trembling fingers.
“Sir.” She breathed the word, then moaned a soft exhale of breath.
“Obeying now, are we? That’s my good girl.” Soft words of praise after the promise of discipline precipitated the shudder of her first small orgasm. She may not even need the vibrator; some nights she didn’t. Sometimes the memory of his words alone was enough to bring her off.
“I want you to spread those smooth lips of your pussy. Spread them wide. And I want you to shift your hips forward as you keep your legs apart. I want you to work your fingers up and down over your slick, wet inner labia. I want you to think of me as you do this. I want you to think of how I’ll have you seated just as you are, my hands underneath, cupping your smacked bottom, my tongue lapping away your sweetness as you open yourself to me like the good girl I know you can be.”
The wave was building again. Her eyes closed. Calling on her imagination was easy. She did it every day at her job, helping others visualize and bring messages to life. But this was so much better, imagining him—the man she’d longed for before she even knew him—possessing her, those elegant hands squeezing her buttocks as he tasted what was his.
“Don’t touch your clit.” She almost jumped in the chair, a chill running down her spine. She’d been about to, and moans of pleasure turned to little whimpers of frustration.
“Believe me, love. If I were between your legs, I’d be tasting everything but that. Your sweet, slick flesh would be the main course. Your delightful clit would be dessert. But only when I was ready.”
Her pussy pulsed at the description, her clit throbbing with the aching need to be touched. Her stocking-clad toes curled against the hardwood floor. He was touching her from a continent away, stroking her with his words.
“How wet is my sweet girl now?”
She threw her head back, her dark brunette curls spilling down the back of the chair. She could feel the arousal pulsing from her pussy. The chair seat beneath her was wet with it. She’d had six lovers in her life—actual physical lovers—and none of them had ever gotten her as hot as the man on the phone.
“So wet.” She moaned. “Please… can I come?”
“Now, now… you know better than that. Ask me properly. And correctly.”
He’s correcting my grammar? For some reason, this excited her even more. She was the naughty student to his professor, her favorite fantasy, and the first she’d confessed to him. She asked him properly.
“May I come… sir?”
“My Kitty may come. She may touch her clit. Her finger is my tongue. Flick it… Mmmm…”
She obeyed, imagining looking down to see the top of his dark head between her legs, to see his thick dark hair. And this time when she came, she cried out so loud she worried the neighbors might have heard. But she was past caring, her back arching so hard that her bottom left the chair, the waves of pleasure so strong that they nearly took her breath away.
She felt suspended on a cloud of pure sensual bliss, and when she floated back down to sitting, she placed a hand on either side of the seat to steady herself.
“Kitty? Kitty?” His voice drifted back to her, calm, purposeful. “Pick up the phone.”
She reached over, fumbling on the table, picked it up, switched it off speaker mode, and pressed it to her ear. She could smell the arousal still coating her fingers.
“Sir,” she said. “I’m here.”
“That’s better,” he said. “Speakerphones are convenient, but there’s something so intimate about having you talk directly into the phone. I can imagine you, sitting in my lap, your lips pressed to my ear. I can almost imagine your warm breath tickling my earlobe as you speak the words in that lovely, lilting voice of yours.”
“Oh, sir…” She curled her feet beneath her and leaned her head against the chair’s railing. She imagined herself in his lap, and swallowed the sob of regret already forming in her throat.
“Did you get your ticket, Kitty?”
A pang, painful, centered in her chest. She glanced at the computer screen, at those intense eyes. She looked away. “Yes,” she lied. “I used my frequent flier miles.”
“I’d have happily paid for it.”
“It’s okay.” She tried to sound casual. “It didn’t cost me anything.”
“I respect that you want to be independent, but after today, I pay for everything. Understand?”
She nodded, swallowing, her finger tracing the top of her stocking. “Yes, sir.”
“You have all the information?”
She hoped he’d attribute the quaver in her voice to excitement. “Brookside Inn, Room 212, Victoria, British Columbia. I’m to be there at six in the evening on Saturday.”
“Good girl.” She heard the clink of ice in his glass. It was cocktail hour in the U.K. She knew that because he had told her of his regimented routine. Breakfast at seven—usually eggs over easy and toast with jam, although on Wednesdays he enjoyed a traditional English breakfast with sausage, baked beans, mushrooms, and half a tomato. Afterwards a brisk walk around his duck pond. Since they started talking, he’d treated her to several pictures of his small estate through all four seasons. Her favorite part was the pond. There was a bench by it, under a willow. Her most enjoyable daydream involved his sitting on that bench, her at his feet as the fall leaves swirled around them.
She startled. “Yes?”
“I cannot wait to see you. I cannot wait to run my hands through those auburn tresses, to spank your sweet little bottom until you beg me to stop and fuck you.” He grew quiet for a moment. “Two days, love. That’s all that stands between us now. Two days.”
“Two days. Yes.” The truth rose in her like a bubble, the pressure of it pressing against her from the inside. Her idealistic side sparred with her rational one.
Just tell him! He’ll understand!
Don’t be an idiot. He’ll never understand. He’ll hate you.
“I’ll see you then,” she said quietly.
“Yes. Until then. Goodbye, my little one.”
The soft click as he hung up might as well be a gunshot killing everything she’d ever wanted. She drew her knees up, hugged them to her, and sobbed. She wanted to curl up there, in that chair, and just fade away. But she couldn’t. She had to move on. She was hardly the first woman to do something stupid, to get carried away by her emotions. A mistake like this could only destroy her life if it was repeated. She’d consider this a lesson.
She rose and walked over to the computer, looking at his image on the screen. Each morning since she’d made his photo her screensaver, she’d look at it and imagine him saying something new. Now she imagined him saying, “Shame on you.”
She hastily clicked on the Safari web browser icon, pulling up the Facebook page that mercifully blocked out the picture of the man she’d never met in person but desperately loved. And now, staring at her instead was Kitty Klein, the fake name of the woman she’d been pretending to be.
“You’re the one he wants,” she said, staring at the profile picture of the auburn-haired beauty smiling from under a floppy straw hat.
A sob rose in her throat, one of those painful ones she knew would break with ragged rawness if she let it. She willed herself to force it back down.
“No!” Her tone was one of a self-loathing scold. “You don’t deserve to cry. You did this to yourself. You did this to him, too.”
It was harder than she ever imagined, going to her settings, clicking on the security link, and then choosing ‘Deactivate Your Profile.’
Are you sure? Facebook wanted to know—a safety net, just in case she changed her mind. Facebook reminded of her options, suggesting she simply hide the profile instead.
But she was sure. She couldn’t allow the temptation. She couldn’t allow the deception the existence of the profile represented. With the click of a button, the auburn-haired beauty she’d been impersonating was gone, vanished from social media without a trace.
Next she clicked on her email folder marked ‘Sir’ and deleted everything—from the first email she’d sent him, to the reply she’d not expected, to the most recent note telling her what time to call, and what to be wearing when she did.
The final step involved going to the website for QuikPhone, where she deleted her account and disabled the phone she’d bought just to talk to him. There was a box at the foot of her bed. She opened it, willing herself not to pick up the books inside, not to caress the creased covers or peek at the dog-eared pages filled with the highlighted passages that had inspired her, words that had saved her life, words that had made a total stranger her hero.
She’d read once that if you suddenly severed a limb, you’d not feel it at first. And that’s how she felt now. Numb. She knew that when the feeling came rushing back, it would be excruciating.
But the break had to be made. Tomorrow she’d take the box with the books and the phone to Goodwill. She’d drop it off, the last traces of her Almost Perfect Life gone forever. Then she’d wait for the blood to rush back into her heart, and begin the daily struggle of trying not to think of what might have been.